


Feud

by erobey



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 118
Words: 756,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobey/pseuds/erobey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark tale of Legolas' life in Greenwood before the Ring Quest. Filled with pain and angst, it depicts Legolas as an outcast on many levels: within his family due to his parents' many flaws, within the community because of the status attached to his position and his dubious parentage, and finally from all Elven society as a result of three deaths during the Battle of the Five Armies for which he was blamed. Through it all, Legolas strives to remain true to a set if internal values which define his nature. Pairings include Elrond, Erestor, and Malthen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baudh ar Awarth

Baudh ar Awarth [Judgement and Abandonment]

With a resounding crack the blow rang through the quiet aftermath of battle's carnage, echoing in accusing reverberation against the surrounding somber stones of the mountain. The warrior toppled down at the impact upon his jaw, realizing in the blinding flash that accompanied the jolt of pain that the bone was broken. Before he could recover a rough hand gripped his arm tightly and yanked him up, unmindful of the battle-torn flesh and muscle below the crushing palm.

"You had the shot, why did you not take it?" The voice was barely intelligible in its wrath and the hand shook him brutally in concert with the last three harshly uttered words. The speaker waited for no response but again struck out, this time burying a leather gloved fist into the other's middle. The young elf's legs, barely under him from the first assault, gave way and he crumpled down, bent double and breathless while still the unrelenting hand grasped his injured arm.

"Worthless! Incompetent!" The voice seethed with disgusted disapprobation and the gloved hand flung the arm away. The warrior gasped in a breath and struggled up to his knees just in time to hear the enraged cry preceding the booted foot that caught him in the chest and tossed him back upon the ground. He desperately tried to scramble back from his antagonist as the unmistakable sound of a blade leaving its sheath met his ears.

"You are not fit to bear arms with us!" The furious words accompanied the whistle of steel through air.

The blade sliced across his chest and down leaving a scarlet gash diagonally from shoulder to hip and forcing a hoarse cry from the unfortunate elf. He was aware of hands snatching away the quiver from his back, the straps having been cut through by the assault. Another hand tore the bow still tightly gripped in his fist and again a boot found its way into his soft side.

With a groan he instinctively rolled and curled up to protect his abused and unprotected torso, unable to stop his body from trembling. He was aware of the others moving away then and more than one uttered a spiteful curse and spat upon him as they stepped over or around him.

He just lay there, ashamed and horrified, wishing the blade wound was mortal or that the battle still raged so that an arrow or sword might find him. It was over and won, however, and somehow he had been twisted inside out from skilled sniper to hapless kinslayer. The shot he missed had cost the immediate deaths of three in his own company and one from among their human allies.

In despairing self-recrimination he replayed the events over and over through his brain, unable to make the outcome change. He had been ordered into position among the jutting teeth of stone overhanging the canyon wall. From this vantage he had had free reign to choose his targets at will as the unwholesome goblins and wargs poured into the valley.

He knew exactly the number he slew by how often his quiver was refilled by the corpsman that was his constant shadow in battle and in life. Three times the swift pressure and soft scrape of new arrows had met his senses, and at least half of the last bundle was spent before the disastrous error. A quiver held seventy-five arrows, and three and a half times that number had found their targets with deadly precision from his hands and bow. How, then, had the most important target gotten past him?

It was the huge goblin king, Blog, terror of dwarves, men, and elves alike, who came within his sites. The creature's bodyguards deflected the barrage of swords, axes, knives, and arrows flung at them from the combined forces of the allies, and soldiers fell back before them. This encouraged the evil horde and they fought with rabid vigor, pressing the fighters further back into the blind canyon, smelling a massacre in the mingled blood of the three races.

A rapid series of whistled signals relayed the elf captain's plan to create a diversion to draw off the bodyguards and allow his prized sniper a clear shot. Five of the company leaped into action, joined by twice that number each from among the men and dwarves, and together they concentrated their attack upon the gruesome beasts, harrying them with small wounds and mocking taunts. The sniper shifted his position slightly, edging closer to the jagged rim, intent upon the battle, watching for the moment to fire.

The archer's bow was tautly drawn as he followed the movements of the goblin king lumbering along behind its guards, hacking stray warriors that crossed within its range with an almost casual style. He waited. The small knot of warriors at the feet of the beasts was taking a terrible beating. For every stab and slash that made it into the flesh of the disgusting creatures, it seemed that one of them fell. All the dwarves were down, and still the archer's opportunity didn't come; the monsters continued to shield their king against the onslaught.

The sniper felt a sharp surge of rage when one of his company staggered back with a cry and tripped, falling to be crushed under the weight of a goblin guard's feet. He wanted to destroy the bodyguards and get his people out of danger. He tried to stifle the powerful emotion, knowing he must not allow himself be distracted.

There have been numerous chances to slay the goblin guards, he thought. If he could take them down then he would have easy access to Blog without putting anymore of his people into the teeth of death. His captain's orders were clear, however; should he even consider disobeying them? His mark was Blog and if he was deterred from killing him due to focusing on other targets, what then? His company was counting on his skill and readiness.

This is very different from hunting yrch in the Greenwood, he thought grimly and shifted his position a bit as the movements on the field below progressed. There had not been war in his time and battle such as this was unknown to him before this day.

The goblin King was getting closer now. He waited.

Another slight shift took the elven sniper to the precipice. He wanted to make sure his movements would not be hindered. He wanted to ensure an unobstructed view of the goblin king. Or maybe he was nervous. So many were dying; should he have disregarded the orders and tried for the guards? His captain could not see the battlefield as he could; perhaps he was expected to take the initiative based on this advantage. He was aware of small stones and gravel escaping from their rest and plummeting down to the battleground below.

Behind him his corpsman hissed something, alarmed, but he didn't catch it for suddenly the movements on the canyon floor realigned. The desperate tactic worked at last; the goblin guards were distracted for an instant and brought their shields and attention to the irritating cluster of fighters darting around their feet. The elf tensed and leaned out to take his shot, but something flashed into his line of sight through the air.

One of the eagle lords that were joined in the battle? No, it was a stone falling from above, a veritable rain of boulders was pouring down and one struck his arm as he snapped his fingers, releasing the pent up energy of the bowstring. His balance faltered, his aim went wide, and the arrow only grazed the enraged creature.

It bellowed and swung its battle-axe into the knot of distracters and instantly decapitated two of the elven warriors. Another fell to her knees, run through with the filthy blade wielded by one of the bodyguards, and did not rise. The humans scrambled to find cover and regroup. One of them was caught by his leg and flung down against the stony ground, his skull shattered and his blood painting a growing red smear upon the rocks.

The archer had watched all this transpire in mere seconds from his rocky ledge above while still firing arrow after arrow upon the goblin king and its minions. He had needed to step back as a squall of arrows and more stones was concentrated on his position. With a sickening twist of his gut the sniper realized he had exposed his location to the enemy, some of which had swarmed over the ridge from higher up.

That was what his corpsman's warning had been: "Beware! You are seen!" Yet he had not been aware, had not seen the danger from above, had not heard the sound of the stones streaming through the air towards him. What had dulled his acute elven senses to such a degree? Why had he moved so far towards the edge? A slight shift forward, an unheeded warning, and four lives lost.

He continued to shoot, controlling the wave of nausea that threatened his skill and ignoring the burning pain in the torn shoulder and arm. The shafts, fletched in the green and gold of his company, studded the creature's armor but failed to penetrate the bony plates. The bodyguards once again used their shields to protect any weaknesses the armor might reveal to the sniper's keen elven eyes. His moment had passed.

At last, a huge bear crashed into the ranks of goblins and grasped the horrid king in its jaws, shaking and tearing it apart. The remaining elves, dwarves, men and eagles rallied to finish off the rest, routing them from the gory fields.

The price for the victory was dear. Of his own company of thirty-six archers only nine still stood and five more lay wounded. The six other companies of elven warriors probably fared no better. Of men and dwarves, who could even count the numbers of their losses, so littered was the battle plain with their dead?

He heard them then, his comrades, gathering their dead from among the bloodied remains in the canyon below, and their mournful song of passing wrenched his soul. A grief and guilt-ridden wail rose in the archer's chest but he desperately choked it back; only a ragged moan escaped him. He had spent the last 120 or so years training and fighting with these elves. He knew them, their families, their histories; they were his comrades and friends. He knew he could not face their loved ones and kinfolk knowing his carelessness was the cause of this horrendous destruction.

The sniper thought of his own family and the shame and stain he placed upon them now. How will they be able to face this? His father would not forgive him his loss of concentration and his inability to control an upwelling of anger and nerves. Such weakness! he berated himself mentally. His family would surely wish that he had never existed, and he knew they would never be able speak his name or talk of him again. His heart broke at the sorrow his mother would feel at his disgrace.

He knew of but one way to compensate for such loss and one punishment terrible enough to atone for his misdeeds. With bitter determination the fallen archer reached for his dagger, drawing it up from his boot and fisting it tightly. The next instant he plunged it into his chest, thrusting up between the ribs and through the lung towards his heart. He gasped at the pain and frantically drew breath, his body giving an involuntary spasm as though to pull away. On the edge of consciousness, he heard a shout and felt hands grasping for his wrist to stop the blade from reaching its goal, and then gratefully slipped from awareness.

"You should not have interfered. His way would have been more merciful." The elven corpsman that filled the young sniper's quiver quietly chastised the frantic human. The man glanced up in astonished disbelief as he tore cloth from the bloodied tunic and shoved it against the dagger wound. The corpsman turned to go, but the man reached out and tugged at his sleeve, leaving a ruddy stain behind.

"Wait. You can not just leave him. Take him back to be treated among your wounded."

The elf stared impassively at the wretched wreck on the ground before him. The sniper's lanky arms and legs were splayed out at ungainly angles, his head turned to the side as parted lips oozed blood and half-closed lids shielded glazed unseeing blue eyes. Long thick tresses of pale yellow lay upon his shoulder in disarray, the frayed ends dyed crimson. The man had pulled open the ripped tunic and the diagonal gash gaped against the pale flesh.

The corpsman watched the young elf's chest rise and fall with each strained and shallow breath. The man pulled a strip of cloth around him to tie down the makeshift bandage and the wounded elf moaned as the knot pulled tight to staunch the flow of blood. The corpsman shook his head.

"I will not take him. Treat him among your wounded, if you will, or leave him. One of your own is dead because of him, and more of ours. He gives himself an easy death, and I am enough his friend not to take it from him. The families of his victims, and many others of our people, would not be so kind." With that the elf turned and walked away and the man just stared after him, not certain what to do.

TBC


	2. Tadui Lu Thell

 

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd

 

### Tadui Lu Thell - Caro Puig Gyrë [Second Time Resolved - Make Clean the Deaths]

 

The sound of scattering small stones and clinking and squeaking armor arose as another man heaved himself up the steep pathway to the ledge.

“What is this, Bard? He is not one of ours; best hand him over to Thranduil’s folk,” the soldier said.

“They will not have him; he tried to kill himself,” Bard replied, regarding the elves in the distance as they secured their dead and wounded onto horses. “They seem to be leaving. One of them claims he caused four other deaths.” The other man’s brows shot up in surprise as Bard gestured to the company of elves.

“But this is the archer that was trying to bring down Blog; his persistence drew its attention long enough for Beorn to break through and mangle the old monster. Do they not know?”

Bard shrugged in response. He had made the climb to this ledge with the express purpose of thanking the elven sniper for his help in bringing down the hated beast, as well as for felling over 200 of the lesser goblins and wargs. It had been his intent to honor this elf for his skill, only to find him in the act of destroying himself. Now his kin were leaving him to die in what was, according to one at least, an act of kindness.

All the other elves were mounted now and at an unspoken command they formed ranks and rode from the canyon. Not one looked back at their discarded comrade, and Bard could only shake his head in bewilderment.

“Come,” Bard said, “help me get him down from here. If he lives we shall have to get the answers from him.” 

Together they struggled to carry the limp form down the rugged trail, trying not to cause the wounds to reopen. Once on the firmer and flatter ground of the valley, they put their burden down to catch their breath. A disheveled and decrepit gray-beard caught site of them and began making his way across the battlefield, leaning heavily on his ornate and intricately carved staff that seemed taller than himself.

“That is the sniper; what has happened? There were no goblins on that cliff,” the old man stated when he reached them. He stooped down and his face grew stern in lines of worry as he tentatively examined the elf.

“He did this to himself, Gandalf,” Bard replied, indicating the bandaged chest wound. “I do not know about the rest.”

“Maybe he fell and landed on his face,” the other soldier suggested.

“First of all, elves do not just fall down," Gandalf snorted, shaking his head. "Second, even if that is how he broke his jaw it certainly does not account for that knife slash or the arm,” he countered. “He is under some disgrace; the others of his company have left him,” he continued as though to himself. Bard agreed and explained to the wizard what little he knew of the situation.

“I stayed his hand before the blade found his heart, so now he seems to be my responsibility. King Thranduil and his personal guard return to Laketown as we speak; perhaps he can do something about this.” Gandalf looked up in alarm. 

“I think we should wait to see if he survives before the Elvenking is apprised of the situation. Let us not heat things up just now as peace is at hand! Thranduil will not appreciate your interference in the laws and customs of his realm!”

Bard concurred and the archer was quietly placed in the care of the healers, who treated him as best they could but did not really expect him to survive.

The dagger's blade, while missing the heart, had done severe damage to one of the lungs and he had lost a great amount of blood. When the sniper was still breathing the next morning they were pleasantly surprised and decided he was stable enough to be removed to the infirmary in Laketown. 

The elf hovered beneath consciousness all the next day and night, tossing and twitching as though in torment. He mumbled in elvish and sighed against the pain from time to time. In the mid-morning sunlight of the third day his eyes cleared and he awakened. Disoriented by the strange surroundings, the immortal turned his gaze about the quiet, clean, and airy room. 

The windows stood open allowing the fresh breeze, light, and muffled voices to flow through. Realization and memory burst upon him like a hammer’s blow and he leaped from the bed, wincing in shock and doubling over. Grasping the bed to steady himself the warrior stared around wildly in despairing horror. He squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head vigorously.

_It must not be so. It cannot be so!_ his mind screamed silently and then opened his lips and screamed in earnest. The ear-splitting cry of desperate sorrow and agony brought every ambulatory human in the infirmary to his door and window where they froze, dumfounded.

The elf was breathing in noisy sobs, pulling open drawers and cabinets, spilling out the contents and crying out unintelligibly in Sindarin. He seemed not to notice the humans, or disregarded them if he did. At last he tugged open a cupboard and a pair of boots and a leather pack tumbled out. Calm resolve spilled out with them as the archer rummaged among his belongings, so thoughtfully carried from the battleground. A soft sigh of relief issued from his lips when he brought forth a slender and delicately deadly hunting knife from the bottom of the pack.

The humans watched entranced as this most uncommon patient sat back on his heals, head bowed low, amid the scattered clutter of bandages, herbs, medical instruments, and linens. They listened spellbound to the quiet beauty of the elvish words he spoke, uttered in reverent tones as would be a prayer. While the sound of the elven language was melodious beyond any mortal tongue, the timbre of his voice decried the depth of the immortal’s grief and sorrowful remorse.

As the speech ended, his voice broke down into a shattering sob that shook his entire frame, and he fought a moment for control. At last he raised his head and tangled golden locks fell away to reveal tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that focused inward, oblivious to the humans’ eyes upon him. Slowly the archer lifted his hands, palms turned upwards, upon which rested the gleaming knife.

As soon as the mithril blade glinted in the sunlight, one of the healers suddenly comprehended the scene unfolding and made a leap into the room. With a shout for assistance, he snatched the weapon and raced to the window, shoving it into the hands of a startled looker-on.

The elf reacted with another piercing scream and lunged for the window to retrieve his weapon, his release, and his salvation, cursing the humans in rage and anguish. The healer grabbed him but the sniper was healing rapidly and had regained enough strength to throw the man off. By then, more people had entered the room and with the help of two recuperating soldiers the healer forced the unstable silvan back onto the bed. Deciding to take no chances of a repeat performance, the healer had sturdy rope brought and bound him securely to the bedframe.

In the encampment of the Elven King an unnatural stillness constrained the air around the smoking embers of the dying fire. 

The King’s tent stood to one side while the bedding of his twenty-four personal guardsmen lay neatly rolled and positioned with military precision all about it. The banner bearing the beechleaf standard of the Woodland Realm drooped lifelessly in the stagnant air, and the King himself sat motionless before the pavilion, legs crossed beneath his severely straight-backed frame. His elite company of Sindar warriors sat or stood together in clumps of two or three, matching his stilled alertness, watching now and then towards the far end of Laketown, eyes glancing upon the low, white-washed building that housed the infirmary.

They waited.

A full account had been delivered by the fallen elf’s captain; including the corpsman’s report of the Human's interference in obstructing the dagger and deflecting death. All knew the disgraced archer was in the human healer’s care, and the tension arising from this intervention with ancient and revered rites of warriors’ honour shimmered through the atmosphere with a palpable hum.

All other tasks and duties suspended, the veteran soldiers yearned for their prized sniper's death with bitter and morbid intensity. 

Collectively, silently twenty-four minds and souls willed his life to flee. This was a battlefield debt their archer owed to the comrades he had failed, whose immortal lives he had wasted. By custom such a debt must be paid with the blood of the culprit, upon that same day and upon that same plane of combat. The fallen warriors' deaths must be cleaned of the shame with which his errors had besmirched them. Given the interruption by the Human, an uncharacteristic extension had silently been granted by their King. If the debt was not satisfied then retribution would be required and Judgement pronounced.

They waited.

All day and through the night they tarried; ears, keener than an eagle’s eyes were sharp, receiving the sounds of their comrade’s unconscious torment. They rose en masse at the startled scream that issued from the cheery sun-blessed hospital when the unfortunate being awoke, all eyes intent upon the building as though they could penetrate the mud-brick walls and see the activity within. The elves could hear the quiet prayer distinctly and tensed in anticipation at its close. The resounding yell of despair and fury that followed seconds later swept through their ranks like wind upon grass and they cringed involuntarily, turning away almost as one. 

The King and his two senior guards silently left the camp, crossing the distance separating it from the town quickly.

Gandalf and Bard were already halfway to the infirmary when the second cry broke from the tortured elf’s throat and reached the room in time to see the two soldiers completing their task of immobilizing the patient. They entered the room unnoticed as the warrior repeatedly made demands in his own tongue to be released and struggled mightily but futilely against the well-tied ropes. His initial efforts to evade confinement and the continued thrashing against the bondage re-opened the wounds and blood flowed freely onto the sheets below him. Then his eyes locked on the visage of the old wizard and his entire being seemed to calm.

“Mithrandir,” he sighed in his soft Sindarin dialect. “Tell them to release me. Tell them to give me back my weapons.” His voice pleaded calmly, certain now that the humans would be made to understand and all could be salvaged. 

Gandalf took a breath and slowly let it out but made no move either to speak or untie the ropes. A sheen of panic flickered through the elf’s eyes.

“You must do this! Mithrandir, you know me; you must remember me. I have to get free of here quickly!” The words edged in distress rose in pitch and volume.

“It is long since last I passed through the Woodland Realm; I am not sure if I do know you, or what it may mean to let you free. How is it you are apart from your people?” asked Gandalf. 

The elf realized the wizard was no more inclined to help him than the Men were. Panic broke out in earnest then and he thrashed wildly against the bonds and howled piteously. Bard’s eyes grew large and he jumped back a bit while Gandalf quickly tried to placate the frantic archer.

“You must stop this! Tell me what is going on! Why are you trying to die?” he demanded. 

“Please! I must, I must!" The howling cries had reduced to rending sobs and unending tears and the elf seemed not to hear the wizard’s words. Too exhausted to continue struggling against the restraints, wrists already raw from the exertion, his fingers curled and opened impulsively.

"Please let me go! I have to release them; their deaths are from me. I beg this of you, please!” The words poured forth over and over between the choking breaths of the clearly hysterical soldier.

Gandalf was alarmed, never before having witnessed such loss of composure in any of the First Born in all his time on Middle Earth. He leaned over the bedside and grasped the elf’s shoulders, shaking him roughly in an attempt to focus his attention and break through the terror.

“Stop this! I cannot let you go if you plan to harm yourself! There are no others to release here. Why do you think yourself the cause of these deaths?” He spoke sternly, close to the pointed ear, and the effect was immediate as the injured warrior stilled. 

_Is he truly ignorant of this?_ the sniper wondered and looked up at the Maia incredulously, not certain he had heard these words.

“Answer!" Gandalf shook him again more gently. "Tell me what is happening to you.”

A slight shake of the head came and the desolate immortal’s face displayed his realization that Mithrandir did not understand at all. 

“O sen, avbedim.” [Of this, we do not speak], he whispered and turned his head away.

Gandalf let go and drew back with a deep scowl on his features. 

“Who is he, then? He seems to know you at least,” Bard queried, taking advantage of the lull in activity to demand a translation, which the wizard provided.

Gandalf scrutinized the elf, not sure what to do next. At least he was calm, but the panic had been replaced with a sense of complete withdrawal. The wizard did not want to turn the young warrior loose only to witness his suicide. On the other hand, as soon as Thranduil learned of the unsuccessful second attempt there was no telling how he would handle the continued interference of outsiders. _And, if this injured archer is who I think he is, the repercussions could be exceedingly worse than anything these humans are likely to imagine._ At least that much he had to know, he decided, before he could plan his next step. He leaned back over the elf.

“Are you then, as I suspect, Legolas, Thranduil’s child?” he asked softly and heard Bard catch his breath in surprise.

The Man might not understand all the elvish words, but he knew the names of the royal First-born of Mirkwood well enough. He had never seen the prince before, but then realized that this elf was not dressed any differently than the other warriors. The Man might have encountered Mirkwoods's heir countless times when traveling within the borders of the forest.

“Nay, Mithrandir,” the answer came crisp and expressionless from behind them. Maia, mortal, and silvan all startled as their eyes turned to the tall stony-faced elf in the doorway. “There are no children of my blood so named,” the Elven King finished as he glared down upon the bound elf.

Thranduil walked into the room and approached the bed, and both Gandalf and Bard rapidly moved away to be closer to the door. They found the hallway blocked by two sturdy warriors, equally grim as their Lord.

“And you,” the King was speaking, “there will be no retreat to Mandos for you. You failed and your failure now condemns our brethren, the victims of your careless incompetence, to the Wandering. How could you?

"They earned a warrior’s death and their families deserve to know peace. You will live and face them and your punishment according to our laws. The rights of the battlefield you have forfeited and you are forbidden to seek your death by your own knife and will.

"You will return with us to be formally sentenced, but you have already been judged and cast out by your peers, who were with you to see your failure. I will confirm this Judgement now, before those assembled here.” The voice was low, menacing, and filled with a depth of disgust and shame rarely heard from any elda’s lips.

The stricken youth’s eyes were riveted to his King in dread acceptance and cold terror, and his breath came in rapid panting gasps.

“I declare you abandoned and nameless, a kinslayer; no elven realm will grant you refuge. Neither shall you sail from the Grey Havens to Valinor, nor pass through death to Mandos’ Halls. What family you spring from will know you no more. You are less than an Orc, for even as low as they are they would spurn you. Man pídiel, sen boe cared." [What has been said, this must be done.]

Thranduil finished his awful proclamation and left, but his two guardsmen immediately entered. They completely ignored Bard and Gandalf, who chose that moment to move over to the doorway out of the line of sight of the armed warriors.

They quickly cut the ropes, ungently slicing into the already abused flesh of arms and ankles. They pulled their former comrade off the bed and out to the center of the small room, kicking the bed away to allow more space, and commenced to inflict a vicious beating with fists and boots, interspersed with shouted curses and acrimonious taunts.

Bard made to break into the grisly scene but Gandalf jerked him brusquely by the arm out through the door, vigorously and silently forbidding any further interference. The Elven King had spoken and the humans had no authority to override his decisions concerning his own people. Furthermore, his Royal Guard was still within the borders of the town, and twenty-four seasoned elven warriors could easily lay waste to the remaining able-bodied human soldiers. Once they were safely out of the building, the valiant defender of Dale demanded to know what the King had said, and stood speechless upon hearing the meaning of the words he had heard.

Thranduil’s warriors emerged from the infirmary dragging the unconscious, battered prisoner, bound hand and foot. They ignored the horrified attention paid them by the mortals and on reaching their camp threw Legolas over the back of one of the horses, tying him down firmly like a piece of baggage. During the preceding events, the rest of the Royal Guard had set to breaking camp, and within minutes of their commanders’ return all were mounted up.

In stoic and bitter silence the Elven King lead his company from the settlement in the direction of the Greenwood, uncharacteristically dismissing the business of the undivided fourteenth share of Thorin’s Treasure.

No purchase of gold or silver could redeem the honorless victory the elves carried back with them to their homeland.

Tbc   


  
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	3. Chapter 3

 

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd

 

### Namië    [Judgement]

 

Other Characters:

**Talagan [Harper]**: Captain of Legolas’ company; 1st to pass judgement in the field

**Fearfaron [Spirit-hunter]**: father of Annaldír

**Annaldír [Gift of trees]**: one of the beheaded lost warriors

**Valtamar [Good fortune]**: other beheaded lost warrior

**Lindalcon [Song of the sunray]**: son of Valtamar

**Andamaitë [Long-handed]**: female lost warrior

**Rochendil [Horse friend]**: Andamaitë’s mate; becomes Ailinyéro [pools of sorrow]

**Maltahondo [Gold-hearted]**: corpsman and friend to Legolas

* * *

The five days ride back to Mirkwood across the withers of his horse had prevented the broken ribs from knitting and irritated the long gash across his chest. The stab wound felt as if the knife was still in it, jabbing him over and over with each connection of the animal’s hooves with the ground. Legolas did not have the energy to cry out and awareness surfaced briefly and furtively so that the five days may have been five weeks to his weary mind.

He was jarred alert abruptly when his injured shoulder ground into the stony courtyard of Thranduil’s stronghold. Bright light from a high sun illuminated a ring of solemn eldar all around him. He sensed the King was not there, and for that was grateful and relieved. The next instant he realized he was not only still bound tightly hand and foot, but lay stripped nude in public humiliation. Legolas quickly twisted around to conceal his nakedness and groaned as his injures protested the sudden movement. He sprawled on his side lightly panting and heard someone approaching from among the gathered elves.

A hand grasped him by the hair and yanked hard, and he scrambled to rise unsteadily to his knees. He allowed his eyes to scan the elves now and recognized them as the families of the lost warriors and the remainder of their company. It was his own captain, Talagan, who was holding him up with a fistful of hair. Legolas could not bear to see their shocked and stricken faces anymore and dropped his eyes to the earth before him.

A tall and willowy male elf walked forward from the group and stood looking down on him. He did not have anger in his face; instead, his eyes looked vacant and soulless. He slowly bent down and scooped up a handful of dirt and gravel then was still for a moment more gazing vacantly at the archer. Someone made a sound in their throat, as though to clear it of a cough and the elf seemed to come back to the present. He listlessly flung the loose debris in Legolas’ face and began to speak.

“I am Fearfaron, known to you as father of Annaldír, called Ehtyaro, the Spearman, whose life you have wasted and whose rest you have thwarted. His mother, praise Elbereth, passed into the West years ago and is not here to witness this, but neither can she receive our child into Valinor and surely for this she grieves, even there. I must tend to this myself and bear it alone and cannot even contemplate allowing this sorrow to consume me until I know that Annaldír is freed from Wandering and honored by Mandos.” He sighed then and took a deep breath before continuing.

“I claim Warrior’s Release from you and demand the full penalty of 24 years in servitude and exile. I will require you to serve me in my trade as talan builder and you will bear the scorn and recriminations of our people as they see fit to express it. For myself, I wish never to speak to you again, and when I am forced to look upon you I will not see you, until Annaldír tells me he has found the Way Straight and claims the glory rightfully his.”

The elf finished this speech by drawing forward a dagger from his boot with one hand and grasping a handful of Legolas’ hair with the other. With a rapid swipe he severed the silky threads and cast them down. This action seemed to drain away whatever resolve the elf had been relying on to see him through the event and as he returned to his place in the circle his shoulders slumped and the sheen in his hair visibly dulled.

Legolas did not dare lift his eyes to look upon him as silent tears coursed down his face, blurring the image of the small heap of golden tresses on the ground.

Moments passed, and a gracefully petite female approached him next, cheeks tearstained and eyes sorrow-glazed. At her side she led an elfling by the hand, a male child less than 40 years who was pale and looked bewildered. He clearly could not comprehend this situation and was in shock. His mother copied the previous action of Fearfaron and instructed her child to do the same, casting his own small handful of stony grit upon the guilty one, as she spoke for them both.

“Valtamar was my mate,” she said and sobbed, squeezing the child’s hand tight, “and father to Lindalcon. I claim Warrior’s Release also and the full 24 years exile. You have stolen the life of my child’s father; therefore, I claim for Lindalcon the life of your father’s son. I demand from you the title and position of Prince of the Woodland Realm!”

A gasp arose from somewhere in the crowd and Legolas followed the sound to the aghast countenance of his friend and corpsman, Maltahondo. He quickly lowered his gaze again; he was no longer permitted to look upon his people as an equal.

The mother and child each cut away a section of his hair and added it to the pile before stepping back to resume their positions.

Before they had barely turned, a second male elf strode out from the group. Without so much as a word he drew back his fist and landed it against the archer’s broken jaw, which made a strange grinding sound as Legolas tried to stifle a cry. With an incoherent growl the elf rained a stinging hail of dirt and stone against the disgraced archer's body and followed this with a kick to his ribs, still a dark purple from the beating inflicted by the King’s guardsmen and the rough ride home.

Legolas coughed out air and blood from his lungs and would have fallen to the dirt if Talagan had not been holding securely to his hair.

“Andamaitë was my mate!” The enraged elf spat and then swiped at Legolas' face again, bloodying his nose. Having finally found his voice he shouted down numerous curses into the archer's ears. “You have stolen both of our lives and I would have you thrown into the most foul and fetid cell in the deepest depths of Thranduil’s stronghold did the law allow it!” he thundered.

“As it does not, I demand, as have the others: the full 24-year term of punishment and Warrior’s Release. As I suffer, so shall you, hecilo [outcast]. I demand your oath of celibacy for the entire term of sentence, and claim the right of chastisement whenever my suffering requires it!”

At this pronouncement Legolas flinched and a wave of disquiet passed through the collected elves. Such a demand had not to anyone’s memory been made before, but was within the rights of the victim.

“Where once I was known to you by my right name, Rochendil, I will become for you Ailinyéro, pools of sorrow in which you will drown!” The renamed elf sliced his handful of hair close to Legolas’ scalp and drew blood.

Talagan had to transfer his hold to the doomed sniper’s shoulder as most of his once glorious mane now lay in the dirt in a tangled mass. Silently, each of the remaining members of the company came forward and also cut away a few strands of hair, adding it to the pile. Maltahondo came last, but a part of his cut he did not cast away, tucking it carefully into a pocket of his tunic.

Then Talagan pushed Legolas back to sit upon his heels and removed his hold when he was sure the elf, trembling violently from the weight of his disgrace, would not fall over. The captain stepped over to the collection of strands and knelt down and, drawing forth his flint, struck sparks and set it alight. The acrid odor of singed fur filled the courtyard as the golden tresses blazed up brightly and just as abruptly died away.

Legolas watched as the warm breeze blew through the flaky ashes and swept them away to mix with the dirt and debris of leaves, and it was over. Talagan cut him free of his bonds and placed a small bundle of clothes near his knees and walked away. Within minutes all the others silently departed and he was alone.

Legolas crouched down on his hands and knees, trying to get the pain in his body under control and the circulation back into his arms. He reached for the clothes and put them on, and somehow the feel of the rough, undyed cloth as he slipped it over his abused frame was worse than the shame of his nakedness or the feel of the wind on his shorn head.

A sharp pang stung Legolas' heart; he was not even allowed to wear the colors of the Woodland Realm, and this was more upsetting to him than losing his rank and title. He was a warrior and had never particularly cared for the obligations of state, but without his bow and quiver he did not really know who he was anymore.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled away towards the wood; before sunset he had to be beyond the Enchanted River or face further penalty. Now that the judgement was over, he just wanted to be away from the unnaturally silent and empty courtyard.

He made for the trees.

Tbc  


 


	4. Chapter 4

 

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd

 

### Leithad-en-Maethyr    [Release of the Warriors] 

Other Characters:

**Talagan** [Harper]: Captain of Legolas' company, 1st to pass judgement in the field

**Fearfaron** [Spirit-hunter]: father of Annaldír

**Annaldír **[Gift of trees]: one of the beheaded lost warriors

**Valtamar** [Good fortune]: other beheaded lost warrior

**Lindalcon** [Song of the sunray]: son of Valtomar

**Andamaitë** [Long-handed]: female lost warrior

**Rochendil** [Horse friend]: Andamaitë's mate; becomes **Ailinyéro** [pools of sorrow]

**Maltahondo** [Gold-hearted]: corpsman and friend to Legolas. He uses his Quenya    name-form while Legolas goes by a Sindarin word for 'green leaf'. As a joke between friends, they reversed the naming styles to create nicknames for each other. Legolas calls his friend by the Sindarin word for 'golden':** Malthen** and Maltahondo calls Legolas by a Quenya word that means green, but in the sense of young and inexperienced: **Laiquassë**.

* * *

  
Gandalf left Laketown the morning following Thranduil's unprecedented departure sans spoils of war, tailing his dusty wake as near as he dared without provoking a confrontation. He was absolutely certain the elves knew he was behind them and did not want to have to give an explanation as to his intentions to the tense and wary Elven King until his son's fate was decided.

The wizard had determined that death would not follow, given Thranduil's own words of condemnation of the archer, and hoped that he could find a way to mitigate whatever this judgement entailed. An unpleasant image of the dark underground warren of suffocatingly small cells in the dungeons of the Elven King's palace flashed through his brain. How long would a Wood Elf survive in such a place? Surely this would not be the archer's fate.

As a plausible excuse for appearing on the heels of catastrophe like a scavenger bird dogging a pack of wolves, he brought with him the Emeralds of Girion as Thranduil's share of Thorin's Treasure. Thranduil would not be able to refuse that which he had called forth his army to take by force. This had been Bard's idea and Gandalf readily accepted it, assuring the man he would find Legolas and bring him back to the human settlement if the elf was indeed banished from his own people. In his heart, however, Gandalf was somewhat worried about the King's reaction upon seeing the gems; they were tainted now with the blood of so many warriors and the disgrace of his own child, and hardly seemed worthy of such sacrifice.

He need not have bothered with his concerns for upon admittance to the King's Halls he found the stronghold in near chaos. There was a great deal of traffic within the structure, as elves seemed to be moving around furniture, trunks, linens, and draperies as though an inventory was being taken. With dismay Gandalf realized these must be Legolas' belongings being packed away from sight.

The King's Council of Elders were harried and arguing hotly with one another about the future of the realm and the right of succession, and flailed parchments in the air or thumped the musty pages of ancient tomes to make their points. Gandalf was amazed that within the maelstrom of confusion Thranduil remained collected and still.

The Wood Elf King was not on his throne, but seated in an alcove off to the side that he used for more private audiences; often had he met with Mithrandir there and so it would be this day as he motioned for the wizard to join him. His gaze upon the Istari was wary and appraising but he said nothing, forcing Gandalf to state his manufactured purpose for such an untimely arrival. When the gems were presented, the Elven King merely reached out his hand for the elegant box containing the treasure and set it aside without bothering to open it, a grim smile on his lips.

"I thank you, Mithrandir, for taking such pains to protect the interests of the Greenwood," he said coldly. "And where do you go from here, to Imladris or to Lothlorien?" The bitterness in the King's words could not be denied.

"I am not a gossip monger, Thranduil, if that is what you are suggesting!" Gandalf pursed his lips and fidgeted slightly in his seat. His retort sounded somewhat unconvincing, because he did in fact plan to discuss the events with Celeborn as soon as he knew exactly what was going on. "I regret I had to be witness to these unfortunate scenes, but so I was. Do you expect me to act as though they did not occur?"

Then Thranduil's eyes flashed a bit and he leaned forward so that he was nose to nose with the Maia, but all he said was "Yes".

As he did not move Gandalf was forced back in his chair, pressing his spine against the woven willow supports. He cleared his throat and mentally scolded himself. He had not meant to get on Thranduil's bad side now, and suddenly had the uncomfortable impression that the King was playing him, manipulating him. He realized he would get no news of Legolas from his father and frowned.

"As it happens, I was planning on stopping in Lothlorien after escorting the Hobbit back to the Shire, but since Beorn has agreed to see to his safety I may go there directly, " he admitted.

"That is well and suits my purpose," Thranduil sat back with a sneering scowl upon his brow, "for you can carry with you documents Celeborn will need to see regarding certain changes in the succession to the Crown of the Greenwood," he said and called to his minister.

Gandalf blinked at these words; he had not yet considered this particular complication banishment of the King's only child would cause.

"As soon as the documents are prepared, give Mithrandir a copy. How much longer will all of this take?" Thranduil was addressing his minister.

"I believe it will all be official within a day or two. It is only the question of the previously arranged marriage that must still be settled. You will be allowed to accept him back after he has completed…"

The reply was stopped mid-sentence with an icy glare from the King that managed to project both a cold indifference and his fiery wrath, and the minister hurriedly fled back to the Council of Elders and their bickering.

"There you have it then, Mithrandir," Thranduil raised his eyebrows and a hand as he turned back to Gandalf, lightly shrugging as though to indicate the simplicity of the situation. "You can be on your way day after next and tell Celeborn and his Noldo wife all about it! I trust you remember the way to your old rooms?" His words were a mocking dismissal and Gandalf was only too happy to go.

As he passed out of the great hall the Istar observed a mother and child, surrounded by a veritable host of ministers and servants, being bustled down the corridors towards the throne room.

He decided to go down to the stables and try to glean some news. Of course, it was 'not to be spoken of', but the elves were distressed and the wizard was able to at least find out that Legolas was not in the dungeons and that someone looking carefully in the courtyard would be able to see which way he had gone. Sure enough, Gandalf found the trail and set out, finding it unnervingly easy to follow, something that should not have been possible given a Wood Elf's ability to move through the densest forest underbrush while leaving less of a track than a trout swimming through water.

The sun was low on the western horizon and the thick foliage brought twilight to the forest early and still the trail lead on. Gandalf at last recognized where its destination lay and knew it was not much further to the old campsite used by the guard at times. He heard them before he saw them; a harsh and unpleasantly wet coughing punctuated with high-pitched cries of pain and the voice of a female trying to sooth and comfort. When he broke through the clearing a moment later he could scarcely recognize the limp and gasping elf held in the healer's arms as she carefully wiped away the blood from his lips and the sweat from his forehead.

"I am glad you are here, old friend," she looked up at the wizard and smiled sadly as she spoke, "even though you should not be! We will need a fire tonight and he cannot breath easily if I let him lie flat." 

Gandalf came and knelt beside them. He reached out a wizened hand and softly brushed it across the shorn uneven hair but Legolas was not conscious to feel the gentle caress. Even in the fading light the dark stains on the leaf-littered ground where the elf's blood was soaking down into the earth could be seen. Gandalf shook his head in dismay and silently got up and made the fire for them and then sat down with his back to a fallen log and took out his pipe. Just before he lit it, he paused, listening to the elf's rasping and labored breathing and thought better of it.

"I am not elf-kind; not even Thranduil can order me not to see who I choose when I choose! His ban does not extend to the Istari! And what of you, you are a Wood Elf after all and should not be here even more than I," he finally said, responding to the earlier comment.

"I am a healer, it is different" she shook her head as she answered. "Without care he will not survive this, and then there would be four lost ones instead of three."

Gandalf's grimace expressed what he thought of that as he reached over again and brushed the tips of his fingers against Legolas' scalp.

"What of this? Are not these other injuries enough?" he queried.

The healer glanced sideways at the wizard; this was coming close to breaching the oath of silence; such knowledge was not intended for outsiders. She sighed a little and seemed to give the briefest of shrugs before answering; Gandalf was not likely to tell the King where he got his information anyway.

"Symbolic," she stated flatly. "He is not permitted to wear warrior braids until the sentence is complete; neither shall he wear the colors of the Greenwood."

"And how long is this to be?"

"The full term allowed: 24 years per death."

Gandalf digested this bit of news and then questioned the healer closely regarding the details of the Judgement. He was not pleased and still had not gotten to the why of it all.

"I understand he needs to make amends, but what does 'chastisement' consist of if it is separate from the overall punishment," he said.

"It is just a fine way to speak of torture!" she cried harshly and her features contorted in disgust. "That Ailinyéro means to take out his sexual frustrations from losing the comforts of his mate's body by beating Legolas! It has not been done in centuries! There are only two restrictions upon this: no deadly weapons may be used and the beatings must not be severe enough to interfere with completing the Tasks of Release. Ailinyéro's rage at the loss of his mate is such that I expect to be seeing a lot of Legolas over the next years."

Gandalf's features registered shock. He had always found the Wood Elves to be light-hearted and fond of merry-making, willing to throw a feast at the slightest excuse. He would never have suspected such gruesome practices in the execution of their laws, nor so stringent a definition for kinslaying.

"Tell me of these deaths," he said suddenly. "Do you believe he truly killed these other elves by his own hand?"

"No one believes that, or he would be in the dungeons now there to remain until his death! But of the tragedy I can not say, for I was not one of the healers on the battlefield that day," she looked at him as though he had suddenly turned into a dull-witted dwarf. "In any case, he had to have caused the deaths by his own errors, something that could have been avoided or prevented. He wasted their immortality for nothing!" The last words came out vehemently.

"It hardly seems right or just to punish so severely what must have been accidental," Gandalf murmured. The healer made an exasperated sound with her teeth and tongue at this comment.

"It is our way! Accidental it may have been, but preventable none the less! He allowed himself to be seen and his great skill was made useless. What good is it to have the gift of elven reflexes if nerves or anger and fear dull them? You, as Maia, should understand the enormity of such pointless loss of immortal life!

"He had the opportunity to make all the deaths clean on the battlefield but bungled that as well. Now, not only are three of the First-born dead but there f‘ar are trapped here instead of at rest with Mandos. This is no small misdemeanor, wizard; his crime is truly of the most heinous!" Gandalf remained silent and the healer seemed to calm a little.

"The Greenwood is not like the other elven realms," she continued. "We lose so many here to the evil vermin pouring forth from the caves of the mountains and the Necromancer's old domain; we can little afford to have our people diminished due to carelessness among ourselves as well."

Legolas shifted in discomfort as the healer's hold around his shoulders had tightened during her words, and he called out softly but incoherently. Their attention was diverted to tending to him for the next several minutes as Gandalf traded places with the healer so she could prepare and administer an elixir of some sort she withdrew from her pack nearby. That done, she stretched and took up her water skin, saying she would return momentarily, and vanished into the darkness.

Before Gandalf had much time to think through what he had been told he was startled by the sudden appearance of Maltahondo dropping down from the tree behind him. The warrior said nothing but came to him and held out his arms, demanding Legolas. Gandalf complied and Maltahondo settled down against the tree trunk with his friend cradled gently against his chest. He looked him over carefully, cautiously touching him here and there where the skin was unbruised, and seemed satisfied with the care he was receiving. He turned his face to look at Gandalf then, his chin lightly resting on the crown of Legolas' head.

"I was listening," he said matter-of-factly. "I can tell you about the battle if you want."

The wizard thought for a moment and nodded, listening as the corpsman relayed the events. This only served to disgust the wizard more, for in his mind there was no way Legolas could have held his aim steady when struck by a large boulder from above, and he said so.

"I agree, in part. I did not know the ridge had been overrun either, so I feel as much at fault; I was not able to give warning until it was already too late," the corpsman said.

"You need not to have." The voice that answered this was hoarse and whisper-soft and came from the disgraced archer. "I should not have moved out so close to the edge. They saw me then."

"I do not think you are supposed to be using up your strength to talk, Laiquassë," Maltahondo said kindly, kissing the top of his head, and smiled a little.

But Legolas did not smile back.

"Not supposed to be here, Malthen," he struggled to say, lightly poking his friend in the shoulder.

"I am here regardless; I had to talk to you." Maltahondo frowned and lifted his shoulders in a defiant shrug. "I wanted to make sure you do not despise me. I am truly sorry, Laiquassë; I should have warned you sooner, or at least I should not have allowed that human to interfere! I thought, somehow I could change things, talk to Talagan about my errors, too, lessen the punishment in some way. Truly, I had no wish to watch you die; I was weak," he was saying and this seemed to upset Legolas, who vehemently shook his head.

"You should not have needed to warn me at all! Do I have to tell you to bring extra arrows? Had I not stepped forward I would not have become their target! You have no error to speak of, and as to the human…" This was too much at once, however; he could not catch his breath and the coughing started again.

Maltahondo tilted Legolas' head up a bit and held him tightly as the eerie groans of pain followed. A small amount of dark blood seeped down from the corner of his mouth. Slowly the episode ended as Legolas again passed out.

Gandalf surveyed the two sadly.

"Malthen, is it?" he said "Tell me about the Warrior's Release and all this business about Wandering. I have been under the impression that no one's f‘a can be bound here if it is free of darkness at the moment of death," he resumed the conversation determined to understand the whole mess Legolas had gotten himself into.

As he spoke the healer returned to the camp and gave a nod to the warrior as she sat down, passing him the water skin in case Legolas wakened again. Maltahondo returned his attention to the wizard.

"Only Legolas calls me that; it is a sort of nickname. I am Maltahondo; I have known Laiquass‘ his whole life. He is really more like a baby brother in ways," he said fondly, absently shifting his burden to a more comfortable position. "I came here with his mother when she was bonded to Thranduil. I was her personal guard since her childhood, and was honored to be the same for Legolas," he said. 

Gandalf smiled somewhat coldly, considering it a strange sort of guardian that would apologize for not allowing his charge to die.

"As far as the Wandering goes, it is difficult to explain to outsiders. Our people, the Nandorin elves, the Green elves, and even the Sindarin elves have never been to Valinor. The Noldorin elves call us 'moriquendi', dark elves, and look down on us because we never dwelled in the light of the Two Trees or lived among the Valar. For us, these things are strange and unknown; only in death have any of our kind left here and none return to tell us where is the Way Straight.

"Until recently, none even sailed from the Havens, although that has become more common. We do not know the Valar as the others do, and I myself am suspicious of their intentions towards us. They left us here alone and do nothing to aid in our struggles against darkness brought to our beloved home by one of their own!"

The healer interrupted with a sharp intake of her breath, but Maltahondo barely glanced at her and continued. "Especially do we regard Mandos with trepidation, for the entrance to his Halls is said to be well guarded and only the most valorous of deeds can counter the loss of immortal life, Eru's gift to us."

"You believe the Valar will deny you entrance to Valinor or Mandos' Halls if death is caused by anything but a noble sacrifice," Gandalf stated and received a nod in confirmation from Maltahondo. "Legolas error in revealing his position resulted in the deaths of the warriors, and thus he is guilty of kinslaying. This stripped the warriors of their purpose in battle?" Gandalf really thought this was too much, especially considering the original goal of Thranduil's army when they encamped at the base of the Lonely Mountain. All this just for the chance to plunder the old dragon's horde.

"Not exactly," the corpsman responded. "It robbed them of the honor of the kill, which was the purpose of that skirmish against the goblin guards. They died with their purpose unfulfilled, so what have they to offer as recompense for the lives forsaken? How can they expect to find entrance into Mandos' Realm?" he continued quietly.

"And Legolas' suicide on the battlefield would have been enough to guarantee the three other warrior's passage?" Again a nod followed his words. "What about him; would his death have been clean enough?"

There was a distinct edge of caustic disapproval in these words that neither elf missed, but Maltahondo was prepared for this objection, having thought about it quite a lot lately.

"It would have been wasteful to lose Legolas," he agreed.

"Wasteful?!" Now the healer voiced her censure. "You find the lives of your three other comrades less worthy than your friends'! He is their bane, not the other way round!" 

Maltahondo ignored this interjection.

"However, I would rather see him dead than suffer what he will now. The tasks he must complete must be significant enough to place in the balance against the others' deaths. Here in the Greenwood, such deeds involve spiders, orcs, wargs, and other troubles from Dol Guldur that we can scarcely keep at bay by fighting constantly and with combined effort. He will have to do these things alone, and he will eventually be killed for his efforts," he concluded gloomily.

"Or worse," the healer added ominously.

"Do not even think it!" The warrior hissed with a scowl and instinctively drew Legolas closer to him as he did indeed think about his Laiquassë being captured and ending up a prisoner in the Necromancer's old fortress. The things the orcs would do to elves were well known and never spoken of.

"A curse upon that human for interfering, and upon me for letting him!" the sorrowful corpsman suddenly exclaimed.

Legolas stirred in his arms. They had not noticed he had wakened and listened to the discussion.

"Nay!" he spoke softly. "It will not be that way, Malthen. I will complete the tasks." The eyes gazing up at Maltahondo were anything but confidant, however, and the corpsman sighed.

"Ai, Laiquassë! We both know this is unlikely. You must promise me to take the first opportunity for a clean death if it finds you! I cannot bear to think of you in further torment!"

Legolas grabbed Maltahondo's tunic tightly and nodded his promise.

Gandalf and the healer discreetly turned away from this private conversation between the brothers in heart, if not in blood.

"There is another reason I had to come; our company has been disbanded and we have all been reassigned. Talagan leads a troop now to the southern borders near Dol Guldur. He would allow no other from our company to join, save for me. I told him of my sense of responsibility; and, as the captain, he also feels at fault and questions his judgement in relying solely on your skill for the plan to work. He disregarded your lesser battle experience and thinks this contributed to the disaster. We leave tomorrow. In all probability, we will not see one another here again!"

"Do not do this! It is the worst patrol!" Legolas whispered, desperation seeping into his eyes. "Do not burden me with more deaths!" He yanked at his friend's clothing ineffectually.

Maltahondo squeezed his own eyes tightly shut and pressed his forehead to Legolas', slowly shaking his head.

"This much is not your burden," he whispered back, "and, if you do as I ask, we will see each other again in Mandos' Halls, along with our comrades. That is what I am counting on you to do: release them and join us!" Legolas was shaking terribly and Maltahondo wanted to calm him and be certain he would not try to claim fault for his and Talagan's decisions.

"As you care for me, you must not deny me the right to a clean death as well. I do feel responsible for you; there is no other way for me to see it. Have I not been charged with your welfare since your birth only to relinquish that trust now? I have discussed this with your mother and she does not oppose my choice, therefore, you need not speak against it! And Talagan is an honorable warrior and can decide for himself his own debts. I will have your word that you will not try to take these rights from us, do you understand?" He squeezed Legolas' shoulder slightly for emphasis and searched his face.

"I do not want you to go; I do not understand!" Legolas did not know how this could be anything but his fault.

He could not comprehend how the whole pattern of life in his green universe could have been so utterly destroyed by such a small thing, just one extra step, one moment of inattention. Now not only was he to endure punishment for his mistakes, but his closest friend as well. And Talagan, while not a friend in the same sense, had his utmost respect and was an old comrade of his father's, having served with him in the Last Alliance. For him to bear this burden was equally unacceptable. Legolas ground his teeth in frustrated anguish and instantly regretted it as all the nerves in his fractured jaw erupted with fiery pain from the unconscious action.

"Are you still a child, then, Legolas? This is the way of things now; wishing and railing against it changes nothing. You must accept and respect my choice, even as I have had to accept and be witness to your debasement. Do you think that I like it? Do you think I wish it to be happening?" Malthen's words were harsh and uncompromising, and Legolas could only stare in consternation as he gave a half turn of his head in negation. "Then, how many feä must you release, Legolas?" Maltahondo demanded and had to strain to hear the single word: "Three."

The corpsman nodded; but they both knew these were just words. They both knew that each felt responsible for the other, and for the lost warriors; no amount of argument could convince them differently.

"A clean death, then, for all of us," he concluded and Legolas nodded against his chest, too worn out to try to respond. Maltahondo knew he would have to leave soon but made no move yet to do so. "I will stay till you fall asleep, and I brought your pack and hunting knife."

Legolas could barely incline his head in acknowledgement; his bow, he knew, would have been burned in a private ceremony among the families as their loved ones' bodies were committed to flames as well.

They remained thus for some time, long after Maltahondo knew Legolas to be unconscious again. The healer stretched out to sleep certain that she would waken if needed. Gandalf returned from just outside the firelight's reach, although he knew both elves had been aware of his presence all along, shortly before dawn. As Maltahondo had done earlier, he silently held out his arms to take Legolas back.

The corpsman did not hesitate to give up his charge, having said what good-byes there were to say. He picked up Legolas hunting knife and quickly sliced away a long lock of his own burnished auburn hair, wordlessly handing it to the wizard, confidant that Gandalf understood to see that Legolas received it. With a last look at his friend he turned, pulled himself up into the trees, and was gone.

TBC   


 


	5. Rhovan Cuil Erin Tawar Sir

Rhovan Cuil Erin Tawar Sir [Wild Life on the Forest River]

Dawn in the forest, realised through a quiet and watchful sense of expectation that somewhere on the invisible horizon Anor was rising again amid the passing remains of Isil's dark and starlit domain. Crimson were the low clouds huddled against the rim of the world, unseen under the canopy of the Greenwood, gathered as though to shield the shadows bound beneath its boughs.

A few beams of golden glory filtered down through the frosted and fractious air, insufficient to dry up the wisping mists arising from the earth, yet even this miniscule encouragement coaxed a sluggish response from the trees and the life they sheltered. The beeches' reactions were grudging and terse, brittley shifting branches garbed in chestnut-coloured foliage, longing to return to the seasonal slumber that announced the demise of summer in the northlands. A red autumn broke upon the forest and claimed its brief ascendancy.

The stillness of the chilly air enhanced the distinction of individual diurnal voices breaching the silence left by the more muted sounds of the night creatures now secreted away in dens and perches and snug burrows. With nesting over and chicks fledged, the exodus of the migrating species depleted the avian population of the woods. Gone was the spring-borne urgency of clamouring for the attentions of a mate and warning off potential rivals. The accompanying disharmonic morning chorus now yielded to the specific leider of the year-round residents.

Sparrows, flitting and pipping through the small growth of shrubs and brambles, chirruped individual notes at their telltale pitch and frequency, allowing little glimpses of stripes in brown and gold and black as they gathered sustenance. The sombre call of mourning doves drifted through the branches, the shadow-tinted birds unseen within the leaves. Determined rustling as four-toed grouse bustled through the leafy debris of the forest floor, going in clutches of ten or twelve, gave the impression of purposeful caution as first year chicks were herded along. Bobwhites and Whip-or-wills vied with each other for the most amusingly quizzical call, and a cardinal sent out but half its signature song as though expecting an answering throat to complete the stanza. A rapid scraping of bark on branch was the only response as a quoll slipped with fervent speed through the beeches, blatantly disregarding stealth for agile retreat from predation.

The trees creaked with disapproval, groaning like the bones of weary old men, under the passing weight of a sleek, black boa that leisurely pursued the hapless marsupial. A yellow reptilian tongue tasted the air, noting the place where its meal had left the trees, and the sinuous serpent slothfully uncoiled itself and slipped down to the ground. It was surprisingly rapid upon the land and secured its morning morsel with little effort, languorously returning to the canopy to digest it. The disturbance had momentarily overruled the waking forest fauna's prattle but quickly the small voices took up their dominance of the air streams again.

Higher in the canopy, a wedge-tailed eagle ducked and pivoted its head, appraising the boa carefully. Deciding that its size was too great for a single attack yet would surely provide well for the needs of the flock, it resolved to return with reinforcements later. It was too early for such effort and the boa was clearly settling down for the day.

The slightest lifting of the air ruffled the collar of feathers about regal bird's neck, and in a gesture of awakening common to most life it stretched, raising its noble head skyward and extending its mighty wings. With a final shake it settled, and the breathless air carried two feathers down to rest, caught upon the minutely splintered texture of the bark upon a lower branch. The peculiarly soft sound of the raptor sharpening its beak against the smooth-barked trunk sent vibrations down through the tree and finally, reluctantly, Legolas awakened.

First upon his eyes and mind crystallised the image of the feathers trapped just above his head drifting slightly, not from wind stirring but from the movements of the bird from which they had just disengaged. As he watched them, one finally loosed itself from the gentle grasp of the ancient beech and floated, swaying and twisting as though progressing down some unperceived stairway in the intangible air, and came to rest in the palm he up-stretched to receive it. His gaze travelled to the eagle, staring calmly down upon him.

"An le," [For you] the message was clear in the bright gleaming eye regarding him, and he smiled.

"An le," echoed the tree and released the second feather into his hands.

His soul warmed in the joy of the gifts and he examined the feathers carefully, using gentle fingertips to realign the teeth of the individual fronds and make the barred and spotted pattern whole again. One he would use to adorn his new bow, the other he would work into his hair in grateful acknowledgement of this kinship the Greenwood offered him. He was no longer a resident within a Thranduil's community within the forest; rather he was indigenous to the forest itself. This was a profound difference he only realised in this moment. His heart seemed to swell as the burden of banishment lifted; he belonged, more completely and to something somehow so much more substantial than his former citizenship among the Wood Elves.

He breathed in deeply the scent of winter, acrid and tangy, that tinged the autumn air. Rising to his feet in an elegantly fluid motion that took him all the way up onto his toes, he mimicked the eagle's stretch, extending his arms out and tipping his head up as he squeezed shut his eyes. Still smiling and holding the feathers, he balanced there, listening to the voices of the morning. Searching for the gabbling chuckle of the little spring-fed brook hidden from his eyes, he found it and noted the sounds of animals refreshing themselves in and around it. He exhaled and came down onto his heels, satisfied that no large predators were about, and shivered slightly. Winter was hurrying this year, or he seemed to be feeling the cold more now, or perhaps both. He shook his head and carefully put the feathers into has pack, then rubbed his arms with his palms to warm them.

Reaching down to his small collection of belongings, he lifted up a leather fur-lined short tunic and slipped the soft garment over his bare skin. The hairs tingled with remembered life of the wolf from which it had been taken some eight winters ago and the distant energy wrapped itself warmly around him. He donned also a great cloak of the same fur over his simple attire of soft quoll-skin leggings and the tunic.

Hefting his pack, his small bow and quiver, and his hunting knife to his back, Legolas began gliding through the trees towards the singing brook where he would wash himself and fill his water skin for the day. At the edge of the small spring-generated bog he paused, intently listening to the calling of the frogs in the reeds. He found them to be the most alert of sentinels with regards to anything involving water, and he had come to recognise the various signals they used to communicate danger. They seemed only to be complaining about the lack of bugs and the approach of the Dark Days when they would go into the mud to sleep, and Legolas relaxed.

He stripped off his garments in the branches and left behind all but his knife as he dropped silently to the squishy ground. Not a single droplet of water left the pond's surface as he slid into the cold waist-deep liquid, catching his breath a little at the sudden jolt the temperature change gave to his body. He waded over to the lip of the small depression where the water tumbled gently over into the sandy shallow bed of the stream. Carefully laying the knife on a flat stone on the bank, he tossed up a handhold of water into his eyes to chase away the last remnants of sleep. Bathing quickly, he completed the daily toilet by dunking his head completely under the small cascade, thoroughly wetting his hair and massaging away any evidence of leaf or twig that might have found its way there since the previous morn.

That done, he exited the water and quickly grabbing his knife fled back up to the branches and wrapped the wolf-pelt cloak around him, fur side to skin, to chase away the renewed chill. With a sigh he began to tend his hair, absentmindedly fingering small sections and rolling them between his palms, from his scalp to the very tips. He did this until all of his hair was more or less neatly controlled in a thick series of twisted locks that fell to his shoulders. This would be the twelfth winter of his exile, and his hair had grown quickly. Too proud to cut it back yet needing some way to confine it, this had been the only method he could think of. He had to admit, this style, if so such a raggy and matted head of locks could be called, was certainly faster and easier to manage than the intricate braids of his warrior's rank. Dressed again in the soft and warm leather garments, he prepared for his daily routine, his solitary morning patrol.

He frowned, distracted as he thought about this day. A dozen years was a short amount of time to elf kind, yet he had become acutely aware of each moon's passing since the critical day he had lost his identity and been encumbered with this other, shameful one. 'Egol, edledhron, ar noss-dagnir,' [Forsaken one, exiled elf, and kin-slayer] he thought bitterly, and remembered the battle again. A falling stone, a misspent arrow, and four lives lost.

This was the Edinor Ned Baudh [Anniversary Day of the Judgement] and the twelfth year held extra significance as a marker: one sixth of the sentence had past, apparently without any resolution for the lost warriors. He really had had no idea what to expect or what was expected of him. No one had bothered to suggest exactly what the Tess Leithadin [Tasks of Release] were or how he was to know if he was successful in completing them.

He distinctly remembered that the families had to make a formal declaration to the Council of Elders when they knew their loved one had entered Mandos' Halls. Legolas realised this knowledge would come to them in their dreamscapes, where this final communication between the lost ones and their kin would be heard, or rather felt. However, he was somewhat at a loss as to how he would learn of it, or if the families would even make such a declaration to the Council if they did know.

It had occurred to him that they probably would much prefer it if he simply died in the attempt to complete these tasks, and then they would not need to be troubled about any of it any longer.

The first few years of internal exile had been horrible. Whenever he had been required to return to the city to work alongside Fearfaron; the elves had steadfastly refused to acknowledge him in any way, averting their gazes and changing direction to avoid crossing his path. He had thought this was a good thing at first, for he had feared to face their insults and slurs. As time passed, he found the ostracism far worse; it was as though he was something so horrible that his people could not even bear to admit to his existence. Fearfaron was visibly pained by every word and look he had to extend to Legolas, and usually dismissed him before even a full day's labour was done.

Of course, this may also have been due to the fact that Legolas was hopelessly uncoordinated when it came to the working of wood with tools. Many were the careworn and frustrated sighs the talon-builder breathed as he was forced to redo nearly every part of a given construction he assigned to the archer. Finally, he relegated Legolas to fetching and carrying and only the most basic of shaping with hand tools. He had been able to teach the former warrior how to select usable pieces from among the fallen limbs, logs, and branches within the vast forest and considered that an achievement. He now only required Legolas to submit himself for duty on a monthly basis, having told the fallen warrior he considered it more important for him to work on the completion of the task for his son's release.

Each day Legolas spent in the city also meant a night enduring the torment of Ailinyéro and his chastisement. He shuddered, considering how this, too, had evolved over the elapsed time. Ailinyéro's preferred method of punishment was scourging; specifically watching Legolas do the scourging himself while Ailinyéro shouted all manner of foul curses and insults. If Legolas did not put enough effort into the self-inflicted whippings, Ailinyéro would smear a handful of coarse salt into the fresh lashes on the elf's back and sides. Sometimes, he did so no matter how hard Legolas applied the five-tongued whip.

After a few months, the elf had begun pleasuring himself as he watched, and Legolas had vomited at this sick fascination with inflicting pain. That had elicited a severe beating with a piece of chain, and the episodes had become progressively more grotesque thereafter. He shivered again, realising he would not be able to forgo entering into the city on this day, and dreaded to think what his tormenter had planned for him that night.

Legolas mentally shook himself to dispel the disturbing images and reached into his pack, drawing out the feathers he had just received. Carefully he threaded one into a slim side-lock near his face so that it fell to the line of his jaw and lightly brushed against him there. The second he inserted into the leather binding at the top of his bow, attaching it to a strip of leather he loosened and retied so that the feather fluttered freely as he moved the bow, resettling it over his shoulder.

The gifts of Tawar [Great Forest] and Thôr [Eagle] were not lightly granted and he reclaimed the new definition bestowed upon him with a warm surge of pride. Around his bizarre schedule of humiliation he had formulated a plan for completing the Tess Leithadin. Now, the importance of what he was doing was deepened by the addition of a new sense of responsibility.

Swiftly he climbed up into the high canopy, swaying with the sylvan swells as he looked out from his perch over the green sea. The Tasks, he considered, could be more than a way to find a clean death for himself, as Malthen had counselled all those years ago. Somewhere, within the dozen idhrinn [years] past, he had become more interested in the Greenwood and its life, and more disgusted with the growing darkness and boldness of the foul and evil things that blanketed and smothered the vibrancy of its natural splendour.

In his old life he had fought, as had all the warriors, for the defence of the Woodland Realm, for his people, and for his father, leaving Tawar to fend for itself. The neglect showed. How had Tawar become merely the background over which his life was painted, rather than the masterpiece upon which his small existence was as a tiny brush-stroke? Tawar had been here so long, far longer than any of the eldalie had lived. Surely, Yavanna herself had planted them here and, thinking this, he was overwhelmed with the sense of what the trees had borne witness to over the Ages.

For the first time, Legolas felt a sense of affiliation with the elusive Vala who seemed so distant, watching coldly as the lands suffered under the black will of the one never named. The next instant the link dissolved to be replaced with anger. How could she abandon Tawar so easily? Legolas decided he would stand against the Darkness infecting the Greenwood and threatening all that depended on it. His life would be about more than completing a sentence. If he was to die completing these Tasks, then let it be for more than the three lost warriors or his own redemption. He welcomed his new name and title: Tirn-en-Tawar. [The Watcher of the Great Wood]

With a smile, rare even in his previous role as prince, he descended again into the sturdier arms of the beeches, the highway of the elves, and moved noiselessly towards his first chore of the day. Having had no real notion of exactly what might constitute a Task of Release, he had opted for the obvious: to kill as many orcs as possible, decimate the spiders' lairs, and hunt down the ravaging packs of wargs. He had quickly realised the futility of one elf undertaking to achieve such goals. After all, how many of the creatures could he hope to kill? Even if he were able to kill every one of them in the Greenwood a fresh supply was ready at hand from the dark tower of Dol Guldur or from the Misty Mountains. Thus, he had to result to subterfuge, fire, and a large network of traps, for which he set himself as the bait.

For orcs, this was simple enough and not even too dangerous, he soon found to his surprise. It had taken a great deal of time, but he had dug a series of deep pits at various locations near the forest's borders and the thin strip of wasteland separating it from the mountains to the west. Even before he had finished this stage he had drawn the attention of several small bands of curious orcs. Perhaps it was the totality of his isolation that heightened his senses, or made him more attuned to the warnings of the living extensions of Tawar, great and small. Perhaps both were true. In any case, he found he always knew when they were nearing his position. Leaping up into the trees long before they came upon him and shooting them down as they inspected his work was truly almost effortless.

Of greater note, he had attracted the attention of the King's border patrols as well. Often he was aware of their presence, watching him from a distance but never approaching. He knew from signs the next day that they had inspected his efforts. He decided they were silently and covertly assisting him, not in the construction of the pits but in concentrating their vigilance in his vicinity to lessen the chances of orcs attacking him unhindered. He finally determined they did this because they had accepted his plans as a part of the Tasks, and had found a way to assist within the boundaries of the Law. They were warriors and wanted to know their brothers in arms were no longer Wandering.

Once completed, he had lined the sides and bottom of each pit with sharpened and fire-hardened pikes of wood. Later, after a few successful runs through the traps, he had replaced those with the knives and scimitars of the vile creatures he killed. Carefully he had woven over the openings a web of slender branches and over this replaced the turf and leafy litter of the forest floor. While the effect would never deceive an elf, the limited powers of observation of an orc were more than fooled.

It was not hard to entice the despicable vermin to give chase, all he had to do was show himself briefly and take off just above them through the branches. They could never resist the temptation of one lone elf in the trees, and thundered wildly and blindly wherever he led them. His speed had turned out to be a deficit to this particular sport, and he had to slow his pace so as not to lose them.

This proved to be the most dangerous aspect of the undertaking, for the need to let them keep him in their sites meant he was also within range of their arrows. Usually their aim was wide of the mark, but he had occasionally been hit. Once he had nearly been knocked from the trees to join them in the traps by the force of the arrow blow. At such times he had abandoned the kill and climbed high into the canopy to make good his escape.

For the most part, however, the orcs fell victim either to the pits themselves or his deadly aim as he picked them off efficiently from above. Those few that attempted to retreat, seeing their comrades fall, he chased and shot down quickly. Few ever escaped to tell the tale to the others that came to replace them. Slowly he had been able to drive them further and further to the south, until now none came north of the elf path. Yet he felt no advance had truly been made against them, and he had only succeeded in concentrating them in a different area.

Wargs could not be trapped thus, not could he hunt them alone. They had neither fear of nor blood lust for elves, unless driven by Orc handlers, and would merely avoid him if they learned of his presence. Their goals were more basic, seeking to hunt for sustenance, and always went in packs. For these he had to be content to lie in wait at watering holes and shoot them from the safety of the trees.

As with the Orcs, he despaired of any way to make a significant impact on their numbers. He could not get to them in their dens and destroy the young ones; these locations were too carefully hidden and guarded well. The hunting parties that issued forth in the night were small, ten at the most, yet more than one elf could kill; no matter how fast he could draw and shoot. They fled into the shadows at the first hit, separating to confuse his pursuit. He never got an entire pack on the hunt, and never got close to a den. The wargs multiplied in nearly inverse proportion to the numbers he killed.

The spiders were a much more difficult affair. He took far greater risks with them, for they worked in concord and with a greater and more malevolent intelligence than the orcs or even the wargs. They were immune to traps, being masters of constructing them, and were as at home in the heights as was he. They could feel him coming through the miniscule vibrations his hands and feet made as he passed through the canopy, and more than once had to fight his way desperately out of their webs and ambushes. He had summoned all of his intellect trying to devise some way to attack them with more than one or two arrows at a time, for even his speed was insufficient to elude them if he remained long enough to take more than two shots.

A summer thunderstorm had finally given him the answer. A gleaming streak of lightening had struck a tree infested with spiders' nests and in an instant the sticky ropes had blazed away in a pungent flare of golden heat. He watched in sorrow as the tree died from the shock of the lightening, not from fire for the flames had not neither time nor enough heat to survive the downpour.

He commenced to fire his arrows into the webs and nests alight with flame. It was a trick he could only use in the spring, when the trees were wet with rising sap and rains came daily in the afternoon. He had learned to concentrate on the egg sacs, and to heat the tips of his arrows to white rather than shoot them aflame. To do this he had to carry a small brazier and bellows with him, which was cumbersome in the branches. However, the method prevented igniting the whole tree containing the nests and having lost two he was determined never to cause another such casualty.

The first time he had set alight the egg sacks in a large nest of seven adults, the beasts had hunted him for three weeks in rage. All of those he had killed but two and thereafter he never slept in the same tree twice.

The spiders recognised him as their bane and were always watching and feeling the trees for his approach. He had learned to recognise their nasty snapping and clicking calls and they had one devoted just to him, and he was smugly pleased. He was sure the name they had for him was particularly disgusting. Despite the greater challenge involved, he had seen far greater success than with the orcs and wargs. By eliminating the egg sacs he removed the replacements before they could be born, and steadily the numbers of arachnids began to diminish.

Legolas slowed his advance and listened carefully as he neared the border along the wilderland near the Old Ford. He had recently come to a decision concerning the Tasks. After long and deliberate consideration, he had concluded that clearing the beasts from the northern borders of the Woodland Realm was a Task, and he had accomplished it alone, in accordance with the sentence. Maintaining the new status quo, however, was beyond his ability if he was to drive the creatures any further and get on with the other Tasks. He would need help, and had determined to make contact with Beorn, if possible, and ask his assistance.

He knew that the shape-shifter would not encroach on Thranduil's Realm in the capacity of a guardian or defender, but he would not, he hoped, be reluctant to make contact with the border patrols and pass along information. Likewise he would be willing to speak with the woodsmen in the central forest. Legolas had carefully made a map of all the trap locations and hoped that the patrol and the woodsmen would have the foresight to spend the effort needed to keep them up and utilise them effectively. He also had detailed instructions for the elven guard on igniting the spiders' lairs. This activity he would trust to no Man, and was certain that Beorn would give this information only to Thranduil's folk, cognisant of the grave danger Tawar would be under if not handled properly.

Hesitating in the shadowy protection of the forest, the fallen archer gazed out over moor and mead. The exact location of Beorn's enclave could not be seen, hidden in a bowl surrounded by a small growth of pencil pines. The meadow was bright and sunbeams lit the multiple colours of brown and gold adorning seeded grasses and shrubs heavily burdened with berries in crimson and purple. Legolas was uncomfortable this close to the open plains; little had he ventured without the cover of the trees and never alone on foot. The last time he had left Tawar had been a horrendous experience to say the least. It would be a blessing indeed to have one of Thranduil's horses for this part of the journey.

No sooner had the thought appeared than he became aware of movement far out on the plains; a party of Men, riders on horse, breached the horizon moving in the direction of the shape-shifter's domain. He sighed, it would not do to conduct his business among outsiders, and he had never had dealings with humans directly. About to turn away, a familiar silhouette caught his eye and as he watched the figure moved off from the group, turning his horse towards the forest and his position. He decided to wait for a bit in the eaves of the trees.

The sun had passed its zenith by the time the lone ride had drawn nearer to the Greenwood.

"Mithrandir," he voiced quietly from his seat midway up the myrtle tree a scant few hundred yards into the body of the forest proper.

The wizard stopped, not really startled so much as uncertain where to look to return the greeting, for Legolas was fully obscured within the foliage. He was scanning the trees carefully in the general direction of the sound when a small laugh guided him better and he finally caught sight of the former prince. The old wizard's eyes widened just slightly as he observed the altered appearance of the sylvan elf. Legolas looked fey and dangerous.

"What business do you have in the Woodland Realm that calls you from your travelling companions?" the elf continued.

"It seemed a good day to come by and see how Mirkwood fares in these times," the reply came with a turn of the lips more reminiscent of a frown than anything else. "Will you not come down and spare me a strained neck?" Legolas did climb lower so that he was only slightly above the rider's eye level, but remained in the trees peering into the Istar's care-worn face.

"Mirkwood! That is a horrible name to say here right in the Greenwood. Tawar hates the naming the Men use," the Wood Elf's tone was indignant.

Gandalf raised his brows slightly at the unusual reference to the forest. Tawar was not a term even the oldest descendants of the Green Elves of Ossiriand would still use as a formal title for the forest.

"It is sadly a more accurate word these days, Legolas, whether it suits the forest to hear it or not." The elf did not respond and looked away, absently patting the bark of the trunk at his back, almost, thought Gandalf, the way one might caress the neck of a nervous horse to calm it. "You must admit the woods are filled with more creatures of evil and shadow than even ten years ago," he continued. Still Legolas did not respond and Gandalf realised he had suddenly tensed and was listening no longer to his words.

"We should move deeper into the woods now, the patrol approaches," the elf finally said and began to climb through the branches rapidly.

"Wait. I should like to have the guard to guide me in, if you do not mind."

"Well I should not and I do mind. If you are here to see Thranduil, then go with the guard." Legolas called back and did not slow down.

Gandalf sighed and hurried after the retreating elf, not certain how the immortal had known he was not in the wood on official business. He finally caught up where Legolas waited for him and as the horse drew near the elf jumped lithely down onto its back behind the wizard.

"Let loose the reins, Mithrandir; he knows where to go," the elf said and only smiled when Gandalf looked sceptically back over his shoulder. He complied, however, and indeed the horse did not hesitate on its path, which to the wizard's eyes seemed not to exist at all.

They progressed this way in silence and Gandalf was uncomfortably aware of the intense scrutiny the elf was giving him from behind. The feral Elda's hands rested lightly on his waist and he seemed to be reading Gandalf's mood from this contact. The wizard shifted slightly.

"You are concerned to be with me?" the elf asked finally, but without rancour.

"I admit your personality is more intense than my memory informed me," Gandalf shrugged as he spoke. "You seem much changed."

"Well, you hardly knew me before, Mithrandir, so how can you judge that?" the elf asked with amusement and just a hint of sorrow in his words. "And since the last time you saw me I was half-dead I suppose any change must be an improvement."

"True. However, you comprehend my meaning, and that is not it," said Gandalf sternly.

The horse had moved into a small clearing where a clear, shallow stream crossed the small opening in the canopy and immediately dropped its head to the lush rarity of thick emerald blades. The afternoon sun glinted brightly on the tumbling water and green mossy banks and Legolas jumped down onto the springy terrain.

He sat next to the water and glanced back, waiting for the wizard to join him. He did not want to discuss any of these changes the wizard spoke of and had no intention of bringing up the Judgement. The significance of Mithrandir showing up on this exact day was not lost on his reasoning and he waited.

Gandalf dismounted and removed his saddlebag, then loosened the girth on the saddle and fondly slapped the animal's neck before joining the elf by the brook. With a weary grunt he folded himself onto the ground and dug his pipe out of his pack. As he filled and lit it, puffing briskly to set the flame, he critically surveyed Legolas again, taking in the roughly made garments and the uniquely twisted locks complete with a magnificent eagle's feather. The wizard instinctively reached out to touch it and the elf drew back quickly in alarm, then stilled and flushed at revealing his nervousness. Gandalf dropped his hand and decided not to comment, concentrating a few moments on blowing smoke rings, a trick that often distracted those who might find him intimidating. He waited until the elf's countenance resumed its normal hue before reinitiating the conversation.

"The changes in the forest, Legolas, this is something serious. I have heard reports from the woodsmen and from the beornings that the creatures are on the move, becoming concentrated in the central part of the Greenwood. You are pushing them from the north, and their masters drive them relentlessly from the south. The woodsmen are caught in the middle," he finally stated.

Legolas could not help but show his astonishment. He did not think anyone was aware of what he was doing except for a few of the elves in the border patrols.

"I did not know this. That is, everyone suspects that orcs are using Dol Guldur as some sort of fortress, but I was not certain they were anything but alone there. Who are these masters you speak of?" he spoke not of his own part in the situation and Gandalf of course noticed.

"It is difficult to be sure," he continued slowly and sent an appraising glance into the young elf's eyes. Seemingly satisfied, he shook his head a little and puffed a few times. "The consensus seems to be that they are Wraiths, servants of the Dark One, or even that foul emanation himself," he continued. "There has been much debate as late but little progress towards a solution to this threat."

Legolas sucked in his breath on hearing this. Mithrandir's tone transmitted his disapproval of the lack of action these deliberations had produced, and Legolas could only guess this was business of the White Council. That the wizard would choose to mention any of it to him was unexpected.

"It is sometimes useful to have the ear of an objective party, one unlikely to converse of such confidences among peers," the words sounded and felt as if in answer to the elf's thoughts and Legolas laughed brusquely.

"Yes, and finding an objective listener with no peers to communicate with is even better." He responded with just a soft edge of bitterness and a wry smile. "I would know what your counsel would be on dealing with such an enemy. I am committed to the protection of Tawar; this news is unacceptable to me."

"Wraiths are not of a substantial nature to slay with sword or bow; they cannot maintain a solid physical form as the Dark One can" Gandalf began, nodding thoughtfully in concurrence with the vehemence in the warrior's words. "And they are protected from the effects of my own spells, as far as I have been able to determine."

Legolas brows rose in amazement at this admission, but he said nothing and the wizard continued.

"They command through terror and wield a black power through their link to their Dark Master. I am convinced they are behind the rapid increase in both the numbers of orcs and the more consolidated attacks they make. Their bands and hordes strike with a greater finesse regarding vulnerable locations than the creatures themselves have ever had before," his words were not encouraging and Legolas felt his dismay.

"I do not understand; what are these Wraiths, exactly, and how is this link with the Dark One achieved?" the elf queried. Again Gandalf sent him that appraising look before answering.

"It is not wise to discuss this so openly; even here so deep in the forest I cannot be certain my movements are unknown, for we are on the very doorstep of Dol Guldur," he said. "However, I cannot hope to make any further progress without some clandestine assistance. To be successful, you will need to be as well informed as I can make you."

These words drew a startled utterance from Legolas' lips, but the wizard help up his hand and continued.

"The Wraiths are enslaved by the Dark One, and you should know at least of the Witch King of Angmar, though it is not he but others from among his eight companions. Once these were Men, but exist now only in the power of the Shadow, between death and life. Lured by their lust for power, they accepted the offer of rings of power from their subtle Master in the last Age. As long as the rings bind them, they cannot be struck down by weapon or wizardry."

"You speak of Nazgul," Legolas whispered; at last he understood what he would be dealing with. "For as such are they known here. How can we hope to make any mark against such foul abominations? What is it you think I can do?"

Gandalf smiled; pleased his assessment of the elf proved true; he had accepted his recruitment without hesitation once the shock had worn off.

"I am not exactly certain; I was hoping you might have some ideas of your own," he replied.

The elf straightened up to gaze at his companion incredulously. Ideas of my own? If the wizard has none, how am I to find a solution? He shook his head, staring into the sun-speckled flow of the stream as he considered it. Un-beings! He shuddered slightly. Bound by Rings of Power, untouchable under the protection of the barrier between the Shadows and the Light. He looked back at Gandalf and shook his head.

"How can I answer you? I am only a Wood Elf, Mithrandir; I would rid Tawar of this unwholesome disease, but know not how to combat such things," he finally replied in discouragement.

The wizard was not displeased, however, and only smiled.

"I did not say you would have these ideas immediately. Your rather ingenious methods have proved effective thus far. You have a knack for careful assessment and keen observation, and your unnatural solitude has forced some clever inspiration and inventiveness. These qualities I would have you bring to bear upon the source of the troubles you seek to dispel." he countered, and rose with a groan as he unbent his stiff knees.

"The light goes quickly now, and I intend to make use of my usual quarters in Thranduil's halls. Will you guide me there? I have no earthly idea where you have let my horse bring me," he said.

Legolas rose as well. With Gandalf's words, he remembered the original chore embarked upon in the morning, and reached into his pack for the documents he had prepared.

"Of course. I am required to be in the city before tinnu [dusk] today," he replied. "And if I might claim a favour in return, these are maps and instructions concerning those 'ingenious methods' you alluded to," he held out the parcel to the wizard. "I had planned to ask Beorn to get this information to the patrols and to the woodsmen, but perhaps you would be able to do so more quickly, as you are already here," he concluded and Gandalf nodded, accepting the documents without comment.

Legolas turned and spoke for the horse to come; standing back as Gandalf tightened the girth of the saddle again before mounting up. The wizard held out a hand to the elf that grasped it and sprang lightly behind him again, speaking softly to the horse of their destination as he did so. The Istar did not bother to take up the reins, trusting his companion's rapport with the animal to steer them most efficiently on their course.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	6. Naeg ar Anirad

Naeg ar Anirad [Pain and Desire]

They rode in silence considering their conversation as the hazy light within the forest slowly lost its golden undertone and became infused instead with the longer reaching beams of red and orange.

Legolas noticed the change in Tawar's voices long before the first evidence of elven habitation came into view and sighed just slightly. Strange how the movements and sounds of my own people now seemed to encroach as an intrusion upon the life of the forest.

He halted the horse with only a brief pressure from his knees just beyond Gandalf's sight of the main gates and jumped to the ground. He knew the guards' vision had already observed their approach and word of his arrival would soon spread to parties interested. He could not bring himself to say that he was forbidden to pass through those gates, even though he knew the wizard was aware of this anyway. And, he definitely did not want Mithrandir to witness his encounter with Ailinyéro.

"It would be better for you to continue and enter the city without me along," he said quietly, not meeting the wizard's eyes. Before the Gandalf could respond he melted into the comforting shadows of the canopy without even a tremor of leaves to mark his movements. He worked his way around to the rear of the fortress where a less impressive but more often used set of gates provided access for the coming and going of the guards and patrols.

Legolas landed without disturbing a single grain of sand upon the pathway before the postern of Thranduil's Hall. The tree from which he had dropped was a friend from days of old. Called 'The Sentinel', a name he had bestowed upon it when he was a child, he had spent many hours high in its branches overlooking the forest and his father's halls.

While not the oldest tree in the forest, it was still one of the grandfathers, soaring higher than any of the others growing this close to the mountain stronghold. If one climbed all the way to the top, a clear view could be seen to the East where the Lonely Mountain stood wreathed in clouds reminiscent of Smaug's hazy exhalations and Long Lake lay shining like a mithril mirror for Manwë's use. From its shelter Legolas had watched the activities of the guards and patrols, the various council members, visiting dignitaries from distant lands, spied on his parents arguing, and even just watched the regular folk of the Woodland Realm. He had always trusted and felt safe within the care of The Sentinel, and here he left his weapons, pack, and cloak for the night. He approached the gates.

The guard eyed him briefly and without emotion as the barrier was opened and he entered the stable-yard near the barracks. Small groups of soldiers milled about, their conversations ceasing and activities stilling as the disgraced archer walked past them. Several of them had turned and left the area as soon as he had arrived, but many remained. Legolas refused to bow his head or look down even though they would expect him to.

They knew why he was here; could not help but be aware of what was to take place this night, as Ailinyéro used a nearby storage room cut into the rock of the mountain wall as his place to exercise his rights. The warriors' acute sense of hearing made what went on inside clearly audible, even if they were to go into the barracks and shut the doors and windows. The air calmly carried to them all the unpleasant sounds of the curses, of leather striking flesh, his own cries of agony as the hours wore on. The other sounds, noises Ailinyéro made in his sick madness of passion, would be clearly audible as well.

Legolas could hear the soldiers, too. They meant for him to do so. The ten or twelve warriors that remained in the stable-yard took part in Ailinyéro's chastisement by betting on how long it would take him to strike his first blow and the hour when Legolas would no longer be able to keep silent under the torment. Now they added wagers on how long his tormenter could hold out before succumbing to his carnal desire and morbid pleasure. The final wager almost did make Legolas stop in his tracks as he visibly flinched while they laughed. They were betting on how long it would be before he joined Ailinyéro in his perversion.

In the shadows of the stable's eaves, Fearfaron listened and watched with growing disgust. He had been waiting all day for Legolas' appearance, intending to spend the entire day collecting new pieces of wood from a spot two leagues from the city.

A recent storm had felled an old tree, and in turn it had taken down two others in its path as it tumbled to its death. Such life, energy, and great age were not to be wasted to rot upon the forest floor, in the carpenter's opinion. Such falls were as gifts from the forest; a sign of trust between the elves and the beeches that no tree lost would go without the respectful and almost reverent collection and use of the wooden husk left by the ancient forest dweller's demise. Fearfaron found that Legolas understood this concept, better than many of the warriors seemed to do, and he looked forward to having the elf along to complete this task of honour: the funeral of the trees, as it was to his mind.

Now he would not be able to carry out the collection. Ailinyéro would claim his rights first, and Legolas would be in no condition to help at all after a few hours had passed within the storage alcove. He had known for some time that Ailinyéro's ideas of punishment were becoming more sexual. He believed that the elf had developed an obsession with the fallen archer and considered him as a slave. Fearfaron found this far more despicable than the errors the archer had committed, for those were not intentional and no malice was involved.

The talan-builder feared that Ailinyéro had lost some part of his sanity in his grief. Fearfaron knew not what to do about it, and had not intervened as yet, for the rules had not been breached as far as he understood them. After each chastisement, Legolas walked out of the storage room on his own feet the next day, although unsteadily at times, and returned to the forest.

The carpenter always waited there beside the stables throughout the night, just in case the elf did not emerge and a healer might need to be summoned. He almost wished this would be the case, for then he could officially make complaint against Ailinyéro and stop the brutal tortures, siting the rule against interfering with the completion of the Tasks of Release.

Fearfaron sighed, loudly enough that Legolas heard him and looked over. The archer felt his face grow hot and quickly averted his gaze; he did not want the carpenter to witness this. The collected soldiers noticed and snickered and scoffed at his discomfort, which made Fearfaron scowl even more. Ailinyéro chose that moment to make his appearance from the storage room, shaking a set of chains noisily as he moved forward. Fearfaron cleared his throat and the other elf looked over, annoyed.

"I have been waiting here all day; I need Legolas to accompany me to collect several pieces from the forest," he said calmly.

Legolas glanced in his direction again; he was aware Fearfaron had often been present when he came to Ailinyéro, but never before had the carpenter made his presence obvious. As Legolas looked at the older elf, it became apparent he was very angry. This was surprising, for Fearfaron never showed anything but sorrow and loneliness on his features.

"What is that to concern me?" Ailinyéro, too, seemed surprised, but amused more so. "You can come gather him up in the morning for that. I, too, have been waiting, and for far more than a day! It is your interference that prevents me from claiming my rights as I wish; your requirement of only monthly servitude is a disgrace to your son's memory," he sneered, and now Fearfaron's countenance coloured in rage.

"How do you dare speak of my son's dishonour, when what you do here defiles your own vows of bonding! Think you of Andamaitë's memory before you breathe any mention of my duty!" His voice was tight with barely repressed wrath, and everyone was stunned at this uncustomary display from the usually placid talan-builder.

Ailinyéro sent him a deadly glare but made no comment as he approached Legolas and held out the chains. The archer dutifully put his hands forward and his tormenter clamped down the manacles as he continued to stare Fearfaron down. The carpenter set his mouth in grim disapproval but said no more as Ailinyéro led Legolas away and shut the storage room door with a savage slam that made the wood shudder.

"Well, well," Ailinyéro said softly in his captive's ear. "Have you won over your victim's father? And just how did you manage to achieve that, Hecilo? [Outcast]" he continued, placing his hands firmly on Legolas' shoulders, squeezing to feel the sinewy tone of the muscle under the leather tunic.

Legolas held himself rigid, refusing to give his captor the satisfaction of knowing his discomfort this early into the torture. He said nothing.

Ailinyéro reached up and brushed through the warrior's hair, holding it back from his neck as he bent his head and breathed heavily against his skin, inhaling the fallen elf's scent.

"Have you shared our little games with him, Hecilo?" He resumed his mocking tone, smiling slightly as he saw the ligaments tighten and goose-flesh rise along Legolas' nape.

Legolas knew better than to make any response, for it only hastened and increased the pain if he expressed his disgust. Ailinyéro just laughed, relishing the non-vocal display of his captive's increasing dread. He pulled on the chains and led Legolas deeper into the cave where he had long ago set up the surroundings as he desired.

A single torch provided the only illumination, but in the small space it was amply sufficient. Only the farthest corners stood in black obscurity and the central area was clearly lit. Near the middle of the cramped room, two sturdy posts were deeply embedded into the ground. To these were bound two thick rings of cast iron, located halfway up the total height of the posts, and here Ailinyéro attached the chains. This forced Legolas to his knees and caused his arms to be pulled straight to either side, parallel to the floor. Ailinyéro could hear Legolas' breath quicken in anxious anticipation, and his own heart began racing in response.

Ailinyéro always started out like this in order to make the guilty one face his degradation: down on his knees in the dirt, completely at his mercy. Slowly he walked all the way around, circling his captive with satisfaction, and again laughed coldly. Despite his efforts to keep still, Legolas involuntarily shivered and Ailinyéro noticed.

"Ah!" he sighed loudly. "Eager to begin?" He reached out and grabbed Legolas jaw, forcing him to look up and meet his gaze. The archer tried hard to keep any hint of his loathing and trepidation form being visible but knew he had failed by the triumphant leer than graced Ailinyéro's lips. His eyes shifted and locked onto the feather worked into the long, twisted tresses and he reached for it, turning it in his fingertips, curious.

"Have you adorned yourself thus for my amusement and attention?" He queried and quickly ripped the ornament away and cast the proud feather down to the dirt. Now Legolas' eyes did blaze in fury, and this delighted Ailinyéro. He pulled back and struck the archer with the back of his hand across his cheek, and outside a mixture of cheers and complaints arose as the first of the wagers was decided.

Legolas cheek stung from the blow and his eyes fell on gift of Thôr. Never mind, it will still be there in the morning. At least he hoped this would prove true as he berated himself for forgetting to remove the feather before entering the city. He had forgotten about it due to considering the dark musings of the wizard.

Ailinyéro unchained him and pulled him up to his feet by the arm.

"Helthio," [Strip] he commanded and stepped back to watch.

Legolas blushed crimson as he began to undo his tunic under the elf's lustful scrutiny. No matter how often this had occurred he could not separate his mind from these actions. Each time he was painfully aware of the other's growing arousal as one by one his garments were removed. At last he stood naked, hands at his sides and unconsciously clenched tightly.

Ailinyéro was flushed also, and again made a slow circle around his captive. Legolas could hear his own heart and Ailinyéro's breathing and his stomach began to twist as bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard as Ailinyéro once again stood in front of him, but the elf did not touch him. Instead he reached behind him and removed a short leather whip from the belt around his waist, unfurling the tongues from their resting-place wrapped around the braided handle. He swished it through the air close to Legolas' face and smiled as he recoiled slightly.

"You know what to do," was all he said as he held out the scourge.

Legolas took a deep breath to try to steady his hands before he lifted them, not wanting to show any weakness to his tormenter by having them shake or tremble. He took some small satisfaction in seeing his fingers close down around the handle sure and steady as he drew the whip from Ailinyéro's grasp.

The first strike was always the hardest; his body tensed in anticipation of the stinging pain. He had learned over the years not to hold back on the strength of the first blow. To do so only made Ailinyéro furious and caused him to replace the leather whip with a thin and vicious length of chain.

Legolas took a deep breath and held it as he snapped his wrist and sent the tongues of leather over his shoulder to bite deeply into the skin. He suppressed a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut and repeated the movement across the opposite shoulder. He tried to concentrate on his breathing so as not to hear Ailinyéro's. He tried to control the pounding of his own heart as if by doing so he could control the rampant desires of his captor. Both activities were futile.

Finally, after the twentieth strike, he could not catch his breath at all and his gasps were audible. Two more blows and a thin groan filled the still air, followed by more raucous cries of combined glee and disgust issuing from the stable-yard, announcing the winners and losers of the next bet.

"Salt!" a voice, cried out loudly from outside.

"Aye, too quiet by half in there!" another rejoined.

Legolas glanced at Ailinyéro fearfully, hoping he would not take this suggestion, and did not pause in the rhythm of his pain.

Ailinyéro's breathing was laboured; his eyes glazed slightly as his gaze travelled the length of Legolas' body. He took another turn around to survey the effect on the archer's back and sides. Remaining behind him, he observed with satisfaction how the archer's legs began shaking as the self-inflicted blows continued.

Ten more strikes and Legolas felt his knees buckle and he landed on them hard, catching himself with his hand as he fell forward and cried out. Ailinyéro snatched the whip from his grasp.

"Look at you; you are the most detestable thing I have ever seen! How can you go on living everyday, knowing you are a murderer? How dare you cry out at this puny punishment when you should be locked away in darkness forever?" He began yelling his taunts and curses, punctuating each sentence with a swift kick to the ribs or another sweep of the whip across the bleeding lashes.

Legolas knew he was not allowed to respond or try to avoid any of the hits, but the body has instincts beyond the command of the mind and he sought to get out of the way in spite of himself. He threw up an arm to deflect a kick and this enraged Ailinyéro further. His shouts became incoherent and he dragged the elf back to the post and chained him there, forcing him up to his knees again.

"You will submit to your punishment! How dare you try to defend yourself? What right do you have to be whole and unbroken? Your body heals and you live on; the same will never be for Andamaitë!" He screamed his words into Legolas ear and swatted his head with the handle of the whip. Then Ailinyéro turned away and strode to the back of the room where he remained for some minutes as he tried to regain control over himself. It would not do to have his captive lose consciousness so soon.

Legolas leaned his head against one of his arms and shuddered; he knew what this small break in the torture portended.

Ailinyéro returned slowly to stand in front of Legolas, and then he circled around him again, trailing his fingertips across the fresh lashes as he went. Legolas winced and gasped; the digits were coated in salt. His tormenter drew a ragged breath as his hands came around to front and dragged languidly across solid pectoral muscles and small maroon nipples.

Legolas pulled back and received a sharp blow from a fisted hand, while the other clamped down on one nipple hard at the same time. The force of the blow threw him back while he tried to come forward the instant the pressure on his sensitive flesh tightened and wrenched. He refused to cry out; it was not as bad as the whip.

Ailinyéro knew it hurt, he felt no need to hear any sound when the reactions of the body sang louder than any songbird. He bent low to take Legolas' mouth, grasping his jaw to hold him still when he tried to turn from the kiss, and roughly bit down on the lower lip, drawing blood. Legolas kept his teeth clenched tight, but Ailinyéro was having none of that and squeezed relentlessly into his mandibular joint, forcing the jaw open.

With a cry of outrage muffled by his captor's thick and repulsively hot tongue, Legolas thrashed against his bonds and tried to pull his head away. The other hand still held the tender nipple tightly and now twisted mercilessly and pulled forward more ardently as Legolas tried to pull back. At last the kiss broke and both were panting to regain breath. Ailinyéro sneered at the archer and spat in his face.

"You should not be so quick to turn from such favours, Hecilo," he hissed. "Who else has kissed you lately?" He held the jaw still but Legolas kept his eye averted. Ailinyéro answered himself: "No one. No one wants you now. Pretty thing, all alone!" He mocked as he let go his hold and returned his attention to kneading the bruised nubs of sensitive nerves on his chest.

"I have a new lover, did you know that? Not as comely as you, perhaps, but she at least is clean and decent. We please each other much." Ailinyéro worked his hands lower; kneeling down as he did so, stroking salt glazed fingers against tight abdominals and down over slender hips.

Legolas gritted his teeth and shut tight his eyes, trying to make his mind go elsewhere, but as always he failed. He felt every touch and heard every word. He held his breath as the hands groped and petted as if they owned him.

Ailinyéro fondled his limp penis and scrotum, laughing softly at the juxtaposition of the archer's determined constriction of every muscle in his body and the soft velvety laxness of his genitals.

"Do you not enjoy pleasure? Or is it you do not find males interesting sexually? No, that is not it. We both know that."

Legolas could not help opening his eyes at this remark, and gazed sidelong into his tormentor's.

Ailinyéro smiled smugly. "Oh yes, everyone has heard about your specific preference. Did you think that was a secret? Did you think no one knew why you ended up in the border patrol as an archer and not a captain?"

Legolas was breathing harder and Ailinyéro continued squeezing and playing with him.

"Andamaitë told me about it; your whole company knew. Why do you think you were in Talagan's company? Your father used their friendship to place you there while that poor soul you chose for a lover was sent off as a messenger to 'Lorien."

Legolas could not help listening; this was not a story he had ever had the complete truth about.

"Do you know what happened to him? I wonder what excuse he gave you for never returning; or did he bother to give any at all?" Ailinyéro looked into his eyes; he was well that Legolas did not know. "Your father told him, if he ever fucked you again, he would have him castrated!"

Legolas' eyes went wide at this and Ailinyéro laughed at his reaction.

"How your father must despise you," he commented viciously and was pleased to see the pained look that flashed through his captive's eyes. "He told Talagan you were a disappointment and a disgrace," he added, then he turned his gaze down with disapproval as he noticed the archer's lack of response to his touch. He sighed in mock distress and made one or two sucking noises with his teeth as he shook his head.

"This will not do; here I am trying to give you some comfort from your long and lonely isolation, and you can not seem to get motivated." His tone was demeaning and cruel in contrast to the soft and gentle caress of his fingers up and down Legolas backside. "But then I suppose you do not really need to be engorged to be taken, do you?" As he spoke these words Ailinyéro thrust two fingers abruptly into Legolas' anus.

He cried out sharply in pain and shock, arching away, and the movement carried him right against Ailinyéro's chest, who wrapped his arm tightly around Legolas' waist to hold him there, working his fingers roughly in and out as his captive struggled.

"Daro! [Stop]" Legolas gasped out hoarsely, but Ailinyéro only chortled softly into his ear.

"No, you do not want me to do that, really. Why, I am the best lover you will know for the rest of your sorry days, Hecilo! Do you know, I do not even think the Noldorin elves of Imladris would dirty themselves inside of you," he murmured in low tones seductively pitched in contradiction to the brutality of the statement. He gave a last depraved stab with his fingers and pulled them out, swiping them with disgust across the archer's chest. "Nor will I!"

He stood up and backed away a few paces to watch as Legolas laboured to catch his breath and relax his body, letting his arms take his weight for a few moments. Ailinyéro cocked his head slightly as though considering a problem.

"You still do not seem to be enjoying yourself at all, Hecilo," the mockery of false concern returned to his words. "Perhaps you are better at it than I. Yes, you should be able to manage quite well without any help. Here, you will need your hands free, will you not?" He smiled evilly and came forward, unlocking the manacles, then returned to his previous vantage. He watched as Legolas sat still, breathing deeply, staring back at him, unmoving.

Ailinyéro frowned and moved back to the far end of the room, returning with a low stool and something in his hand. He placed the stool where he had been standing and sat, stretching his legs out before him. He raised his brows in expectation, and still Legolas waited. He was not going to do what Ailinyéro was suggesting. Except that Ailinyéro was not merely suggesting, and grew impatient.

"Well, Hecilo, I suppose we do have the whole night but I have additional plans once this little exercise is through. Get started! What, do you not have a routine for this sort of thing? Is there someone you like to think about when you begin? Try touching yourself, that usually works quite well."

Legolas stared open-mouthed. This was a new level of torment. Watching Ailinyéro do this was obscene, doing this to himself under such close and sickening scrutiny was unbearable.

Ailinyéro glared at him with rising fury and absentmindedly tossed the object he was holding up into the air. It spun; shining in the torch light as it fell back into his hand. He repeated the motion and Legolas suddenly recognised that it was a dagger. A chill went through him as his gaze returned to Ailinyéro's menacing stare.

"Go on, I am waiting." Still Legolas remained motionless and in the next instant the other elf had leaped from his chair to land beside his captive.

He knelt there, one hand grasping Legolas genitals and the other pressing the knifepoint down against the soft flesh of the scrotum. "Or should I apply your father's remedy for such perversion as yours and geld you this night?"

Legolas had gone absolutely quiet, holding his breath and staring down in trepidation at the gleaming blade. With a grim sense of irony he recognised the dagger as his own, the one he had used on the battlefield to stab himself. How and where had this loathsome Elda come to have it? He lifted his eyes to Ailinyéro's again and swallowed.

"I will do as you say," he said dully and his heart sank at the victorious grin that spread across his tormenter's face.

Ailinyéro returned to his stool and before sitting removed his tunic and loosened his leggings, one hand already moving to free his hard erection. Legolas watched him casually stroking his penis with one hand while he turned the blade end over end with the other. Again Ailinyéro raised his brows in anticipation and Legolas awkwardly averted his eyes as he reached for his own member.

A few tentative caresses did nothing; all he could feel was shame and humiliation. He shut his eyes, trying to envision his former lover to no avail. He let his other hand drift up his body to his chest to stroke against his nipples, but they were sore and bruised, painful to his slightest touch; he winced, drawing breath sharply. He heard Ailinyéro sigh in satisfaction at this and his heart raced a little faster thinking of the dagger twisting in the elf's fingers in time to his deliberate pumping.

Ailinyéro held the knife, but Legolas was in control. Somehow this was quite unexpectedly erotic. He glanced back at Ailinyéro's hand, slowly moving up and down over his gorged and dark red cock. He was leaking drops of pre-ejaculate each time the foreskin was pulled back and the tip revealed.

Legolas fondled himself again, pulling slightly at his cock and rolling his testicles between his fingers. A deeper moan came from the other elf, and Legolas finally felt a response within himself at this sound. His groin muscles tightened and his penis twitched in his hand. He leaned back on his heels and braced himself with his arm behind him, spreading his knees wider to have better access.

Ailinyéro practically growled at this manoeuvre and his breath was harsh and rapid.

Legolas found himself growing hard and pumped more vigourously, listening to the sound of Ailinyéro's breathing and the movement of fabric against fabric as his arm shifted up and down. He matched his effort to this and Ailinyéro groaned in surprised delight.

Legolas stared at his tormentor through his lashes; lips parted and skin slowly suffusing with the hot flush of his rising pulse. He lifted his hips, thrusting up into his hand and watched Ailinyéro's pelvis twist in kind. Legolas repeated the spectacle; a guttural cry preceded his captor's orgasm and a stream of semen gushed over his hand. A loud roar of delight sounded from the stable-yard and a number of crude comments floated over the air, mostly concerning Ailinyéro's lack of stamina.

Legolas smirked and ceased his actions, but Ailinyéro quickly rose from his place and came to the archer's side, taking his erection in his hand and stroking rapidly. He leaned in to kiss Legolas, who turned away, and so he sucked the tip of his ear instead.

Legolas quickly realised his mistake and fought not to give in to the intoxicating sensation pulsing through him. He grabbed Ailinyéro's wrist to stop him and this too proved to be an error, as he was still bent backwards and the elf still held the dagger. He watched as the shining blade rested just at the base of his cock, which was still held firmly in Ailinyéro's grip. He glanced sideways at his tormentor and carefully released his hold, watching as the movement resumed and the knife remained poised and ready.

Rapidly the elf worked his captive's penis, sliding his thumb across the sensitive slit to capture the escaping fluid as the foreskin slipped back, lubricating each downward thrust and milking more on the return.

"Look how beautiful that is," Ailinyéro whispered and smiled as Legolas' pupils dilated in response and he thrust his hips forward in spite of himself. "Come on, then; let go, Hecilo. Let me see you fountain up," he continued and increased his pace, licking again at the sensitive ear as he breathed across it.

Legolas moaned deeply and thrust forward, coming hard into his captive's skilled hands as the thick fluid cascaded down to the floor. Another rowdy bellow sounded from outside and the stable-yard erupted with more gleeful remarks about the wantonness of the former prince and Ailinyéro's newest conquest. Legolas shut his eyes and felt as if he was dead inside.

This was the worst humiliation he had yet endured and he was still quivering in the aftermath of his orgasm. He suddenly felt nauseous as he realised what had happened. He had just allowed this elf that despised him to use him, and to bring forth from him the most intimate of feelings and sensations.

Legolas was not innocent by any means, but his partners had been few, and these encounters had been mutually enjoyed, freely, between equals. This horrific joint masturbation he had just experienced was based on subjugation and hatred. In disgust for himself at having felt pleasure so, he turned over and vomited loudly and wretchedly, eliciting more cheers and jeering comments from the warriors outside.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	7. Leithad-en-Maethor

Leithad-en-Maethor [Release of the Warrior]

"Ai, Valar! You reek! What is the matter with you that you must always heave out your insides when we have our little sessions?" He kicked at the mess on the ground and managed to catch Legolas' knee in the process. "I would think you dislike me, if I did not know better," he crooned in mockingly flirtatious tones as he reconnected the chains to the posts.

Legolas groaned. How many hours have I been here, how many more until dawn? Not enough, and still far too many, he thought in desolate anguish.

He shifted his head to see Ailinyéro, standing off to the side a bit. His captor seemed to be considering his options, but Legolas knew this was all a ruse; he had all his activities for the night carefully planned to the last detail. The torture had never progressed in this fashion before; never had Ailinyéro touched him except to strike him or kick him. He had never been violated like this before, and he began shaking uncontrollably as he worried what was to come next.

"Really, something must be done," Ailinyéro snorted and wrinkled his nose in distaste again. "This is totally unbearable in this small space. I know, let me just open up the door and allow some fresh air in for awhile," his words sounded jaunty and gleeful as he strode over to the door and flung it wide.

A chorus of mirth rose from outside and Legolas felt his heart clench; the warriors were being invited to watch. He could hear the sounds of jostling at the entrance as the winners of the earlier bets claimed what apparently had been the prize: a spot inside the small doorway. They added their own comments of disgust at the smell and called for Ailinyéro to make him clean it up, preferably by re-ingesting the regurgitated liquid. The elf seemed to consider the idea momentarily, but rejected it as he had more interesting plans for the next punishment.

He faced his prisoner again and made his customary circuit around him like a hungry predator closing in on its kill. With careless fingers he traced across Legolas' back, absently rubbing in some clots of crystalline salt still clinging to the wounds while lifting Legolas' chin to observe the reaction in his eyes as the pain jolted through him. Alinyéro made no effort to disguise the lust building anew as his captive suffered, and the archer's moan of anguish was joined by his low cry of lurid yearning.

The warriors were still and silent, rapt with anticipation, ogling what they had only heard through walls of stone before. Legolas could see them in his peripheral vision, for the room was furnished such that his position was aligned in profile to the door. What kind of beings are they to sit and enjoy this? How could such cold-heartedness be found in elves? Legolas felt as though everything he had ever known to be true had suddenly been revealed as a farce. Here was presented an example of the twisted souls from which orcs might have been shaped.

Fearfaron had breathed a thankful prayer upon seeing the door to the storeroom burst open. It seemed that Ailinyéro was to end this episode of torment early. The carpenter had become alarmed to hear Legolas cry out in a voice of pained desperation for his captor to stop. Legolas never did so before. The moaning and wailing of the two elves as they spent their passion had made him cringe. Never had Legolas' been party to this revolting form of gratification before. He knew Legolas had suffered in the aftermath by the discordant hiccuping and choking of sickness emanating from within. Fearfaron had been on the verge of sending for a healer when the portal opened.

The sight of the warriors hustling forward with raucous cries and jokes immediately dispelled the illusion of mercy and the carpenter could not comprehend what was going on. He moved out from the shadows of the stables and carefully noted each of the elven warriors in the yard. He wanted to be sure he could identify them later if they sought to hide their involvement. They were crowded around the open door, and the lack of sounds from inside was if anything worse than the previous cacophony which had disturbed the night. Fearfaron had the distinct impression that whatever Ailinyéro had planned for the fallen archer went far beyond the limits of the right to chastisement. He took off quickly towards the barracks.

Ailinyéro tousled the archer's hair with one hand while playing with the dagger using the other, drawing it slowly back and forth against Legolas' neck at the collarbone. Returning to stand in front of Legolas, he dropped his hand back to his own body, fondling himself, as he quickly became hard again. He placed himself closer to his prisoner, smiling as Legolas stiffened and pulled back as far as the chains would allow.

A few laughs broke from the audience and Legolas shivered as a wave of panic washed through him. The dagger continued to caress the side of Legolas' neck but with slightly greater pressure, and Ailinyéro could feel the pulse transmitted through the metal to his hand each time the blade came to rest on the throbbing artery.

"You seem excited," he said in a hoarse whisper, "or terrified. Perhaps it is some of both? Surely, we have known each other long enough for this more intimate contact, Hecilo. I think you should demonstrate your dedication to your fallen comrades, to my Andamaitë; do you not agree? You may pleasure me; I grant you this delight," he murmured huskily, stilling the blade and drawing closer.

The carpenter hammered his fist on the door of the Watch Commander's office frantically, certain that urgency was called for. The elf answered his summons with irritation, barely listening as Fearfaron described what he had heard through the storeroom walls.

"It is nothing new, and whether I approve or not is immaterial. The Council has granted him the right. I can not over rule them," the commander stated with exasperation. He did not know why the abhorrent practice had to be carried out in his area. "You are here almost every time, Fearfaron. You know this is the way it always goes; there is nothing I can do to interfere with Ailinyéro." He had heard all about the chastisement and what Ailinyéro did, pleasuring himself while gloating in the fallen archer's pain. It was a monthly activity after all.

"I have been here and I have said and done nothing, for twelve years." The carpenter was not appeased and continued to argue. "Does that not indicate something to you, Commander?" he asked angrily. "This is different! It is a marker year, and whatever he is doing is not the usual routine. I believe the outcast is being forced to join Ailinyéro's sick pleasures. There is a whole crowd gathered around gawking. I do not believe the Law allows for such things."

"I know there are some few warriors engaged in a sort of subsidiary activity outside the room," the Commander frowned in conjunction with his words. "I will make it a point to reprimand them for this unwholesome gaming," he tried to placate the carpenter.

Fearfaron shook his head and started again, trying to convince the Commander to at least investigate. He felt the passing minutes as hours and hoped no further harm was accruing to Legolas in the interim. As the carpenter went on to describe the inclusion of the warriors beyond the usual wagering, the Commander became concerned. Sadistic behaviour was not something he chose to encourage among the guard. He beckoned two of his soldiers and led the way toward the stable-yard.

With the door wide, the activity within the storeroom was audible throughout the area long before the chamber could be seen.

Ailinyéro's breath was ragged and loud as the tip of his penis brushed against Legolas' lips and the archer turned his head away violently with a cry of disgust and anger. Ailinyéro allowed the dagger's blade to bite down just enough for its sharpness to be felt and a thin line of red to break through.

Legolas was desperate; he would not do this.

"Tyavo nin!" [Taste me!] Ailinyéro demanded. "Lavo ten, Hecilo!" [Lick it, Outcast!]

"Avon caro!" [I will not do it!] Legolas held his head away and shook it once, recoiling as his cheek brushed the elf's organ and Ailinyéro gasped. He felt the dagger press deeper and a spasm of fear lanced through him.

The Watch Commander, Fearfaron, and the two warriors had reached the stables as these words rang through the night clearly. They all stopped abruptly and exchanged stunned glances. The Commander signalled one of the two soldiers to go for the healer and to rouse the Council of the Elders and sprinted over the grounds to the open doorway, his two remaining companions in his wake.

He shoved the gaping warriors aside and clamped his hand down on Ailinyéro's shoulder, spinning him around. He took in the elf's exposed erection, which he was frantically attempting to conceal behind his leggings again, the dagger gleaming in the torch light, and Legolas, bound, naked, and bloody. The Commander's face coloured in outrage and he looked as though he might burst as he surveyed the sullen soldiers collected near the entrance.

"Out!" he shouted, his wrath echoing off the stone walls. The warriors obeyed instantly and Ailinyéro also attempted to break free from the soldier's grasp and escape.

"Not you," the Commander ground out between his clenched jaws. "Release him at once," he ordered. At this Ailinyéro, having readjusted his attire and covered himself, reclaimed some of his dignity and obstinately faced the Commander.

"This is not a matter over which you have any authority; it is a private concern and I am within the Law," he countered.

"Hah!" Fearfaron barked his contempt at Ailinyéro. "The Council has been sent for; we shall see how they judge your clear abuse of our Laws and your own vows. Are you not the one who demanded an oath of celibacy? Yet you are here forcing him into breaking it yourself. This is unconscionable!"

"You have no right to speak out against me! I will not hear any of your comments; you are too weak to adequately demand vengeance for your own son," responded Ailinyéro.

The Commander was disturbed by these words and shoved Ailinyéro away from him.  
"His is not a sentence designed for vengeance," he said sternly and Fearfaron nodded. "I demand that you undo these bonds at once; whatever you were here to do has been stopped."

Ailinyéro seemed to finally grasp that they were not going to leave him with his prisoner and tried to assume an air of nonchalance as though it meant nothing to him. He reached for the key in his pocket and tossed it down on the ground at the Commander's feet, daring his next move.

Before anything could occur, Fearfaron grabbed the key and quickly removed the manacles from Legolas.

The archer sat back on his heels for a moment and rubbed his arms and wrists. He kept his head bowed low, but was glaring up darkly at Ailinyéro from behind the thick cascade of locks that fell forward. He saw that Ailinyéro still held his dagger, and a scowl of frenzied ire covered his face. Legolas sprang from the floor, snatched the knife out of his tormentor's hand, and in the next second had it pressed sharply into his throat.

"I believe this is mine," he spoke in a voice draped with the bitterest hatred any of the elves present had ever heard before, and then he stepped back slowly and lowered the dagger, struggling to regain his composure.

Legolas darted a look at Fearfaron and stooped down to take up his clothing. He raced to the darkened corners of the room and hurriedly pulled on his leggings. Slipping the tunic on proved to be unwise and he sharply sucked in his breath as he stretched his arms to shrug into it.

Fearfaron and the Commander looked at each other but made no move to go towards Legolas, uncertain if he would allow them to help.

He came forward when he was decent and sat down on the stool to pull on his boots and spied the feather in the dust. He lunged forward and scooped it up, gingerly used his fingers to clean it off, realigning the fronds before working it carefully back into his hair.

All of this had transpired in silence save for the subdued cries of the archer's discomfort when his clothing moved against the painful lashes. He stood up and stared into Ailinyéro's face defiantly, and the elf tried to scoff at him. There was something chillingly frightening in the still concentration the archer maintained as he gazed at his former captor, however, and Ailinyéro found he could not maintain eye contact.

The Commander coughed discreetly. "Why don't we leave this room and wait outside. The Council has been summoned, and a healer as well," he said calmly, and Legolas gave a brief nod without meeting his gaze.

Fearfaron reached over and caught Legolas by the arm gently, and the archer was so surprised by this he did not have time to react before he was through the door. Then he glanced cautiously at the carpenter to gauge his state of mind, and found only the familiar expression of sorrow there.

"Thank-you," Legolas said humbly, but loud enough for everyone in the yard to hear. He felt keenly embarrassed that his situation was such open knowledge, but compared to what had been planned it was as nothing. He was truly grateful to Fearfaron and did not mind for them all to know it. Truthfully, within his gratitude to the carpenter was also carried his contempt for all the others that stood by and did nothing. He did not mind for them to understand that, either.

Fearfaron only nodded and stood next to Legolas with his arms crossed against his chest. He hoped the Council would hurry up for the archer's sake. The entire barracks was awakened by now and a much larger crowd had formed. If it went on like this much longer, everyone in the King's Halls would be up, including Thranduil. The carpenter was fairly certain Legolas would prefer this not come to pass.

Similar thoughts must have occurred to the Commander, because he began clearing the area and sending everyone not directly involved back to their quarters and talans. The soldiers caught in the storeroom stood to one side in a group and did not speak. Their dour countenances plainly indicated that they knew their punishment would be serious.

They stole hostile glares at Ailinyéro and Legolas; however, the archer was not cowed under their scrutiny and he let his eyes speak for him, telling them he would not forget them, ever. The smouldering fury in his quiescent stance was more terrifying than would have been a vocal display of insults and threats. There was no doubt in any of their minds that, should they encounter Legolas out in the forest beyond the boundaries of the Woodland Realm, they would be in serious peril.

At last the Council members, or at least the three involved in this area of Law and Custom, arrived and Fearfaron began his explanation. Ailinyéro attempted to interrupt but was summarily silenced. The Eldar elders did not like this particular aspect of the Law regarding kin-slaying and were only too glad to have an excuse to revoke Ailinyéro's right. Fearfaron stated that Ailinyéro was not using physical punishment alone and had forced his captive into an unwanted sexual act. He repeated what he had heard and described what he had seen in detail.

Legolas refused to speak or answer any questions concerning the matter, other than to confirm that Fearfaron spoke the truth, and this made the Councillors highly uncomfortable. He had no intention of detailing the humiliating things Ailinyéro had done to him. Legolas no longer had any faith in their laws, and felt they did not apply to him since he had been banished from the Woodland Realm. He did not believe there was any justice for him within the system that had already passed its harshest judgement and sentence upon him.

The Commander also gave evidence, and then turned to each of the twelve soldiers involved. Knowing their only chance for leniency lay in full disclosure, they also described the abuses perpetrated by Ailinyéro, while naturally attempting to downplay their own. The healer, who had arrived shortly after the Councillors, removed Legolas tunic and carefully catalogued every injury, verifying the presence of salt still encrusting the wounds and scratches left by the dagger along his neck. Legolas was grateful she did not insist on examining similar ones upon his genitalia.

Finally, the Councillors entered the storeroom and took note of the evidence there. They did not need the healer to identify either the pungent aroma of bile and stomach acids or the smoky scented remnants of semen and sweat. One of the elves leaned over and took up the scourge from where it had been cast aside. He grimaced in open distaste at the blood staining the weapon, both fresh from the recent actions and deeply ingrained in the leather from years of use. He openly glared at Ailinyéro.

Upon seeing the whip, Legolas boldly stepped up and held out his hand for it. The elves were somewhat taken aback for there was no precedent for such a thing. Unable to fathom a reason to refuse, however, they gave the archer what he wanted. Fearfaron looked questioningly at Legolas, but he refused to meet the carpenter's eyes.

With a last consultation together that took less than five minutes, the Council unanimously declared the right to chastisement had been abused, the oath of celibacy had been forcibly broken, and Ailinyéro stood accused of attempted rape. Such a crime was second only to kin slaying, since rape usually resulted in death for the victim. The idea that an elf could come this close to committing such an act was deeply disturbing to the Council members and they were determined to eliminate such a horrific element from their society. The sentence was life-long banishment from the Woodland realm. The shock on Ailinyéro's face was complete and he broke down in hysterical tears.

He had not considered his actions to be criminal, but on hearing others describe what he had done he suddenly saw what he had become, he pleaded. He begged mercy of the Council, explaining the depth of his grief was the cause of his madness. He agreed to leave the Woodland Realm and accept the judgement of the Valar in Valinor rather than to be exiled from his people and yet remain in Middle Earth.

The Council accepted his plea and Ailinyéro cast off his false name, desiring to take back his true one again. At this Legolas at last spoke, and demanded the request be denied. In all Ailinyéro's tearful begging he had not uttered one word of remorse to Legolas nor asked to be forgiven. The Council was concerned at this, but would not revoke the elf's true name permanently. He would resume his former identity after twelve years had passed. He was ordered to leave for the Grey-Havens in three days time.

The fate of the warriors would be left to the discretion of the Commander, and he quickly revoked each one's commission in the guard. They were to clear out of the barracks at once, never to serve again.

Legolas made no comment at this. His features showed no sign of his feelings regarding the verdict. He looked solemnly into the eyes of each of the Council members; and they grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny and left the stable-yard, herding Ailinyéro in front of them. He glanced at the Commander and the muttering knot of former soldiers but made no remark, either vocal or otherwise. He felt the warriors' punishment was just. Ailinyéro's fate was another matter.

In his heart Legolas felt betrayed and admonished himself for expecting anything different. No one had bothered to ask how the verdict would be enforced; was the guard going to escort Ailinyéro to the Havens? He could easily just leave and relocate in 'Lorien where no one knew his history. What of Andamaitë? How is her Release to be confirmed without Ailinyéro? Legolas had stopped believing that Ailinyéro would ever admit to his mate's Release after the second month of torture. However, none of these wise Council members had even pretended to consider this.

With a sudden startled thought Legolas wondered if they secretly wished Ailinyéro had been able to complete the unspeakable act so that he would just die. It was the second time that day this sense of being wished dead filled him and he shuddered. Fearfaron noticed and sighed quietly, reaching out and taking him by the arm again.

"Come, there is no need to be here any longer. The healer instructed you to rest," the carpenter said as he led Legolas out of the stable-yard.

Legolas went along with him without resisting, not even thinking of where they were heading until the were beyond the great Hall and back in the city collected around it. Legolas suddenly halted and pulled back.

"My things," he said, pointing towards the compound.

Fearfaron nodded and turned him back around, still guiding him gently, and Legolas found it welcome and allowed it. The carpenter was the only one, other than Ailinyéro, who had touched him in twelve years. They reached the Sentinel and the carpenter let him go while he collected his belongings. As soon as he was back on the ground, he replaced his hand and led the archer back into the city. Legolas sent a tentative look in his guide's direction, but Fearfaron was watching the path, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. They continued in silence until reaching a well constructed but modest talan and Fearfaron indicated for Legolas to climb up.

Once inside, the carpenter took Legolas' arm again and led him onto one of the side platforms. No lamps were lit and only the sheen of the moon illuminated the simple room, revealing a rugged bed and a chest for personal items. A basin for water stood on a sturdy table near the tree's trunk, and gossamer netting was caught up in the low branches overhanging the platform. It was a small but comfortable looking sleeping chamber and the carpenter brought Legolas to the bed and sat him down, seating himself next to him, exhaling loudly.

It had become the most characteristic mannerism of the carpenter since his son's death, this intermittent release of sorrowful air from his body. It was as though he could not find a way to vent the atmosphere around him of his sadness, and it choked him.

"This was Annaldír's chamber, when he was an elfling. He lived in the barracks once he joined the guard, of course, but used to come home for holidays or just to get away for a time," he said.

Legolas dropped his head. The elf must feel appalled to have him in his own son's room, seated on his own son's bed. He got up to leave but the carpenter grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"No," he said calmly. "I have not asked you here to hold blame over you or to punish you in any way." He sighed again. "There are things you should be told. There are things I want to tell you about Annaldír. You need to rest and this is the best place for it. You have endured enough for one night. I think you should try to sleep now and we will speak in the morning." The carpenter patted his knee feebly and gave a sad half smile before getting up. "If you need anything, just call for me and I will come," he said softly as he rose.

Reaching up, he untied the netting and let it flow down to form a screen around the bed as Legolas pulled his feet up onto the mattress and rested his chin on his knees, watching. Fearfaron then, extending his arm slowly and carefully, briefly rested his hand on the top of the archer's head, and left the room.

Legolas was not sure what to make of what Fearfaron had said, but he was too tired to try to understand it just then. He yawned and leaned his bow and quiver next to the bed against the tree's trunk and slipped his hunting knife under the pillow. Sore and stiff even after the healer's treatment in the stable-yard, his back and shoulders burned as he slipped out of his tunic and pulled off his boots. With a soft sigh of his own he turned over on his stomach and laid his head on the pillow.

He had not slept on such a bed in twelve years. He inhaled the scent of the linens and with a slight skip of his heart realised he could still detect the distinct essence of Annaldír, infused into the bed after so many centuries of sleeping there. He could almost imagine that if he raised his head he would see Annaldír standing there in the room. He decided this was not a frightening feeling, and allowed himself to dissolve into sleep.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	8. Manadh an Annaldír

Manadh an Annaldír [Final Bliss for Annaldír]

He was standing balanced on the slimmest and youngest of branches at the very top of the Sentinel, watching over Tawar in the silence of minuial [dawn]. He always preferred minuial to tinnu [dusk]; something unusual among his people, but it was not something he could seem to do anything about, not even if he would choose to do so. Legolas was drawn to the sense of renewal the trees experienced with each morning's unveiling as they upturned branches and leaves to the life-giving warmth and light of Anar.

At times, he felt that he needed the trees as the trees required the daylight, for the sustenance of his very being, and he craved to be among them when they awakened. There was a certain anticipation and longing in this one moment, as a promise unfulfilled but expected, a hope unrealised but eminent. Neither Isil nor Anar held sway and only the most brilliant stars could look upon the earth and be acknowledged.

He felt the presence of Tawar strongly at dawn: the complex, sub-eternal timelessness; the long chain of life reaching back past all the ages to the first shaping of the earth under the hands of Yavanna and Aulë. He mused on this conundrum for Tawar was neither merely an extension of these Valar nor just a creation designed by them to serve their purpose. Tawar came from a greater source served also by the Valar, having taken form under Eru's perfect direction of the swelling melodies of the Ainur. Thinking this, Legolas was filled with sorrow to suddenly understand the sacrilege of the evil that sought to destroy his home.

Indeed, Tawar had been dissected and decimated into isolated islands of life: the forests of Greenwood, Fangorn, Lothlorien, and the remnant woods of the Old Forest, Ithilien, and Imladris. Each longed and mourned for the loss of the connection from root and leaf once unbroken throughout the regions of Middle Earth. Each grieved for the finality of the loss of the great forests of Doriath and Duinath in Beleriand. Even then, Tawar had been sundered and suffered the encroachment of evil into the earth, the first victim of the Shadow's jealous hand. Now only the winds and the waters carried the fëa [soul] of one segment of Tawar to another and taught the new saplings of the great heritage they bore.

Legolas found that he was crying and did not care. He suddenly realised he was also not alone in the Sentinel as movement to his left caused him to turn to see who intruded upon his meditation. The elf was familiar and yet not exactly as he should be and so it was a heartbeat or two before Legolas recognised that his companion was Annaldír.

His comrade smiled and moved closer as the wind picked up and they were tossed gently in the twisting rustle of the brown, gnarled arms of the Sentinel. Legolas could feel the breeze sting across his battered back, objectively aware that he had come away without tunic, boots or weapons. He tensed a little under the insistent burning, turning into the gust so that his hair whipped out behind him and brushed across Annaldír's face lightly. The elf laughed and grabbed up a handful of the twisted locks and tugged gently. Legolas smiled back over his shoulder, the joke understood: he was known to be very vain about the beauty and length of his golden mane.

Annaldír's grin faded as he let go the strands and reached out to lightly press fingers to the damage left by the scourging. Legolas was amazed that he could not feel the touch, having expected a sharp flash of discomfort. He wondered if he would encounter any sensation if he tried to grasp the hand that he could see upon his shoulder. Annaldír smiled and shook his head, shrugging with only his left shoulder, as he always had when bewildered but not really worried.

You can understand me, thought Legolas, and felt the confirmation from his comrade's eyes. Why are you here?

Annaldír stared out over the tops of the trees that barely showed any green in the pre-dawn half-light. Legolas sensed his contentment and ease of mind and spirit as the wind blew through him. Annaldír fluttered like a collection of new leaves in a storm and was carried away as a swirl of golden mist.

"Legolas," he heard his name spoken just above a whisper and woke immediately. Pushing himself up onto his elbows in the unfamiliar surroundings, he looked towards the voice in confused panic, at the same time catching his breath at the surge of searing agony that flowed through his body.

"Lie still," the voice commanded. "You were dreaming." The figure standing over him in the shadowy starlit room brushed aside the gauze netting and sat on the edge of the bed, gently placing a hand on each biceps to ease him back down.

It was Fearfaron; Legolas finally made the connection and allowed himself to relax, turning his head on the pillow so he could look at the elf. His vision blurred abruptly and he was surprised to find the tears from his dream were real. Fearfaron reached over and brushed them away carefully, but said nothing. He remained unmoving there until he knew that Legolas was sleeping again.

It was many hours before Legolas woke, and Fearfaron allowed him to sleep knowing he needed the deep somnolence in order to heal properly. He looked in on him from time to time, but he neither stirred nor made a sound other than the steady drawing and exhaling of his breath. It was nearly midday when a low groan reached the carpenter's ears and he hurried to his son's chambers to find Legolas struggling stiffly to rise without causing himself any unnecessary discomfort. Fearfaron went to help him up, taking hold of his arm as he had the previous night, and Legolas folded his legs up under him on the bed and propped his elbows against his knees. It did not look very comfortable to the carpenter and this was confirmed as Legolas soon bent his head down into his hands.

"I may have something that will help, but it will burn at first when it is applied," Fearfaron offered and got up when Legolas nodded briefly. He returned with a small jar and made Legolas turn and hold onto the wooden headboard before he smoothed the clear viscous salve over his back and sides.

It stung intensely but quickly faded, and Legolas breathed more easily once it was done. He sat back up on the edge of the bed and smiled uncertainly and looked around at the room in the bright daylight, remembering the strange dream. He was not sure if he should mention it, although he had a vague memory of Fearfaron appearing in the night and waking him from the vision.

Instead, he reached for his tunic to get dressed and the carpenter took it from him and held it to make it easier. Before Legolas could move Fearfaron collected his boots and knelt on the floor to help him put them on. Legolas felt uncomfortable being waited on by the older elf but was afraid to refuse in case the carpenter would be offended.

Fearfaron smiled in secret amusement; Legolas' thoughts were clear in his eyes though he believed they were well concealed.

When the archer first joined his son's company, Annaldír had told him of the prince and described this characteristic. Once Fearfaron met him in fact and witnessed it himself, the tendency became a source of shared amusement between father and son. It was the characteristic he liked best about the archer, this complete inability to be false where another's feelings were concerned.

"Come, " he said, still smiling warmly as he rose and took Legolas by the arm and helped him to his feet. "You should eat something and then I think we should prepare for a few days out in the forest. We will not do any collecting today, but I feel the need to be among the trees and away from the city." Not waiting for a reply the carpenter led Legolas out to the main room and sat him down at a small table overlooking the busy pathways below.

Legolas noticed Fearfaron had his climbing ladder pulled up to indicate he was not to be bothered. They ate a light meal of fruit and clear water and then Fearfaron gathered up a pack that he had prepared some time earlier. Legolas went to retrieve his own things and single file they made their way down the ladder to the pathways of the city.

As before, the citizens of the Woodland Realm avoided Legolas, but this day could not help themselves from staring as the two passed by. News spread quickly among the eldar and most were aware of the events of the previous night. The mood Legolas sensed was a mixture of discomfort, pity and hostility. He had the unpleasant sensation that most of the residents blamed him for the ugly change in Ailinyéro's nature. They saw him as the author of the grief that had driven that elf to the brink of insanity.

Those that radiated pity viewed him as one dead or dying from the shock of the violation, and he wondered briefly if this would turn out to be truth. For all he knew, the empty feeling in his soul might be the beginnings of death. He had never known an elf that died from this cause as such a crime had never been committed in his memory. But then, perhaps I just choose not to think about it. Certainly those few elves taken alive by orcs must die of such outrages against their bodies and souls, for none ever returned or were found alive.

The discomfiture wafting from averted eyes and abruptly turned heads no doubt arose from the elves' consideration and worry that the Darkness had engulfed their people and hope was failing if elves could commit such acts as kin slaying and rape.

The Wood Elves were in chaotic disarray; their comfortable protection under the trees no longer enough to shield them from the larger troubles stalking the free peoples of Middle Earth. In what amounted to moments reckoned against the immortals' life spans, their prince had fallen to the deepest sin of the Noldor, Thranduil's Kingdom had lost its heir, the guard was compromised by base blood lust, and an upstanding member of the citizenry banished for attempted rape.

No wonder they wished me dead, Legolas thought for the third time. It was his turn to sigh sadly and Fearfaron looked over with concern.

They had been walking in silence through the city, the carpenter leading, but he decided to slow a bit and fell into step next to the archer. Without a word he reached over and took Legolas' pack from him, noting that the archer was carrying it awkwardly at his elbow, unable to bear it as intended due to the painful injures of his back. He scrutinised the younger elf and also took the rolled wolf skin cloak, tucking it under his arm. That done he nodded in satisfaction and offered a slight smile.

"You have not healed fully and it will not do to tax your strength too much," he said. Legolas nodded. He swallowed with difficulty, finding his mouth and throat suddenly dry.

"I want to tell you," he began. "To thank you . . ." He wanted to express his gratitude to the carpenter for saving him from a horrible death, for surely Ailinyéro would not have stopped once the line had been crossed, and Legolas would have been brutally and repeatedly assaulted, probably by all the elves present that night. Somehow he could not make his voice co-operate and the words caught on the back of his tongue; he had to swallow several times to clear the rising tightness forming there. But, Fearfaron just held up his hand to silence him.

"No need to speak of it until you are ready. I am not awaiting the proper and polite responses. We will have plenty of time to discuss whatever you like. I, too, have much to say. We will just listen to the trees for a time though, if that is to your liking as well?" he said. Legolas inclined his head, agreeing, glad for the silence, and they continued on their way.

Having left the activity of the city, they were now up in the trees moving rapidly into the woods. They encountered the deep forest soon enough and after a couple of hours Fearfaron decided he would like to sit awhile, quietly noting the fine gleam of sweat on the archer's face. Though uncomplaining, he was obviously not feeling comfortable. The carpenter chose a solidly accommodating branch on an ancient myrtle and placed their gear securely in the crux of the trunk behind him. He sat and waited as Legolas slowly seated himself on a nearby branch, drawing his knees up so that he could rest against them, lowering his head wearily.

"That always annoyed Annaldír," he said abruptly and Legolas' face lifted in an instant, surprised by such words. Fearfaron gestured in the archer's direction. "That bad habit of yours; concealing fatigue because you think you have to be more than the other warriors. Annaldír said he thought you were overcompensating because you feared others would assume your status granted you special treatment."

Legolas felt his face getting warm and just stared, not knowing how to answer such a comment. He did not want to be disrespectful, either to his benefactor or the memory of Annaldír, and the carpenter chuckled to see the familiar expression of anxiety for others' feelings cross the elf's features.

"At first, Annaldír thought you were unduly proud and did not want to admit to any weakness, that you were determined to demonstrate that you were better than the others." He noted the clouded look that filled the archer's eyes and easily identified the mixture of anger and hurt.

"It did not take him long to decide that you only wanted to prove yourself to the company, to earn acceptance as a warrior rather than having it granted as a privilege of birth." Fearfaron was satisfied to see the negative emotions fall away even as the warrior's eyes did. "Annaldír liked you; more than that, he respected you," the carpenter continued quietly and Legolas flashed astonished eyes at him for a fraction of an instant before looking away. Those eyes were too bright and Fearfaron suspected Legolas was fighting to master tears, his head again bowed against his knees. He said no more to allow his companion time to recoup his self-control.

Legolas did not know if he would be able to endure this without completely losing himself in despair. Hearing these remarks from Annaldír's father was like being struck, pounded in the stomach so that he felt he was suffocating, unable to draw air into his lungs. If Ailinyéro held mastery of tormenting the body, Fearfaron was displaying an equal capacity for flaying his soul. How could he calmly sit and hear these words of praise and admiration his comrade had told of him, confirming that he had indeed killed a good friend to himself as well as the only son of Fearfaron.

It was unbearable; the guilt felt like a physical burden in his heart so that each beat resulted in considerable strain to the muscle. Surely the pumping was so much louder and slower now that the carpenter could hear it, too. How could he tell Fearfaron the depths of his sorrow? What difference did it make, even if he could adequately express this? The void in the carpenter's life could not be filled by such expressions and sentiments; and Legolas' dream seemed to confirm that Annaldír was not in Mandos' Halls. If the vision was true, the Lost Warrior was here in the Greenwood, with no intention of leaving it. He did not know what to do, to tell Fearfaron of this would only cause the elf more suffering yet surely it was his right to know.

Fearfaron had transferred his eyes up into the canopy to watch the soothing play of sunlight among the thinning auburn leaves as it danced among the shifting foliage and dappled the ground far below. He listened, pleased in the sounds of the forest and the welcome the trees held for them, knowing of their chore over the next few days to salvage the wood of the fallen beeches and clear the way for the new growth that would fill the void of their passing. He inhaled deeply, satisfied that he understood the necessity of the voids in the pattern of the energy that flowed through their wood. He found a consoling parallel in the emptiness left by his own son's death, for surely the trees were nearly as immortal as the eldar, dying only if struck down by violence.

He thought of the two other trees that had fallen because of the death of the ancient beech felled by the storm. That great tree had no more intention of destroying the others than Legolas had in his own failing on the battlefield. Of course, the tree could not prevent the strike of lightening from finding it. Fearfaron was not so sure, anymore, that Legolas could have prevented his discovery by the enemy. He was also unclear if even such a gifted archer as was Legolas had the speed required to recover to a new position, redraw, and shoot with accuracy after becoming a target himself.

He was a carpenter, not a warrior, and though his son spoke highly of Legolas' skill, it did not seem that he could be completely flawless. And should anyone suffer condemnation for that, he wondered? No, and while he respected the Law, it was clearly out of place in this particular situation. The Judgement should be reserved for acts of cowardice or obvious neglect of duty, in his opinion.

As for the Wandering, Fearfaron had been dreaming of his son recently, and felt he had his answer for this as well. Yes, he had made up his mind to express his opinions to the Council formally and withdraw his complaint against Legolas. It was good, he felt, to know the right way to go and to act upon it. He glanced back at Legolas and sat forward, suddenly alarmed.

The archer was sitting rigidly still and yet waves of tremors were sweeping through his body. His hands, the right one lifting and falling against his temple in a strange patting motion that seemed unconscious, covered his head protectively. Fearfaron reached over and grasped the hand to stop it and Legolas raised guilt stricken eyes to him. The carpenter recalled his words and realised that what had been intended as reassurance had instead been heard as disparagement. It had not been his design to be cruel.

"No!" he snapped; shaking the fingers he gripped tightly as Legolas just stared vacantly at him. "Annaldír would not want this to be; does not want this to be," he continued sternly and Legolas at last seemed to hear this.

"I know; he will not go to Mandos' Halls. I am sorry!" His voice broke and he watched in trepidation to see what Fearfaron's response to this would be.

The carpenter looked at him in bewilderment; they were talking at cross-purposes, it seemed.

"Do you speak of your dream? I heard you say Annaldír's name last night," he probed carefully. Legolas looked as though he was well past his limit already, but Fearfaron had been eager to hear of this dream and could not restrain his query. Legolas was nodding his head.

"He is with Tawar; he intends not to leave Tawar until the world changes," he continued in a voice filled with sorrow. If Annaldír never went to the Halls of Waiting, he could not be reunited with his family in the future, nor could he ever be reborn. Fearfaron would never see him again; he was truly lost to him forever.

Now Fearfaron was completely confused and looked about him into the branches as though Annaldír might actually be nearby. Mentally he chided himself; the archer was obviously under extreme duress and not speaking with any sense. The carpenter pulled at his hand again as though to get him to come back to reality.

"Legolas, what does this mean? Can you tell me of the dream?" He asked as calmly as he could. He did not know how to manage this elf if he truly relinquished his sanity. He wished he had consulted the healer before taking Legolas back into the trees; he had thought it would be better for the elf to be away from the prying eyes and ears of the city.

Legolas took a deep breath and looked away from Fearfaron before answering. His other hand dropped from his head and slipped inside his tunic, rubbing gently at the old scar on his chest. He was hurting there for some reason.

"I was with Tawar at minuial," he began, "and then Annaldír was there also. He looked peaceful and laughed at my hair. He was sad about Ailinyéro, what he did. I asked him what he was doing there and he told me," here Legolas frowned and shook his head, "that is, it felt as though he was happy as he looked out into the trees. He was peaceful," he repeated inadequately and stared down at the branch between his feet.

Fearfaron was silent as he considered these words and watched Legolas intently. He felt a thrill run through him as he often did when a powerful storm was nearing the woods. The air around Legolas seemed charged.

"At the end," Legolas added softly, "he became as a mist of sunbeams carried on the wind."

Fearfaron inhaled loudly and twitched as these words were spoken. He stared at the hand he held tightly clasped in his own. It was as if he had for an instant shared the archer's impressions and seen this last moment of the dream as Annaldír shimmered and merged into the growing light of dawn.

The carpenter's heart was pounding in the intensity of this vision and he was overcome with the emotion his son had transmitted to the archer. It was indeed a deep sense of peace and contentment, and the carpenter suddenly found himself weeping loudly and squeezing the archer's fingers even harder, hoping for a renewal of that connection to Annaldír he had felt so briefly.

Legolas was exhausted; he felt as he often did when he had been running from spiders for days with no sleep. The connection with Fearfaron had been electrifying and frightened him, as he had never experienced anything like it before.

He did not know how to help the carpenter; it was as he had feared. The truth had propelled him deeper into despairing misery. Legolas could not look at him and see the turmoil the sounds of his sobbing lamentations suggested. He did not want to see the sorrow twisted features on the gentle elf's face.

It was so blatantly wrong for Fearfaron to be suffering in this way. Never, as far as Legolas knew, had he been anything but kind and friendly to all. Meeting him through Annaldír had been one of the most pleasant experiences associated with belonging to Talagan's company of archers, and Legolas hated to be the one to visit such utter despair into his life. Lacking any coherent idea as to how to offer comfort when he was himself the perpetrator of the pain, Legolas could only squeeze back on the hand gripping him so tightly.

"I am sorry," he whispered as Fearfaron's crying slowed and his breathing became more even. He felt the carpenter tug gently again at his hand but still resisted turning his eyes to meet him. He heard Fearfaron draw a deep breath and hold it a few seconds before exhaling it in a long sigh that sounded, somehow, as though it was escaping through lips no longer drawn down with melancholy. Legolas dared a swift glance towards the elf and was surprised to see a placid smile on his face.

Fearfaron yanked more insistently on Legolas' hand and maintained the pull, forcing him to adjust his place on the branch and move closer. The talan builder's grip slid up to its preferred resting-place on the archer's upper arm and stayed.

"Legolas, I do not know what that was, but I thank you for it!" The carpenter said with heartfelt appreciation, grinning broadly at the stunned expression turned towards him. "We have both encountered Annaldír in dreams. I suppose he has tried to reach us in whatever way each has that is most accessible. For you, this seems to involve the Greenwood. He has tried to express his happiness in a way you can comprehend it; through your connection to the trees!"

"Are you saying he is not with Tawar, really?" Legolas asked cautiously, not certain what Fearfaron meant.

Fearfaron did not fully understand what Legolas' concept of the Great Wood included but sensed it was more than just the confines of the Greenwood.

"I did not say that. I only mean that perhaps in your understanding such a connection or joining with…Tawar," he hesitated briefly over the word, " would represent a supremely happy state of being. Is that so?"

Legolas considered this and found it logical; he did feel that way and had ever since his awakening of the previous day. That gave him a shock; was it only yesterday he had taken on his new identity? Somehow it seemed it had been his for all his life. He returned his attention to Fearfaron.

"Then, your dreams of Annaldír do not show this same vision?" he asked.

"Yes and no," the elf responded. "In my dreams we are reunited as a family. We laugh and do silly things together for fun, as we did when Annaldír was a small elfling. It always ends with the three of us working to build a new talan, a new beginning in our new home. It is in a beautiful ancient tree and there is a clear stream through a bright meadow nearby. We are all content and no troubles cloud the day.

"I have taken these dreams to mean that Annaldír has found his way and is not Wandering. I have taken it to mean that we are not to be forever parted. These are the concepts that mean Manadh [final bliss] to me, and so Annaldír has used them to let me know he is happy. Do you see? It is the same vision of peace and contentment, just the surrounding images are different."

"What of Mandos' Halls?" Legolas dearly wanted to believe this was so, but doubts nagged at him still. "You did not see him there either. How can the reunion you envision take place if he is not there?" he asked, worried and perplexed. But Fearfaron merely waved his hand through the air as though this were a mere annoyance, less irritating than an insect to be swatted away.

"What of it; are there trees there?" he asked irreverently and Legolas raised his brows, surprised. This was almost like sacrilege but he did not want to correct the elder elf about this; he seemed happier with his new understanding. Fearfaron could not help laughing out loud as he observed Legolas' typical hesitation to call attention to another's' errors for fear of seeming insulting or rude.

"Do not be so concerned! Who has ever come back to say what Mandos Halls are? Perhaps it is your Tawar; perhaps it is my quiet treetop talan by a brook. Whatever it is, Annaldír is in the part of it that suits him and he is well!" he concluded firmly and gave Legolas' arm a soft squeeze.

Legolas wanted to believe this more than he had ever wanted anything. Yet, he was afraid to hope this could be true for fear of suffering greater distress when the ruse was found out. He feared Fearfaron's devastation would break the elf's heart if this explanation were learned to be false.

The carpenter could easily read these concerns in his companion's eyes and shook his head.

"Legolas, there is no need for distress. My heart is entirely healed in this moment; for your dream and your sharing it with me has confirmed what I hoped my own revealed. Annaldír is Released; I intend to make formal petition to the Council when we return," he concluded. At last he was rewarded with a slight smile from the archer's lips and allowed his own to grow in return.

Fearfaron sighed deeply, a long and quiet breath of pure joy and contentment, as though there was too much bliss inside his being and he must vent it or be consumed by it.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

One of my favourite chapters in Feud. :)


	9. Tur ar Torthad

Tur ar Torthad [Power and Control]

Other Characters:

Ningloriel [Golden Water-lily Maid]: Legolas' mother, Queen of the Woodland Realm

Meril [Rose]: Lindalcon's mother, wife of Valtamar (one of the lost warriors)

Lindalcon [Song of the Sun Ray]: young usurper to the crown of the Woodland Realm, Valtamar &amp; Meril's son

Tur ar Torthad [Power and Control]

Gandalf did not have the gift of extra perceptive hearing possessed by all the elven races of Middle Earth, nor did he require that aptitude to detect the voices drifting through the cool steady air of Thranduil's Halls.

The hour was late as he made his way around the huge cavern that served as the kitchen, scavenging for delectables in the cupboards and pantries to satisfy his needy hankering. This room was so deep it was completely underground, and the unending darkness was countered with three tremendous iron-wrought chandeliers suspended halfway down into the air space. The light was dim, however, for only the centre one of these was actually alight with a dozen gleaming tongues of oil-fed flames.

These, he knew from past experience, were perpetually lit, for otherwise the kitchen staff would have to bumble around in the pitch upon starting the morning menu. Doubtless, chaos would ensue and foodstuffs go wasted while toes and shins suffered stubbings and bumps in the caliginous mountain's bowels. He wondered peripherally if there was a specific serf assigned to tending these great lamps, some poor soul required to rise even earlier than the fire makers that lit the ovens each dawn. The dim illumination meant the Maia had to rely on his nose, and regretted there was not at least an increased ability to harness that sense among his kind.

He smelled something sweet with the distinct overprint of blueberries, his weakness, and he was determined to uncover the hidden pastry. In his craving-driven haste he accidentally overturned a container of dried beans. The clamourous clatter of the fracturing pottery canister and the rainfall pattering of the beans as they danced and skittered all across the smooth stony floor reverberated in the high-ceilinged cavern. He frowned and struck a sound with his tongue across his teeth but made no move to clean up the disaster. They will just have to deal with it, he silently fussed as his rummaging continued without success. His feet crunched noisily and slid about on the hard beans as he moved to another cabinet.

The voices were escalating in volume and venom, he noted, again.

Finally, his nose guided him true and he emerged from a dark corner with a pie pan and a fork, moving in ungainly balance-challenged miss-steps through the spilled beans towards the simple stairway.

The stairs curved upward from the back of the kitchen, cut into the rock and open to the airy cave. It was somewhat unnerving to watch the growing height as he progressed, and Gandalf leaned comfortingly against the smoothly sanded wall with his shoulder. This was of course the servants' stairway, the most efficient means of getting from one end of the great Hall to another. Using it one could easily traverse otherwise labyrinthine passages and flights meant to confuse any enemy that might somehow breach the Wood Elves' defences and storm the fortress.

The crazed maze also allowed for most of the chambers to front the outcropping mountain and permit life giving access to the open air through carved apertures and windows. From the external courtyard, it could be observed that the great mountain was honeycombed with these hand-delved caves far up into its discernible body. The unguarded balconies supported no railings or connecting ladders, and were thus securely inaccessible from the exterior.

He listened to the heated words wafting towards him, louder now as he neared the level of the private chambers of the monarchs. It was the same argument as the previous night, the same argument, with but a new barb, as every other night throughout the centuries, when the royal couple deigned to speak to one another at all.

"Úan! Úan morn ar um!" [Monster! Monster black and evil!] The female voice shrilled this debasement in tones of ragged rage. "You dare to demand this of me now, with my son suffering unto death?"

"Your son is dead!" A male voice in livid and scorching tones cut off the diatribe brutally and was followed by a strangled cry and a loud smashing of metal against stone. "Be resigned to it, and we may salvage this yet." His voice betrayed no interest in the thrown missile of uncertain design.

"You are a selfish, cruel demon! You have always despised him; I believe you have plotted this!" The female's words were becoming more hysterical by the moment.

"How would I not despise what is clearly not of my seed, Bronwepen Bereth!" [Faithless Queen] "It is you who have plotted this. Ever have you sought to embarrass my honour and adulterate my authority! You flaunted that bastard in my eyes."

"It is your eyes that lie and deceive you. He is no other's son but yours!" A bitter laugh broke into her cries, undoubtedly Thranduil's as he faced his queen and fought to harness his wrath.

"You have left no doubt as to your faithlessness to me and my realm, Ningloriel. Otherwise, how is it that, that . . . that raeg-onnant tad-dal [misbegotten two-legged animal] is the only child born during our union?" Thranduil thundered at his queen in fury.

"One prince should be enough for such a paltry Kingdom as Mirkwood. One child is all I will suffer to bear such a heartless husband as you! I have fulfilled my duty in this binding while you have not lived up to yours. Where is the glory of the Danwaith [Nandor elves] you promised to my father as barter for my body? Where is your Ring of Power, Thranduil?" Ningloriel gave wounds as deep as she received and was rewarded with an ear-splitting growl of furious rage from her husband.

"This is the richest of all the elven kingdoms, the most expansive of protected realms. This I have achieved without the false powers of the Dark One's rings. You speak of the Danwaith and the shame of the Noldor in one breath. My Sindarin heart would transform to broken stone if the taint of Celebrimbor's design found its way onto my hand. You are false and seek to divert attention from your fault."

"Rich!" The queen's voice scoffed in high-pitched derision. "Your avarice is not but a temptation to war and destruction. Your greed is the cause that stole from me my son! You guard your horde with more devotion than you do my people. You used the Danwaith for your own promotion. What kingdom had Oropher before the coming to the Greenwood? The Danwaith had no need for kings for all the long centuries past, and see how we suffer from them now. I cannot breath for the suffocation of the Shadow upon the woods."

"You speak of my father? The Danwaith were a sneaking cringing people, hiding from danger with no knowledge of fighting when my father came to the Greenwood. What were you but the daughter of a minor tauron [forester] before I made you my queen? In thanks you deny me offspring and withhold from joining with me while shamelessly fucking my enemy!" At these slurs Ningloriel's outraged shriek split the echoes gathering in the hallways and overpowered any further comment from the King.

"You! It is your own jealous and morbid lust that constructs these illusions. You have cuckolded yourself!" She countered. "What could make you think I would ever lie with you again, hearing these accusations against me? Bring forth your proofs to support your foul imagination."

"Proofs? Truly, do you want me to disclose them to your people, Ningloriel? I would do so; indeed, if you deny me an heir I will do so!" the Elven King stormed.

Gandalf shook his head sadly as he turned with the slowly winding stair. Always it went thus; Thranduil accused and Ningloriel denied. Given the volume of these discourses, Legolas could not have helped but overhear them over the years. The wizard wondered now how he had weathered these gales of hatred as a child, and he suddenly realised he had no memory of seeing Legolas in the great Hall, other than at official state functions, and briefly at meals. He was curious where the prince's hiding place had been in those days, glad he was not here now to witness the new wrinkle emerging in the frayed fabric of the royal couple's marriage bond.

The wizard knew the archer was suffering under terrible stresses even so. Thranduil might be correct in his prediction of the former prince's death, despite his departure from the previous night's assault under his own power. The Maia shook his head again, saddened by the dark life the fair archer had thus far endured.

His knees began to protest against the steady climb as he continued past lower corridors to the more elite rooms reserved for the royal family and their guests. It was with surprise that Gandalf's reverie was disrupted as he reached the last turning. There upon the stone steps sat the forlorn figure of a young elf, hands gripped tightly against his ears as the arguing streamed through the halls.

The elf-child was dressed in sleeping clothes and sat hunched over, barefooted, eyes squinched down in obvious discomfort. His hair flowed down around his body in a sleep-tangled mass of wavy brown locks. Gandalf's eyebrows arched as he surveyed the elf, recognising the newly made prince of the Woodland Realm, Lindalcon the Usurper. The wizard loudly cleared his throat to gain the young one's attention over the cacophonous din of blaring adult voices. Lindalcon raised his head and stared uncertainly at him.

"Whatever are you doing here, little prince?" Gandalf said, with just a hint of sarcasm attached to the last words. Lindalcon was young but no fool and caught the slight affront. He frowned.

"I am not his prince!" His tone indicated disgust. "I feel pity for Legolas to be related to them."

"Do you love your parents? Are they free of blemish?" was all Gandalf said, and the young elf's frown curled up into a sneer.

"He is a fool to love them. They both despise him," Lindalcon scoffed.

Gandalf was surprised at the child's insight, for indeed both of the royal parents wielded the existence of their son against each other like a weapon. No doubt wounding Legolas the worst, he thought grimly. Still, despise was too harsh a word. On some level, they did care for him, surely. He sighed.

"Let us not be caught up in their display, joining them. Come with me; I have absconded from the pantries with this pastry and should not eat it all myself," he offered generously, and Lindalcon, eyeing the pie, was happy to accept. He rose and followed Gandalf into the hallway as they cautiously stepped nearer to the chamber within which the heated argument still seethed.

"You no longer need me to provide you heirs, Thranduil. Your avarice has bought you a new one already. There is at hand another prince in Mirkwood; name him your heir!" Ningloriel screamed these words harshly.

"I will not hand over the crown to any not of my seed! You will agree to bear my heir; it is your duty to this land as queen and to me as my wife!" Thranduil yelled back.

"Oh, but I thought you considered me a faithless queen and kept mistress to the Lord of Imladris! If our first child is suspect to your eyes, how will you trust the next to be yours?" Ningloriel mocked.

Gandalf and Lindalcon hurried as quickly as they could down the passageway so as to gain the corridor that would lead them to the guest chambers where the wizard's customary suite of rooms was to be found. They were just outside the doorway to the royal chamber and the cutting slurs and taunts were even more brutal in the improved clarity proximity granted. As they sought to get past, unconsciously sidling close to the wall in unnecessary fear of being discovered, a figure emerged from the far end of the hall at the intersection they sought.

The slight form hurried forward and Lindalcon ran quickly into his mother's arms. She stroked down his hair and hugged him while looking over his shoulder to Gandalf. Together all three continued on their way under the barrage of hatred.

"And how would you do that, Thranduil? Will you lock me in a cell? You cannot force me to this course; I will have you stand for rape before the Council of Elders," Ningloriel threatened. "I will listen to no more; in the morning I leave for 'Lorien and my sister's house. There I shall remain until you reconsider your demands."

"You will not go to him; I forbid it, do you hear? I know he is in 'Lorien even now, do you think I am without informants in the Golden Wood? Go you there now with our Kingdom in chaos and I will, I will " Thranduil stuttered, searching for a suitable coercion to employ. Previously he had used Legolas, menacing his life with assignment to the Southern Borders. Now with his disgrace and probable death, Thranduil had lost his greatest means of controlling his wife.

Ningloriel's eyes gleamed knowing this.

"What, Thranduil? What more can you do to me? Legolas is gone!" She cried and it seemed that perhaps real tears tinged the final words. There was silence, and in spite of themselves the three hallway traipsers froze in place to hear the end to this soul searing battle.

"I will take a consort! I will take Meril as my consort and get another heir; my Halls will ring with the sound of children's voices!" The King finally shouted triumphantly. "In fact, I will petition the Council in the morning, if you should ride through the gates."

Ningloriel's gasp was audible and was followed by the sound of her footsteps; the quiet swish of satin slippers upon eleven feet gliding across a silken carpet. She was approaching the doorway.

"Do that, for I shall go not to 'Lorien, but to the Havens. I will leave my own petition with the Council, renouncing my bond to you and any claims upon the royal title. I will seek the shores of Valinor in the West. If I can find him, I will take my son with me," she said with determined fervour and flung wide the door.

She never paused in the hallway as she serenely stormed past the three eavesdroppers, golden blond tresses fanning out behind her and blue eyes glittering in resentment. She barely acknowledged Gandalf and completely ignored the two elves. Heavy footfalls sounded and the King stood just within the doorway, staring after her.

"Your son is dead!" he screamed at her retreating body, and glared at the hall's remaining occupants. The door to the royal chamber was thrown back upon its frame with a shuddering impact as Thranduil swore vilely.

Gandalf, Meril, and Lindalcon stood stunned and speechless for a moment in the sudden silence of the gloomy hallway. Then the youth uttered an enraged cry and made to go to Thranduil's door, intent upon claiming retribution for the slander against his mother. But Meril grabbed him tightly and clamped her hand over his mouth to quiet his protests as she and Gandalf dragged her son down the passage toward the wizard's chambers. In the struggle to restrain him, the pie pan was dropped and soon a sticky mess of trampled blue sweetness smeared the carpet and the three eavesdroppers' feet. Somehow, they managed to reach Gandalf's rooms without attracting the King's attention, and the Istar breathed a relieved sigh as he locked his door behind them. Lindalcon was fuming.

"Why did you stop me? You heard him; such words can not go unchallenged. How dare he suggest that! He acts as though you are just a thing to use for his benefit!" he yelled and Meril calmly allowed him to have his say. Her mild demeanour quickly brought him back to himself and he lowered his voce, apologising.

"It is all right, Lindalcon; I understand your anger. You must realise, however, that his words were spoken in his rage against the queen and meant to hurt her. He had no idea either of us was present to hear such a thing," she quietly admonished as she handed him a cloth to wipe the pie from his soles and passed one to the wizard as well. Lindalcon frowned and flopped down on the bed.

"Still, it was a terrible thing to say. What kind of elves are these, Nana, [Mama] that hold the bonds of love so trivial?" he asked in amazement and his mother smiled at her young son's innocence.

"They are rulers and have not the option to consider love. For them the obligation to the Kingdom is always their first and strongest bond. Matters of devotion do not often enter into such unions among them. To Thranduil, his duty to the Greenwood is more important than his personal need to be wanted and adored by his mate," she tried to explain, but Lindalcon looked incredulously at her.

"If that were so, then why is he so angry with his queen for having another lover?" he commented.

"Lindalcon! That is an ugly rumour to repeat about our queen. We do not know any of that is true. Jealousy such as his often has naught to do with love and everything to do with control, and fear of losing it." she scolded.

Lindalcon, with limited experience of adult relationships found this confusing and he did not understand what she meant. His only exposure to mated pairs were his own parents and those of his nearest friends. While he had witnessed quarrels and disagreements, never had such outpouring of hate as he had heard this night accompanied those misunderstandings.

"Nana, I do not want to live such a life. Please, can we not go home? Or we could move to Lorien to be near Adar's [Father's] family there. This is like some horrid nightmare," he murmured plaintively.

"Now, Lindalcon, such a life you will not be forced into, for it is true that Thranduil will name none but his own blood son as heir. You will have the freedom to choose whoever pleases you for a mate, and yet have the advantages of the rank and title of prince. Think of the benefit that will provide for your children," his mother's tone entreated, and Gandalf, listening silently all the while, had the feeling this was not the first time mother and son had been at odds over the abrupt changes in their life style. "You may even end up on the Council, in time," she added and Lindalcon scowled and rolled his eyes.

"But, Naneth [Mother] I have no wish to be stuck here in this stuffy cave. And those old eldar are boring with their endless arguing and petitions. You know I want to be a warrior, like Ada [Daddy] was. I am becoming very good with my bow!" he exclaimed. "Beside, Legolas is…was…a prince, and the King let him become a warrior and he is the heir. Or he was, anyway. Surely I can join the guard as well," he stated with determination, and again the wizard discerned that this was a running topic between them.

Meril remained silent, having her own ideas about Legolas' commission in the guard. Now that she had observed the royal parents' relationship firsthand, she suspected Thranduil had intended this more as a punishment to Ningloriel than a gesture of confidence and pride in his son's ability.

Having met the former prince several times through her husband's association with him, she had been struck by the fact that the position suited him so well. He had never behaved with anything but courtesy and respect, never using his rank to set himself ahead of others. She remembered how little he spoke of his family when they met, and indeed how little he spoke at all.

Always a jovial companion to Valtamar and a pleasure to receive as a guest in their home, he was ever ready with a clever story or a heartbreaking ballad to entertain them. Nor was he too haughty to grab a rag and help clean up when the parties ended. He never scorned to play with Lindalcon and seemed to genuinely enjoy coaching him once he was old enough to start learning to use a bow. She realised what a refuge the life of a warrior must have offered to the fallen prince.

Lindalcon sighed and the breath turned into a yawn. The hour was very late and he still required far more sleep than an adult as his final years of growing neared. Meril reached out and took her son's hands in hers and pulled him up.

"Come along, sleepy one," she said. "I am sure Master Gandalf will be wanting to rest in his own bed tonight, and yours awaits." Lindalcon started to protest but she gave him a look, and he knew it was fruitless to continue his arguments. He would have to try again in the morning. Gandalf smiled as he opened the door for them.

"Sleep well, Lindalcon; I am sorry about the pie. Perhaps we can coax the chef into preparing another tomorrow, and blame Thranduil for the mess," he said merrily and the youth smiled and nodded. Mother and son made their way down the darkened passage and Gandalf watched until he saw the doors to their suite safely shut.

The wizard had no intention of sleeping this night, however, and quietly made his way towards Thranduil's chambers. By all means he must dissuade the King from his hastily spoken threat. The last such had resulted in Legolas' joining the guard while his current lover had suddenly decided to move permanently to Lorien amid rumours of his being a spy. Gandalf suspected there might be truth to it, and believed as Meril did that the appointment had been intended as an affront to Ningloriel.

Gandalf dearly wanted to prevent the King's jealous power lust from forcing the Queen to actually leave for the Havens. He had decided he could have need of Legolas and had sensed something important about the elf he could not define, but he trusted his instincts. The wizard did not know how the fallen archer would react to this additional grief, especially occurring so close upon the atrocities of Ailinyéro's lechery, and did not want to risk losing him.

He noted Thranduil's door was open and peered in, quickly surveying the empty room. Frowning, he went in haste to the lower levels where the cavernous chambers were nearly at ground level and the more public rooms and offices could be found. Thranduil's private study opened directly from a corner of the throne room, and the wizard went to it at once. Again he was rewarded with failure and he cast about in his mind to decipher where he might find the King. In vain he searched the libraries and the Council chambers, the kitchens and the stables.

With dismay he realised the Elven King must be deep in his keep, among the many storage rooms that housed his sizeable horde of gold and precious stones and gems. Once there, none could approach him for he locked himself in and held the only key to the great ironwork gates that barred the corridor to the treasure vaults. Gandalf's scowl deepened; he was forced, as was Lindalcon, to wait for the new day to broach his arguments.

The faintest tinge of sunlight peering down through the treetops brought Gandalf's hopes to an end. Already assembled in the courtyard, Ningloriel and her impressive retinue made ready to depart. She evidently had supplies, belongings, and guards in tow for a long journey, and if she went to Lorien at all she would be stopping only to bid her family there farewell.

The wizard observed as her escort mounted and her personal guard assisted her onto her horse. With a start the Maia recognised this was Legolas' friend Maltahondo, and his brows creased in confusion. Surely this elf was serving in the Southern Patrols, or so had claimed to Legolas. The elf caught him looking and quickly averted his eyes, tending to the queen's horse and mounting his own. Without a sound or a glance back Ningloriel rode from the Woodland Realm and Thranduil was no where in sight.

The wizard had watched from the open balcony of his chambers, and turned to his right as a sound caught his attention. There, Meril and Lindalcon stood watching the scene as well, and as Gandalf gazed at Meril he recognised that the sound had been a single note of contemptuous laughter.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	10. Pelol

Pelol [Fading]

Legolas had dreamed again that night, but his visions held none of the comfort of communion with Tawar or his lost comrades.

He dreamed of being loved and of being made love to, and delighted in the caresses and attentions of his lover's hands and lips. As he reveled in the abandonment of deeply returned passion, the face of his beloved became clear and he gazed with joy into the eyes of Malthen as his corpsman penetrated his body, coaxing him into slow and mounting ecstasy. At the moment of his release, Legolas cried out his lover's name, yet even as his seed surged from him in glorious waves of rapture the face above him twisted into that of Ailinyéro, and his pleasure dissolved into horrendous pain. Malthen's words of endearing love were transmuted into the ugly curses of his tormenter: 'No one. No one wants you now. Not even the Noldor elves of Imladris would dirty themselves inside you!'

He awoke with a horrified shout and stared in bewildered terror at Fearfaron. The carpenter came to him at once, but Legolas shied away and covered his face with his hands, lost in a maelstrom of shame, fear, rage, and self-disgust. His embarrassment was acute as he recognized the scent of his own ejaculate and realized the dream had been grossly graphic for his companion as well. He looked down at his clothing, soiled with semen and sweat and felt the familiar waves of nausea accost his gut.

Legolas fought down the desire to be ill and struggled to his feet on the branch. He felt filthy and tainted and desperately wanted to throw off the sticky garments. Fearfaron was talking to him, trying to calm and reassure him, but he could not focus on the words. He drew a shaky breath and moved out into the trees, making for water, leaving behind weapons, boots, and pack. The carpenter grabbed these things and his own pack as well and followed Legolas quickly.

He caught up with him at last at the Forest River where they had been working the previous day. They had dragged the salvaged wood to the shallows at the river's edge, tying down the great trunks of the fallen trees to form a barge that would be carried into the King's stronghold by the current when the anchoring lines to shore were released.

Legolas was standing knee deep in the water, naked, scrubbing determinedly at his skin, his leather leggings and tunic discarded on the bank. He was rubbing so hard that some of the deeper lashes were pulling open and bleeding, and Fearfaron was alarmed to see that Legolas seemed to be unconsciously encouraging this. He was breathing in a hitched sort of dry sobbing, for no tears fell. He ignored the carpenter at first and then tried to move away from him when he plunged into the cold water to get him out. But Fearfaron was persistent and Legolas was emotionally drained, and at last he listlessly allowed himself to be led ashore and wrapped in the carpenter's cloak.

Legolas sat huddled dejectedly on the bank with all of his body hidden under the soft cloak save his head. He refused to look at his soiled clothes, much less touch them, and would not allow Fearfaron to remove the cloak to treat the bleeding lashes.

Fearfaron reached over and gently laid his hand on Legolas shoulder and continued to speak in comforting and reassuring tones, and gradually the archer calmed down somewhat. The carpenter gave him fresh leggings and Legolas drew them on though they were too large, belonging to Fearfaron who was much the taller of the two.

With his body partially covered, he allowed his benefactor to remove the cloak and clean up the wounds, applying more of the soothing salve he had used previously. That done, Legolas sat quietly staring out into the river while his eyes saw nothing of the scenery and Fearfaron stayed at his side. Thus they remained until the distant sound of many horses weighed down with provisions was carried to them on the breeze, and Legolas recognized the gaited footfalls of his mother's palfrey. He stood as the caravan came into view and watched as Ningloriel guided her mount out of the group and lightly leapt down, approaching him.

Fearfaron observed her expression of tense consternation as she took in her son's appearance. He also noted that she made no move to touch him, nor did Legolas seem to expect it. Wordlessly they turned in unison and moved side by side away from the others, out of earshot, and spoke together.

The queen's face was animated and her movements agitated as she punctuated her words with her hands and arms. Legolas hunched forward and rubbed one hand over his forehead while the other moved to wrap around his middle. He began shaking his head, and his responses seemed to aggravate his mother more. She paced around a few times and continued her arguments; her tone alternating between pleading and demanding. That much was conveyed to Fearfaron's ears even if the exact words could not be understood.

Legolas' posture radiated grief and remorse as he tried to placate his mother, yet remained firm in his refusal of whatever she had said to him. She said something that made him visibly wince and he ran a hand through his hair, turning his head away from her as he did. Her voice became more shrill and accusatory in tone and her son seemed to close in on himself as he vainly pleaded with her.

At last they fell silent and a moment passed, and then Legolas spoke to her briefly, a questioning and hesitant cast to his stance. The response caused everyone to jump, startled by the resounding slap as Ningloriel's palm connected with her son's cheek. His hand flew to cover the burning red mark and he stared at her with stricken eyes and begged her forgiveness, following after her as she strode back towards her entourage. When she gained her horse he stopped, staring in open-mouthed shock at Maltahondo as he provided the queen a leg up onto her mount.

The corpsman met his eyes for a second, and then Legolas flushed a dark scarlet and turned, racing into the trees. With a silent curse Fearfaron gathered up their things, remarking that for the second time Legolas had fled without his weapons. The carpenter could hear the large party departing, following the track along the river bank that would eventually cut through the woods to the Forest Road, as he followed Legolas' figure rapidly retreating into the forest.

High in the boughs of a strong oak with welcoming limbs Fearfaron regretted for at least the tenth time venturing alone into the woods with Legolas. Together they had constructed a temporary talan of rope and branch in this tree, an openwork webbing more like a hammock than a flet. Here they rested after laboring to salvage the felled hardwoods on the forest floor below.

They had needed to recuperate often; or rather Legolas had needed to. His health was not rebounding as quickly as someone of his age and vigor normally would. Fearfaron noted that the deepest lashes frequently pulled open as Legolas worked through the day, and he refused to stop working. At one point, Fearfaron had simply left, hoping that Legolas would cease his efforts and follow, but after an hour with no sign of him the carpenter returned to find him struggling to remove some limbs with a handsaw.

Fearfaron suspected grief was the culprit. The encounter with his mother, their first contact in twelve years and possibly their last for centuries or more, had left Legolas withdrawn and silent.

That had been ten days ago, not a pleasant time for either of them. Legolas had fled through the trees until his energy was spent, collapsing from physical and emotional exhaustion. Fearfaron came upon him crumbled up in the crook of a tree trunk near the high canopy, dry-eyed but shivering. And lost. His eyes had held the bewilderment, fear, and despondency of an elfling abandoned alone in the forest, for so he was at that moment.

He would not speak and Fearfaron was certain Legolas did not recognize him at first. He was apparently too worn out to make any protest when the carpenter wrapped him back up in the soft cloak and his arms in an effort to stop the shaking. He had followed Fearfaron willingly and urgently, as though suspicious that this contact would disappear from him also, back to their transitory talan. He frequently set his hand against the dark red palm-print left by Ningloriel as a look of helpless distress washed over his features. No words passed between them the rest of the day and finally Legolas had lapsed into an uneasy slumber a couple of hours after annûn. The nightmares had become a nightly ordeal since then.

Legolas was now thrashing against Fearfaron fiercely as the carpenter tried to restrain him. Given the desperation with which he fought the talan-builder's hold, he must be reliving the assault by Ailinyéro. Fearfaron could not get him to wake, the more he struggled the more Legolas seemed to become lost in the phantasm. Fearfaron feared that soon he would either have to release Legolas and watch him fall to the forest floor or hold on and cascade down with him. He did not wish to end up broken at the base of these trees, or to relinquish Legolas to such a fate.

The archer was making a wide range of cries and wails of despair and dread interspersed with incoherent shouts of rage. Twice he sank his teeth deeply into the soft forearms of his kindly captor and almost succeeded in kicking him away. Fearfaron was rapidly growing as desperate as was the archer.

At last he managed to wrap his legs around Legolas' knees to still his jerking limbs and encircled his waist with one arm, firmly grasping one wrist while pressing the other tightly against his body. They were now intertwined like lovers, the archer held securely against his chest with his forehead resting in the crook of the talan-builder's neck and shoulder, and Fearfaron felt Legolas tense and go still as his breathing deepened.

He sighed ardently and twisted against the carpenter, but it was not a movement seeking freedom. Legolas sought to pull himself closer and shifted his hips, thrusting against Fearfaron's groin with his own hard and needy member. The carpenter was stunned at first then realized the sudden altering in the elf's unconscious state was logical; Legolas felt safe with him and he was already experiencing a sexual dream. It wouldnot do, however, for this to continue. Valar only knew what level of humiliation Legolas would descend to if he woke in the aftermath of his passionate hallucination in Fearfaron's arms.

The carpenter gently untangled himself, hoping Legolas would not become alert until he was at least half an arm's length away. He moved a few branches over, yet near enough to keep an eye on the younger elf in case the unpleasant terrors returned. Fearfaron thought it would be good for Legolas to have a pleasingly sensual dream, experiencing a gratifying release, but feared the same end as on the previous nights, when the illusion of passion had transformed into ugliness and self-loathing without warning. He was at a loss as to how to prevent this short of waking Legolas, and was uncertain he would be successful given the difficulty he had had doing so thus far.

"Legolas!" he called softly.

Legolas grumbled under his breath in disappointed tones as the warmth and closeness retreated, and reached out for his lover in vain. "Malthen," he whispered and turned onto his back, flinching a little as the lashes stung in response to the friction. The carpenter sat back and watched grimly as Legolas' hands went fluttering over his body seeking to duplicate in reality the sensations his inner visions presented to him.

"Legolas! Awake!" he called again louder.

Legolas lay in the comforting darkness and allowed his body to come alive with the slow tortuous joy of his own caressing fingers, imagining the digits belonged to his lover, tracing lightly across his chest and neck. If only the slightly callused pads would be replaced with the sweetly hot and questing lips he longed for.

He could feel the strength and warmth of that expressive tongue sliding against his teeth, delicately glancing across his lower lip, pulling it carefully aside to taste the space between it and the row of strong incisors. His own tongue darted out and briefly danced across the lip's fullness and he whined plaintively, pleadingly, and breathed out another stifled groan.

His hands found their way down to his abdomen and kneaded the flat expanse of lean muscle there, tripping over the small fold of skin marking the site of the first wound he had ever received: the slicing of the umbilical at his birth. His hands delayed their travels under the soft woven fabric of his borrowed leggings, massaging his hardening penis from without as though to prolong the transient response of delight he ached to provoke with the self-wrought stimulation.

"Legolas! Alert! Legolas wake up now!" Fearfaron's urgent and vociferous call elicited the desired response; the archer abruptly sat up and looked about to discover the emergency. Fearfaron breathed a sigh of relief and stored the new, and obvious, insight away: Legolas was trained as a warrior, a cry of alarm would always rouse him.

Legolas shifted uncomfortably, hitching at the borrowed leggings and trying to see if Fearfaron noticed his aroused state without actually looking him in the eye.

The carpenter's forehead creased in irritated disapproval. He had no understanding of why this was so excruciatingly embarrassing to Legolas; his own son had been able to accept such reactions of the body as natural. Fearfaron had never allowed Annaldir to be ashamed of his sexuality and had always encouraged him to speak if he had concerns or ask if he was curious. There was nothing Annaldír was unable to discuss with his father, even after he was fully-grown and had a lifemate. It did not reflect well on Legolas' upbringing that he was so repressed about his own needs. Discretion among elves was of course paramount, but denial and guilt were not normal.

"It is not right," he said aloud and Legolas' head dropped and turned away. "You were only dreaming, Legolas, and it has probably been some time since you have had any kind of caring and satisfactory sexual contact. Your responses are to be expected. What is it that upsets you so when this occurs?"

Legolas could not stop the burning sensation that heralded the rapid infusion of blood to his face. How could he answer such questions? He wanted to believe his friend's speech was kind, yet he had started by saying his actions were not right. He remembered Ailinyéro's words; the whole company knew he desired males. Did this mean Fearfaron, through Annaldír, also knew this? Was he saying this was wrong? Was he reprimanding him about the dreams, as his mother had? She complained of his noise and lack of self-control, had insisted he move to new rooms far from her own chambers. He did not know how to stop them and had only been free of them when he had had a lover. Legolas was confused to say the least.

"Legolas, I fear you are suffering from grief," Fearfaron decided to change the subject as he watched Legolas withdraw further. "We must return to the city; I want you to see the healer about these wounds that do not heal. You do not speak unless it is imperative to do so; you eat only if I force you, and your sleep, if it can so be called, is disturbed by night terrors. This cannot be allowed to continue or you will die. Also, I want to make the petition to the Council and clear at least one of the burdens from you. Perhaps Gandalf is still there; would you like to speak with him?" Legolas sighed in response and shook his head.

"Perhaps that would be best, " he said quietly. Fearfaron looked at him carefully, aware now that often Legolas heard something entirely different than he had intended to say, and considered what he might be assenting to. No way to know for certain: best to return to the city, best to see the healer, best to speak to Gandalf, best to die? All were fair guesses.

"What? What would be best, Legolas?" he finally asked, but the archer would not reply. "Then, we return tomorrow at minuial," he finally said. Legolas gave a brief nod to this and shifted to try to get more comfortable. Fearfaron moved over closer so that he could touch him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder; rubbing just the slightest bit, knowing Legolas needed this essential contact. It seemed to Fearfaron, after observing the younger elf's own mother's failure to touch him that most of the physical contact Legolas had received from others had been non-existent, negative, or hurtful. Legolas clearly craved a gentle touch yet did not himself know how to initiate even this simplest of caring gestures: a hand upon the shoulder.

"When Annaldír's mother left for Valinor, he was devastated. He thought it was his fault because he had just joined the guard, and his mother had been opposed to the idea. He was not the reason, but she did not want him to know why she had to go. I was made to promise not to tell this secret to him," Fearfaron began talking; he could not bear the silence and hoped he could somehow get Legolas to open up to him about all that had occurred. Legolas turned his head towards him, interested in spite of himself, or perhaps because he was afraid to sleep and thus to dream.

"I broke this promise, but I am sure she understands why I had to do so. Annaldír was dying of grief and guilt, and nothing I said was of any use. He was taking terrible risks on his patrols and would not last long in any case," Fearfaron fell quiet as he remembered, and Legolas waited for the rest of this story. When none came, he finally spoke.

"Why did Annaldír think it was his fault?" he asked. Fearfaron smiled a tempered smile of bittersweet remembrance.

"They had argued constantly about Annaldír's warrior's commission. Cúroniel [Daughter of the Crescent Moon] once asked, in her anger and fear, how Annaldír would feel if she were to be the one leaving in the morning perhaps never to return. When she did leave several years later, he interpreted this as his punishment for refusing to resign his commission."

"It is my fault that Naneth left," Legolas said ruefully. "It is all because of that day at Erebor. My failure now has taken another away, from me and from all others that held her dear. It is because Meril and Lindalcon have become part of the household."

"I do not believe that is true. You should think more critically about this. If you had not made that error, would there be anything else that would cause your mother to leave here? It should not be too difficult to come up with the truth; you of all should know this," Fearfaron said. Legolas glanced at him searchingly; another painful topic to guess at how much Fearfaron knew. Fearfaron nodded reading his expression perfectly.

"Everyone in the city knows about the fights. Do you not think she might have become weary of it all? Would she have asked you to come with her if she held you responsible for these events?" These words touched exactly upon Legolas' thoughts and he shifted, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Fearfaron.

"What do the elves think about it? Does everyone know what he said to her, about me?" he finally asked in a barely breathed voice.

Fearfaron took his time answering, worried about the reaction Legolas would have to the local gossip. He decided the truth was the best; he had built a small foundation of trust with Legolas and did not want to have it torn down by trying to spare him what he most likely already suspected.

"There are two prominent views on the situation, opposing one another of course. Some believe, as does Thranduil, that you are not his son at all. They cite that you look nothing like him, favoring your mother, and anyone could be your father.

"They also say that Ningloriel spent her youth in Lorien and met Elrond there. He is always in and out of the Golden Wood as his wife is daughter to the Lord and Lady. It is no secret that Ningloriel's and Thranduil's bonding was by arrangement and neither has any love for the other. Gossips also state that your Conception Day is very close to a time when she had spent nearly an entire year in Lorien. These arguments you yourself must have heard from the King," he said and Legolas nodded.

"The other elves side with Ningloriel, saying she has family in Lorien and that is the reason she has visited there so much over the years. That, and Thranduil's unreasonable jealousy. They note that she has always been honorable and would be unlikely to break her marriage bond even for love. There is also the fact that she has been friends with Elrond's lifemate, Celebrian, since her childhood, and would not seek to do anything to hurt her friend.

"Also, Maltahondo has been at her side the entire time as her personal guard and has never mentioned any but the most formal of contacts with Elrond. The other facts are merely coincidences that Thranduil uses to build a false case against her." Fearfaron finished cautiously. "What did she say to you on the subject herself?" he asked, curiosity prompting his words before considering their possible impact.

Legolas slumped back down onto the netted talon and turned himself away from Fearfaron, curling up and wrapping his arms about his body protectively.

"She would not answer me in words," his muffled answer came as his left-hand stole up to touch the side of his face lightly.

Fearfaron caught his breath; that mystery was solved, and much worse an explanation than he had suspected. Since she was leaving, Legolas had dared to ask her what he had never had the courage to before. Fearfaron reached back over and once again placed a comforting palm against Legolas' shoulder and squeezed.

"It was not much of an answer, then," he said sympathetically and Legolas sighed a ragged breath. "I did not finish telling you about Annaldír's mother." Fearfaron continued, again hoping to draw Legolas' thoughts away from the painful encounter. "Cúroniel did not want him to know her secret; I do not know why she thought it would be troubling to him." He paused. Legolas glanced back over his shoulder questioningly and unfolded a little.

"She had been with child, but a spider's raid on the path near the central mountains left her with a small bite wound. It was poisoned of course, and while the healers were able to prevent her death, the child, a female, was not so fortunate. My beloved nearly died from the grief, and this is what spawned her unreasoning fear regarding Annaldír's commission. She thought she would lose him, too, and could not stand the idea. She was wasting away before my eyes, and I could not bear that, so I am the one that started to suggest she go West to Valinor.

"After some years Cúroniel was convinced and I took her to the Havens with Annaldír as our guide. He broke down on the way back and grew steadily worse each day, until I was at last forced to break my promise. He was so relieved to know he was not the cause that he almost did not think about his lost little sister. He later told me he thought his mother did not want him to be told for fear he would feel she loved the new child more than he, since she left him here to be near her. I think perhaps that is right." Fearfaron fell silent, remembering his family; all now far beyond his reach. Legolas reached up and laid his hand over Fearfaron's gently.

"I am sorry," he said. "You have lost them all now." He could not control the slight quaver in his words.

Fearfaron gazed at the strong slender fingers overlying his sturdy stubby ones and smiled slightly. Here he had intended his story to divert the archer's attention from his grief, and Legolas responded by once more shouldering total responsibility for the carpenter's fate.

"Nay, Legolas; they are not lost to me! I will be reunited with my family, and you have ensured this will be!"

Legolas did not respond and the two were silent for awhile. Fearfaron hoped the archer was not withdrawing further into his gloomy shell of black remorse and sorrow, and softly squeezed the elegant fingers, rubbing the tough calluses absently with his thumb.

"Fearfaron, am I dying of grief?" Legolas suddenly said and looked back anxiously at his friend.

"You will not die if you have a reason to be alive. You have many reasons, do you not?" he asked pointedly. "You cannot go off into your Tawar and leave all this mess for someone else to deal with. Annaldír was not the only warrior lost!" He felt Legolas wince under the sting of these comments, and wished he knew some other way to get him to focus on life rather than death. "I'm sorry, but I can not allow you to just give up!" he attempted to soften the outburst. "I would, however, have you healed of this grief and returned to sleep without dreams before you venture back out upon the Tasks," he concluded. Legolas was quiet, considering his words.

"How do I stop seeing it? How do I stop feeling it? The dreams are not just nightmares; it is my reality now." Legolas spoke with a halting voice in tones choked with pain and anger. Fearfaron had no idea what the right response might be, and he searched through his mind for some logical and useful advice he could give.

What came to mind would undoubtedly be a touchy subject for Legolas, given his repressed concept of sexuality and his unconscious references to his former corpsman. Annaldír had never spoken of Legolas' private life, so if there had been a sexual connection there Fearfaron knew nothing of it. On the other hand, if Maltahondo was Legolas' lover, the carpenter felt that he should be with Legolas now. Some time in a loving union would go far toward easing the evil thoughts from Legolas' mind and restore his confidence in his own worth. Fearfaron had heard Ailinyéro's cruel words and knew Legolas felt stained and unlovable. Fearfaron took a deep breath; not sure this was a subject to be broached just yet.

"Legolas, is Maltahondo your lover?" he asked directly and felt Legolas jolt in surprise as he tried to pull out from under Fearfaron's hand. The carpenter would not allow it, however, and instead came closer and lifted Legolas up into a seated position against him between his legs, one arm encircling each shoulder and clasped around Legolas' chest.

"Nay, be still, be still! There is no need to fear or to be ashamed of what I ask you, Legolas. You need to talk to someone; whatever you have learned about sex is sadly lacking in truth. If Malthen is your love, you need to be with him now; it may be the best way to counter the effects of Ailinyéro's abuse. Do you see?" he spoke soothingly and Legolas relaxed a little, allowing his head to drop back against Fearfaron's shoulder.

Legolas dearly wanted to be able to tell Fearfaron about his relationship to Malthen; he needed someone to trust who would not judge him and condemn his actions. He had questions that had never been answered because there had never been anyone he could ask. He could not very well ask Malthen, since they concerned him so directly. His mother hated the idea of him even having a sex life, while Thranduil was disgusted with him entirely. Fearfaron had protected him and cared for him, and he felt the carpenter might have the answers he sought, or at least would listen and be able to reassure him that he was not defiled forever by what had happened. It was now Legolas' turn to inhale a steadying breath before daring to speak.

"He was my first, but we have not been together now for many years, over 150. In fact, he ended it and gave me to a new lover just before I entered the guard, and never said why," he said quietly and sighed again.

Fearfaron considered carefully the next step. Legolas' feelings for Maltahondo must be strong if memories of their love returned during such a stressful time. In his opinion, it would help if Legolas recalled this first encounter while awake, so that the baseness of the assault could not intrude. Also, Legolas' way of phrasing the ending the affair was troubling; it seemed the feelings were predominantly one-sided on Legolas' part. Fearfaron could not reconcile the concept of giving someone to another with true feelings of devotion. Perhaps Legolas had long kept his concerns hidden, having no one to share this hurt with.

"Legolas, tell me about him. How did you become lovers; he is much senior to you. He is closer to my age, I believe. Did someone choose him for you?" he posed the query as straightforwardly as he could. Legolas was nodding.

"In a way, my mother chose him. I suppose I was rather spoiled and babied by Naneth [Mother] since I was her only child. My room was just by hers; they connected. Malthen's quarters were just outside mine, and connected to mine but not Naneth's. I was growing up but had not moved to my own rooms yet, even though I was adolescent." Legolas looked up to see if Fearfaron was clear on what he was trying to say, and the talan-builder nodded. "I began to have dreams, well, dreams of passion one might say." Fearfaron snorted in amusement.

"One might!" he concurred gleefully and Legolas scowled a little. "Never mind, go on!"

"One night I was, well, loud and woke Naneth. She came in to see what was the matter and there I was sprawled across my bed completely undone. I will never forget her horrified expression and how red her face became in seconds! She absolutely fled the room into Malthen's quarters and dragged him back into mine on her way out to hers. She shut her door quite firmly, I remember." Fearfaron was openly giggling as the images played through his imagination, and he could believe that Legolas had been equally as crimson faced as his poor mother! Legolas was silent for a few moments and the carpenter nudged him on the arm to continue.

"Malthen tried to be matter-of-fact about it at first and just said it was all normal and nothing a female could understand, so not to worry that Naneth was upset with me. He had gotten a cloth and some water in order clean me off. When he removed my sleeping trousers he was very clinical and talked calmly about what I might expect, as I was older now. Then he removed my shirt and I was naked, propped up on my elbows with one leg trailing off the mattress and the other spread across the covers, and Malthen seated there on the edge of the bed between them!"

Legolas shifted his legs slightly and moved his hands from their resting-place in his lap, but Fearfaron gently replaced one and softly caressed Legolas' arm at the same time. Legolas stiffened, watching as Fearfaron unlaced the leggings and encouraged him to stroke the rapidly swelling hardness eagerly protruding.

"It is alright, Legolas; this is something you need. You are safe here; I will let no harm come to you while you relive this. Be still; all is well," he said softly. "Continue your story; Malthen has you stripped on your bed," he coaxed. Legolas took over the languid caressing of his penis as Fearfaron held him.

"He just looked at me for a few minutes; it felt to me as though his gaze was a tangible experience and I could feel his eyes focus on every part of me. I became very warm suddenly. Then, he seemed to get his mind back on the task and reached over to dip the cloth in the water. He had to lean completely across my body to do this, because he had set the basin on the table near the head of the bed. He was practically lying atop me then and I remember my heart was racing. I could feel how hot his other hand was where it rested against my thigh; my skin was sweating underneath it.

"Our eyes met and he dropped the cloth, grabbing a handful of my hair and kissing me so deep I thought he would make me choke! He sucked my tongue and then used his to caress my lower lip. He would break the kiss and stare at my lips and then lunge at my mouth again! He had this way of darting just the tip of his tongue between my lips and grazing the edge of my teeth! While he did these wondrous things to my mouth, his hands were everywhere. The one in my hair migrated to my ear and he began caressing the edge and up to the point with long slow movements. If his mouth had not been clamped over mine I am sure my cries would have wakened the entire household.

"His other hand was roaming across my body, searching for every spot that made me writhe and cry out in need. He spent a long time caressing the inside of my thigh down and up, over and over, right up to my balls and on every upstroke he would drag his thumb against them just slightly." Legolas' hand demonstrated the technique and he moaned softly.

"I was panting so hard between the kisses I feared I would pass out. He seemed to understand and his lips began exploring my neck and shoulders. He sucked on a place just inside my collarbone that almost caused me to spill my seed then and there, but he would not let me come. Everytime he saw me close he would clamp down hard on my cock pinching me there remorselessly till I calmed down. I would beg him not to stop, but he did time and again. Then he would start over, sucking, kissing, touching everywhere." Legolas again demonstrated the action, effectively stopping his release, and Fearfaron frowned a bit.

"Somehow during all this he was taking his clothes off one-handed, and soon was naked. His cock was erect and dripping, broad of girth and dark red and I longed to touch him, to feel what he was like, but he would not allow it. Everytime my hands grazed against him or reached for him he would push them back against the mattress. If he had not needed two hands to continue his exploration, he would have restrained mine for the duration of his seduction I am certain.

"His lips and tongue worked their way down to my chest and when he fastened down on my nipple I started crying out his name over and over, imploring him and entreating him and I did not even really understand what for." Legolas other hand was teasing and tugging his erect and deeply scarlet nipples as he sighed and thrust forcefully up into his fist.

"He tormented me, sucking the tingling flesh into his mouth and flicking his tongue right at the tips over and over, then breaking the suction and gently biting them and blowing across the wet skin. I was so sensitive by then that the slightest pressure sent torrents of delight through me and I arched off the bed attempting to force him to retain contact with his mouth." Legolas had to stop speaking as his breath came in shallow gasps and he twisted, bending his head back. Fearfaron watched as Legolas' fist again clamped down on the base of his erection and squeezed tight. It took him a few moments to regain enough control to speak.

"He had to halt my release again and again and he made me plead with him to continue. Time seemed to be passing not at all and I thought a week might have gone by with Malthen holding me there on the edge of orgasm with no relief promised. I though I was going mad and could not really think coherently. I wanted only to feel, for his attentions far surpassed the bliss of any of the dreams I had experienced in the night." Legolas did not resume his massaging movements, letting his fingers loosely encircle his swollen and aching cock. They lazily drifted up the shaft and off, allowing the rigid organ to fall back against his stomach with a dull slap. The fingers moved away to trace a path up his abdomen.

"At last he moved lower and licked my navel gently, running his teeth gently across the fold and pulling it back, darting his tongue in and across, while his hands slipped under my rear and began squeezing my buttocks and massaging up around my hips." Legolas' finally returned his hand to gently fondle the tightly drawn sac at the broad root of his member.

"Until then he had not touched my cock unless he knew I was going to come. He made me sit up, or rather he propped me up on my elbows and drew my attention to his hands. He rubbed and massaged from my chest down to my abdomen, where he slipped one hand behind my cock and pushed it up. The other hand pulled down the foreskin." Legolas demonstration revealed a red and quivering tip capped with a bead of pearlescent pre-come, and he dragged through it with his thumb as he ran a long slow stroke downward. He was panting loudly and stroked several times, but then again stayed himself, allowing his breathing to ease before continuing. Fearfaron was beginning to worry; Legolas was so close yet seemed unable to allow himself to experience the pleasure he so desperately craved.

"He kissed the head so softly, then pushed his tongue down across the slit. I was lunging wildly trying to get my cock up into his mouth, but he stopped me again, squeezing down with one hand while slipping two fingers of the other into my mouth, bidding me suck. I did, pulling at his fingers so hard they must have been purple by the time I calmed and my release was forestalled again." Legolas words fell to a breathless whisper as he again exposed the tender head of his member and held it that way, staring at it and panting while his hands remained still. Fearfaron found this disturbing and covered Legolas' hand with his own, pumping for him, encouraging him to satisfy his passion.

Legolas resisted at first, but then gave in, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of the two hands. He began pushing forward into each downward thrust and arched back his head again. He increased the tempo and groaned loudly, while his other hand tugged down his leggings and then searched out its insertion point. He cried out and squirmed when he breached his own anus and began massaging his prostate in time to his hand motions. Before long his breathing was transformed into a continuous stream of softly uttered sighs and moans.

Fearfaron felt him tense and with a loud cry and shudder Legolas came, pumping out a creamy stream of warm semen. Unexpectedly, Fearfaron's hand shifted to cup and gently squeeze Legolas' balls and he lurched and shouted as his orgasm intensified under the combination of internal, external, and visual stimuli.

He at last relaxed, every muscle falling limp and slack; all his desire spent. He was gulping in air and leaned back fully on Fearfaron, grateful for the encircling arm that had protectively held him throughout. The carpenter stretched out and retrieved his pack, dragging it closer and searching through for a cloth. He gently wiped Legolas clean and tied up the leggings once more as the archer's heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. Legolas smiled sheepishly and Fearfaron patted his arm approvingly. Legolas sighed.

"That is not how it was the first time, though," he said quietly, twisting his head around to see if he should continue. Fearfaron nodded.

"He had brought me to the brink again, and clamped down on me while giving me his fingers to suck. When I was relaxed he removed them and kissed me, and forced his first finger into me, working it in and out. I writhed against it at first until he found that deep spot of nerves and rubbed it lightly. It was better than the first kiss on my cock and I tried to push back so his finger would rub there again. He kept my mouth occupied with his tongue and forced in another finger, stretching me and penetrating deeper into me as I tried to spread my legs more and pressed back forcefully. Then he went back to my nipples and pumped his fingers into me at the same time, and I was begging again, desperately trying to drive his fingers deeper and arching my back to force the sensitive flesh back up into his mouth whenever he let it go. I so desperately wanted him to lick me, taste me, suck me, touch me, fuck me!

"Finally he could not hold himself back anymore and grabbed my legs, propping them up onto his shoulders. I had some idea of what he was going to do but had no experience. I was tense and so he kissed me sweetly, grabbing my cock in his fist, and he whispered in my ear 'Laiquassë, you are hard as iron!' Those were the only words he spoke the whole time. Then he dropped my penis and gripped my hips tightly and rammed his cock into me all at once, and I screamed from the pain and begged him to stop. My erection vanished in an instant and the surging waves of ecstasy were replaced with searing spikes of agony.

He did not stop; I do not think he could even hear me. I had never felt such suffering and was terrified because I felt like he was tearing me in two, but he did not notice. He was too far-gone to control himself and I was crying and desperately trying to get away, but with my legs so awkwardly placed I could not shift my weight to roll from under him. He was pounding into me and thankfully it did not take long for him to come, and the burning as his seed filled me was gut wrenching. He collapsed, falling over to his side and pulling himself out of me.

And then he noticed I was crying and he saw how frightened I was and he was mortified. He wept and begged forgiveness gathering me up and cradling me gently in his arms until I stilled to shuddering sobs amid tremors of pain. He cleaned me carefully and as gently as possible, but I was hurting so much it yet felt as though he was ripping me apart, and I cried again as he removed the blood and his seed from my legs. He held me against him and sang to me until I finally fell asleep, exhausted.

"The next day, Malthen was not there when I awoke, and I found myself hurting terribly when I sought to rise. I remained in my rooms and lay in bed most of the day. My mother did not say a word about the incident. Apparently she had not spent the night in her rooms, or she would surely have heard all that transpired. She had new rooms made ready for me, and Malthen transferred his quarters to one of those rooms. At tinnu, he came to help me transfer into my new surroundings, moving everything himself and carrying me to my new bed. When all was in order, he carefully checked me over and washed me again, and held me through the night. He was not able to make love to me again for weeks, I was so afraid of the pain."

Legolas completed this narration with a small sigh. He felt tired out and hoped Fearfaron would not want to talk anymore. He only wanted to sleep now, for the carpenter's plan had worked. Recounting his memory of Malthen had drained him and his orgasm had quenched the mounting demands of his body. He knew he could sleep without another nightmare. He shifted around and snuggled up comfortably against Fearfaron's shoulder and promptly dropped into a deep slumber.

Fearfaron was stunned. This was not the story he had expected to hear. He did not think this was the story Legolas had intended to tell. No wonder Legolas had been dreaming of Maltahondo; the recent violation had triggered the memory. He sensed Legolas falling asleep and decided to remain quiet. No wonder he had not died from Ailinyéro's assault. Fearfaron looked down at the fallen archer and shook his head, sad and angry both together.

Legolas did not even seem to understand that his trusted friend and protector had raped him.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	11. Idhren teriais, ar Yr eden

Idhren teriais, ar Yr eden. [Pondering difficulties, and a new course]

The starlings' argumentative twittering drowned out the songs of all but the most voluble jays, mockingbirds, and occasional raven's rasp. The flock was congregated in the boughs of an elderly willow, its long verdant tendrils cascading down and dusting across the grassy bank by the Celebrant. The river's accompaniment was understated and melodious, softening the raucous chatter and drawing eye and ear to its liquid languidity.

A small twist in the water's course carried it over and around a small outcrop of granite, gleaming and glinting a sleek blackness speckled with adamantine flashes where Anar glanced upon individual crystals of muscovite and quartz. It was as though the river sought the rocks, desiring the added variation in her silvery interlude that the instrumental stones provided. It was a comfortable symbiosis: the granite could not sing without the caress of Celebrant, and the river's vocalisation was enlivened and given depth as the waters flowed over the contrasting planes the stones offered. Celebrant chortled and laughed, sighed and burbled, dancing across the rounded rocks.

Minuial was only just passed and the sky wore a coat of pale dappled blue amidst an invasion of grey-bottomed cumulous clouds marshalling in from the south west. The lightly cooling breeze admitted to the approaching equinox even in the eternal golden glow of Lothlorien's enchantment.

Seated within the natural elegance of the river meadow upon an array of silken throws and satin bolsters, Ningloriel, Queen of the Woodland Realm, awaited the arrival of her caller. Shrouded in regal impatience, she heard none of the Silver-load's morning melody, saw not the twinkling reflection of Anar upon the granite, disregarded the incessant chatter of the grackles, and swatted away in irritation the soft caress of a willow frond.

She was unaccustomed to being kept waiting and whenever she stayed in Lorien held unofficial court here at the river's edge. Her wealth and status assured her a gratifyingly large assembly of elves willing to acquiesce to her imperial demeanour, and if she was aware of the underlying mirthful condescension of the Lorien nobility she concealed it masterfully.

On Ningloriel's Edwen Aur [Second Day] in the Golden Wood, Galadriel was always the first caller; Ningloriel having paid her respects to the Lord and Lady on Minui Aur [First Day]. By Canthui Aur [Fourth Day], a regular attendance of friends and relatives would be established. By the sixth, Ningloriel would have received numerous invitations to call on these elves in kind. But Lefnui Aur [Fifth Day] of every week was exclusively reserved for only intimate friends, and for Ningloriel this day was permanently awarded to Elrond, Lord of Imladris. The Queen of the Woodland Realm also timed her visits to Lorien to coincide with his so that this opportunity to meet with him was not missed. Today was in fact Lefnui Aur and Elrond was very late.

Ningloriel rose gracefully and stalked to the water's edge, startling a pair of cranes fishing for their breakfast. They added their disgruntled flapping to the fullness of Celebrant's symphony as they exited hastily and relocated to shallows further downstream. The queen paced back to her silken throne and picked up a cushion, kneading it in an unconscious manner as her agitated energy spilled over into the environment. Maltahondo cleared his throat and she looked over to his unobtrusive position among the glade's encircling birches. She lifted her brows into delicately flawless arches of interrogation.

"Would you like for a message to be sent, my Queen?" he asked and she threw down the pillow in frustration.

"No message is ever required; this you know. What is your meaning?" she demanded.

"Only that much has altered in recent times. You may no longer be first on the Lord's agenda. Also, word of your decision to leave has disturbed many; your choice may not be as easy for those remaining here to accept," Maltahondo meant his words not so much as explanation for Elrond's tardiness but rather as a gentle reprimand to his queen. He felt she had not thoroughly considered the impact her immigration to the Blessed Realm would have on her subjects or her son.

"You would question my trueness, my loyalty? You cast doubt on my love for my only child?" she growled in her most imperious voice, yet Maltahondo remained calm and did not respond, waiting. The Queen clasped her hands together before her, a gesture indicative of supplication. "What would you have me do? You were there; he refused my requests and will not come with me. Yet I cannot stay, dishonoured in my own House while my husband beds that common Tawarwaith to get him new heirs." Her strident voice was anything but pleading and shattered the peaceful mood, silencing even the starlings' continuous bickering. Maltahondo set his lips together firmly and gazed back at his queen as only an old and trusted advisor may do to one of high blood and go unpunished.

"I would have you stay and care for your son; he needs it. Think on it carefully, Ningloriel, what his condition was that day. He is strong, but this may be too much when added to the ordeals of the last twelve years. Even mountains give way under such sudden shifts in their environment," he said calmly yet with urgency in his voice, truly concerned for Legolas well being.

More than any other elf, Legolas had always depended on the former corpsman. As a child, it was only Maltahondo the elfling sought out when troubled dreams, or scraped limbs, or loneliness invaded his world.

Though the most frequent topic of his parents' vicious arguing, neither seemed to find time to devote to their offspring's care and nurturing. As a youth, he trusted only his personal guard's opinion of his progress in perfecting his archery skills, and it was Maltahondo he had asked, in round about and tortuous wording, about his attraction to males. Even the brief tenure as the prince's lover had not removed the archer's genuine respect for the older elf, though Maltahondo had to admit he found this made it doubly difficult to escape from his own sense of guilt concerning the illicit affair.

The fact that Legolas never even complained or questioned why he had ended it, or why he had chosen the youth another lover, emphasised the unconditional trust Legolas had gifted to the warrior. Legolas would never believe that his Malthen would ever do anything intentional to harm him. Having betrayed this absolute trust for his own gratification, Maltahondo deeply regretted the outcome of his selfish satisfaction at the expense of the prince and wanted to become again the true and faithful guardian.

His first glimpse of the fallen archer in twelve years had been shocking in the extreme. Through his communication with the other patrols, Maltahondo had kept track of Legolas' activities and whereabouts, allowing himself to be cajoled into a false sense of ease concerning his fate. He had even let himself feel proud of the way Legolas had strived to complete the Tasks of Release.

He had also been lulled into an artificial belief that the reports detailing the monthly tortures were greatly exaggerated. Recalled from the southern patrol by Ningloriel's order and her stated determination to leave, Maltahondo had been in the city Caer-a-tadui [a twelve-night, two weeks] when the Edinor-en-Baudh [Anniversary Day of the Judgement] came, and learned of the sexual assault from the Watch Commander that had intervened.

Ningloriel still did not know of this; she had been embroiled within her own confrontation with Thranduil and Maltahondo had not had opportunity to relay the news, so rapid had been her preparations for exodus on the morn. Even so, Ningloriel had made no comment about her meeting with Legolas at the Forest River or her assessment of his health. Now, she sank back onto her cushioned throne and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head and rocking her body to and fro.

"I will never forgive Thranduil! Legolas is so changed; I know not my own child any longer. Alas, he is dying and his own father has condemned him to this fate," she wailed in stormy sorrow as tears filled her hands and slipped through the spaces between her fingers, falling to spot the silken covers below.

Maltahondo had to employ tremendous effort to check the all too familiar up-welling of anger that surged around his guilty heart. Always was it so for Ningloriel; Legolas fate was determined and she would make no effort to intervene, casting blame upon Thranduil and turning inward to ruminate and complain of the damage to her own soul instead. Maltahondo realised that Ningloriel would never face down the customs and traditions of her people, not even to prevent Legolas' death, preferring to wallow in self-pity for the sorrow and distress his plight had wrought upon her. Maltahondo thought he had never before witnessed such completely self centred behaviour or an elf so emotionally distanced from their child.

Maltahondo also now understood how he had allowed this attitude to color his own evaluation of Legolas worth, treating him as something causal to the fulfilment of the emotional and physical needs of others rather than as an individual with those same needs. From this knowledge did the guardsman's guilt blossom, for he knew that Legolas loved him and had gifted to him his body's innocence in trust of that love. And he had taken that gift and sullied it, returning him only pain and fear in the exchange. He had taken it, using as excuse what he chose to interpret as the invitation of Ningloriel, whom had brought him to Legolas that first night. Never mind that she had been his lover off and on for some years.

Later, when the regret was too much to bear when looking into Legolas trusting eyes, he had added abandonment to his crimes. In many ways, Maltahondo's failing in his obligation to protect his young charge was even greater than was his parents', for Legolas never seemed to expect anything other than neglect from them while Malthen was always there for him.

Great was his remorse upon thinking on this and he determined he would remain behind and try to undo some of this damage if by his will and action he might. His internal musings were disrupted by the just audible footfalls of another elf and he looked back at Ningloriel to see Elrond by her side, a hand already resting in a gesture of comfort upon her shoulder as she wept.

"Why would he not come? In Valinor, he would find peace and rest and I should not then be alone there," she railed. "Now he will fade and I know not if I can bear such grief! Why is he so stubborn? How can he disregard his own mother's feelings?"

"Perhaps he feels a certain sense of obligation and responsibility. Under the custom you have raised him by, no other interpretation can there be," Elrond answered her, and Ningloriel rose, turning and throwing her arms round his neck and leaning her head against his shoulder, sobbing.

"Elrond, I had begun to think you would not come to me. What can be done; counsel me. How might I persuade him? Or barring that, you must find a way to help him, for how can I leave otherwise?" she said.

Maltahondo silently retreated from the glade, glad to be able to remove himself from his queen for a time. He was resolved; he would see her safely to the Havens and then return to the Greenwood and search Legolas out. He now felt the passing hours keenly; worried that the journey's length would steal from him any opportunity to make Ningloriel's pronouncement of her son's doom false. Let Elrond placate the grieving mother; he would concentrate on saving the child. He glanced once more behind him as he passed among the ring of trees, observing Elrond gently rubbing the back of the Queen's neck as he spoke reassurances into her ear too softly spoken for him to hear.

"Ningloriel, it is not for me to do. The answer is for you to find him and help him through his ordeal. If you do not go, he need not have this added burden. Return to Mirkwood; tend to your son," he urged quietly, but she only sobbed louder against his tear drenched neck.

"This I cannot do! You know our law and custom forbid me to interfere with the Judgement once it is set. And is this the only reason you would bid me not to go, for Legolas' sake?" she whined plaintively and Elrond frowned in exasperation.

"Surely that is the most important reason to a grieving mother, and thus did I name it first. My feelings are immaterial when gauged against the loss of your son to fading," he softly rebuked her, but Ningloriel would hear this not.

'What of you, would you fade it I should go?" she demanded petulantly, lifting her head to gaze with her tear glazed eyes into his clear and solemn ones. He smiled gently and kissed the tip of her red and sniffly nose before answering.

"You know better. I have too many depending on me here; I cannot abandon my children or the people of Imladris."

"Glorfindel can take your place and remove this duty from you; or better one of your sons may do so. You could leave with me by week's end, Elrond," she insisted, but he shook his head.

"I must stay, and even were I to go Celebrian awaits me there as you know. Love there has never been between us but respect and friendship are not to be betrayed. She is my mate still, Ningloriel." His voice was firm and his words unyielding, spoken with the ready cadence of long practice and frequent utterance. Ningloriel pushed him back from her and strode to the river's edge, glowering down at the cheerfully singing water falling upon the gleeful rocks.

"You are as bad as Thranduil, thinking only of your lands and power. I believe you have wooed me solely as a spy against my own people. Your heart has never been engaged in our liaison," she spoke in wounded pride and hoped to hurt, yet Elrond remained calm.

"Believe as you will. I have given my reasons and I have asked you not to go. I do not beg nor will I seek to dissuade you from this course if it is what you truly need to do to survive. My feelings should be clear to you after so long a while, Ningloriel. Truly, I will mss you and grieve for you, but fade I must not," he stated, but she remained with her back to him in silence. "Besides, if I go with you how can I look to your son?" he added as he slowly approached, and reaching her turned her to him.

"You will see to him? He needs a healer; Maltahondo says he is in serious condition. When I saw him . . ." here she covered her face again as though to blind herself to the vivid image in her memory. Elrond drew her close to him, enfolding her in a comforting embrace. "He does not even look like my Legolas anymore; he is a wild and fey creature! Elrond, he was wounded; he had been beaten," she cried against his chest and he made soothing sounds as he patted her back.

"I will try to help him. You know there is little I can do unless he finds his way to Lorien. We must send Maltahondo to try to find him and bring him out," Elrond promised. Ningloriel pulled back again, shaking her head.

"Nay, I need Maltahondo to come with me. You will have to go for Legolas yourself; I will not go to Valinor alone," she responded, and Elrond stared at her, unknowingly harbouring nearly the identical opinion of the Queen as her guardsman had earlier.

The rest of that day Elrond remained with Ningloriel and tried to persuade her to send Maltahondo to search for Legolas. She remained adamant that her personal guard would accompany her to Valinor, however, and finally the lord of Imladris conceded defeat. He thought, all the same, that a private conversation with the warrior might prove more fruitful.

Elrond suspected that Maltahondo had been Ningloriel's lover for centuries, far longer than he himself had been her paramour. He also had suspicions that the guardsman was Legolas' true sire, despite Ningloriel's own belief that Elrond was the father. He rejected this completely, having been cautious of spilling his seed within her. He felt sure that Maltahondo could be convinced to take the fallen prince under his care and lead him back to Loren for healing if he required such treatment.

Elrond, free at last from his mandatory cosseting with the Queen of the Woodland Realm, made his way through the tailored and tended groves of mellyrn trees towards the talan of Orophin, guardsman of Lorien. Here he expected to locate his seneschal, Erestor, with whom he wished to discuss the situation at hand. With annûn [sunset] approaching, the Lorien elf's shift on patrol would be ending.

Erestor had formed a successful long-term arrangement between himself, Orophin, and Orophin's mate, Dambethnîn [My Answer]. Together they comprised a lustful troika of love pleasing and satisfactory to them all. None seemed to mind the long absences imposed upon Erestor by his obligations to Elrond's House and Imladris. Orophin and Dambethnîn had each other, and Erestor kept a string of younger elves to satisfy his carnal needs while at home.

He definitely preferred them much junior to his age, and took them as close upon their majority as he could get them. In fact, the citizens of Imladris, knowing his reputation, had a tendency to send away their young to Lorien to achieve this milestone untouched by the salacious hunger of the tall, lean, predatory Erestor. Orophin and Elrond met at the base of the tree within which his talan was perched.

"Suilad, Orophin," said Elrond. "I am afraid I must demand much of Erestor's time this night. I will return him to you as soon as I am able."

"Your timing is most irritating, Elrond," spoke Erestor from above before Orophin had chance to respond to the greeting. The Lord of Imladris merely waited, staring up into the noble branches of the ancient Mallorn. Erestor sighed in exaggerated dismay and turned to Dambethnîn standing beside him.

"Namarië, Penbara," [Fiery One] he said and wrapped his arms tightly about her and kissed her as though he would not see her again for a Great Year. She smiled within the kiss at her lover's pet name for her, sliding her fingers up through his locks of blue-black gleaming hair, pushing it behind his ears and caressing them erotically as she did so.

"Namarië to you, Penraun," [Deviant One] she murmured, calling him by his nickname within the triad. As soon as their embrace was sundered, Orophin, having climbed up to the talan, swept Erestor into a tight hug and indulged in a searingly passionate kiss as well.  
"Hurry back," he whispered as they parted and Erestor stole a last quick kiss.

"With all speed as I may, Penraeg," [Bent One] he responded, grinning lasciviously as he turned to descend down the rope to the ground where Elrond stood patiently waiting, trying not to snicker at the silliness of these elder elves' endearments for one another. When Erestor at last was striding along at his side towards his own talan, he raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval and shock.

"Really, Erestor, at your age one should conduct one's affairs with some pretence at dignity if such cannot be achieved in reality. After all, elves associate you with my House and realm!" he joked.

"In that case I should be seen as a perfect example of Imladrian morals. You have been keeping a lover all the years you have been mated. I, at least, make pretence at no such bonds," Erestor smiled as he replied; yet Elrond's levity vanished.

"My lifemate was not a choice of love and this you know well. Celebrian was not unhappy and would be at my side still if not for the torment she endured," Elrond answered hotly. Celebrian had had no illusions regarding their marriage bond, and both elves had retained lesser bonds with others beyond the one between them imposed by necessity of alliance. Yet each respected the other, shared their deep love for their offspring, and their sense of duty to the citizens of Imladris.

Erestor keenly felt the sting his words had inflicted and regretted his jest. Less than half of a Millennia had passed since Celebrian had left for the Undying Lands and Elrond dearly missed her counsel and her companionship. She had been even of temper, judicial in thought, and known for her inner vision and gift of reading hearts. She had been Elrond's most trusted advisor and a reliable friend who probably knew more about the elf Lord than even did he himself.

"Peace, Elrond, my words were not unkindly meant yet their sound was unduly harsh. Forgive my thoughtlessness," Erestor beseeched earnestly, but Elrond raised his hand in protest.

"Nay, I am overly sensitive on the subject; no forgiveness is required," he spoke. "It is partly about this that we must speak tonight."

"Ningloriel insists she will go?" Elrond nodded in response to the seneschal's question, stopping before the Mallorn wherein his home in Lorien rested. The way up was an elaborately carved wooden staircase winding around the broad trunk of the tree to the level of the first sturdy limbs. Here, a landing offered a welcoming vestibule and an open doorway into the interior, and Elrond gestured for his friend to precede him. Erestor entered in, marvelling as for the first time at the elegance of the elf Lord's talan.

So majestic were the mighty Mellyrn of the Golden Wood that many goodly homes could be built upon their limbs and harm the tree not the slightest. For most of the sylvan folk, two to three families shared a common tree, with a single stair leading up to individual landings and balconies for entry into each resident's home.

This stair wound centrally about the great girth of the trunk and so well groomed and tended were the towering plants that the spacing of the branches made the construction of level and spacious rooms an easy task. Such were trees that Fearfaron would love to build within, and did he ever come to see such he would likely leave the Greenwood for the opportunity to try his skill and apply his artistry to the fitting out of domiciles within living leaf and limb.

Among the noble elves in Lorien, a single Mallorn bore a single palatial dwelling; many tiered and with airy rooms for all purposes and enough left to spare for entertainment and the visiting of friends and family. It was expected that if an elf arrived in Lorien, their stay would not be brief, and many of the Imladris folk also kept a second home within the Realm between the Celebrant and the Nimrodel. Among these noble homes, none was greater than that of Elrond.

Upon the first landing, visitors entered into a bright and open veranda cleverly screened against insects with the finest and sheerest of silk netting. All around it the supports and beams were worked in carved relief depicting stylised waterfalls and flowing rivers in honour of the House's affiliation and devotion to Ulmo. Each columnar support of the roof was braced with wood shaped in the manner of a swan's wing in honour of the noble insignia of Eärendil. The furnishings on this grand porch were of comfortable and casual design, and invited one to be seated and rest while refreshment might be provided. Often Arwen hosted her friends' gatherings here and many such had Erestor attended.

He led the way to the inner stairway and ascended to the next level but continued on, knowing Elrond would not wish to meet in the more formal greeting rooms or the dining halls that level housed. The third also they passed by, being the level wherein Elrond's house servants dwelt. Upon the fourth level Erestor came to a massive wooden door, richly carved as the lower arcade was, and here he entered in. This level housed Elrond's personal study and a library, both spacious and inviting rooms, and richly furnished in chairs covered in tapestries upon which were woven scenes from the legends of the First and Second Ages.

Upon the windows were draperies that might be opened to allow the freshness of the forest air, or shut against storm and gale. So tightly woven was the silk fabric of these curtains that not but a faint mist of water might penetrate even in the most tempestuous of storms. Within the enchantment of Lorien, such severity of weather was not allowed at any rate, and so the home remained dry and comfortable all the year round.

There were yet four more levels within the abode, all of them comprised of sleeping chambers, with Elrond's own at topmost as it was the custom in Lorien that the more revered the person, the more near to the splendid views from the canopy their resting chambers be. Upon the fourth level, then, Erestor made his way into the familiar study and chose his usual seat.

This was a limb-cradling settee of bent willow wood upholstered with the best swans down and covered in the softest of deerskin leather. The dimensions were meant for two, but Erestor liked to sprawl out and stretch his lengthy legs, often draping one or the other over the arm of the furniture. Alternately, he would slouch deeply into the velvety leather and stretch forth his legs, propping his heels upon a matching footstool. This he chose to do this night. Elrond chose a chair; his favourite armchair covered in ocean blue stained leather worked in a wave-like scroll design all around the joins to its wooden frame. The wood of the chair was from a seasoned incense cedar, and if one remained seated for a few minutes the wondrous aroma of the wood filled the room, released by the heat of the body within it. Elrond removed his boots and rested his feet upon a low ottoman.

"Ningloriel," he said and grimaced around the syllables in disappointment as he did so. "Surprisingly, she is firmly resolved this time. It seems that the double blow of her son's disgrace and being supplanted by a royal consort is too much for her to endure. She feels she is now a parody of the noble queen she once was," he concluded and Erestor nodded.

"There is truth there, though it is strange. The wound to her pride cost her more than the wound to her heart," he commented and Elrond raised his brows questioning his meaning. "She was only too ready to be consoled and counselled by you after Legolas' Judgement and banishment. She did not even threaten to leave her Realm then, and sought only for a way to remove the stigma his dishonour brought upon her House. Now, she is to be permanently reprieved from ever having to bed Thranduil again, something she has been loathe to do for millennia; how old is the child? Yet she is too distraught to remain among her people. I would think she would welcome this consort to her household," the seneschal expounded. Elrond considered this.

"He is no longer a child, though young yet; I believe Legolas to be some centuries younger than Arwen. Nonetheless, she does not welcome the intrusion of this rival female. Ningloriel is a complex inu [female]. It is not Thranduil she is jealous to share, but the power of her position. She has been hoping all the time she has been mated to him to wrest control of the Woodland Realm from him. She expected me to do this and then hand over the governing of the lands to the Danwaith, herself to be specific.

"Yet, Thranduil is no one's fool and has held his power over the Wood Elves with great skill. He allowed the Council of Elders to remain as the overseers of the Law and Customs. He and his House handle defence and trade negotiations with the surrounding peoples. The Council thus has no reason to denounce Thranduil. He married one of their own, adheres to all their Laws and Customs, has trained an exemplary fighting force, kept the encroaching Darkness at bay, and added to the realm's wealth and status among the elven lands." Elrond mused. This was a problem they had discussed often in these very rooms, and Erestor nodded his understanding.

"She sees now how weakened her position is. With a consort approved by the Council, she can no longer play the role of the long-suffering martyr, victim of her King's jealous raging. It is likely that Thranduil will have evidence against her that will strengthen his case before the Council." He continued, but here Erestor stopped him.

"Why has he never used this evidence before, if he has it as you suggest? Surely, he has never demonstrated any love for the child Ningloriel gave him."

"Thranduil would not have it from his own mouth that he was thus cuckolded by his mated queen. He has his pride as well, I would think. He must have thought he could force her hand, using Legolas as leverage against her, threatening to reveal her faults before her people. They are both uncommonly stubborn individuals," he responded. Erestor considered this thoughtfully.

"Most of the Wood Elves believe Thranduil is not the father of Legolas anyway, do they not? Thranduil has been operating under a false sense of pride, if this is so," he interjected.

"Indeed! Thus it often is in such matters; the feuding couple remains in denial of the public knowledge their noisy and violent behaviour allows. Ningloriel firmly believes that none of her subjects have any suspicions that there is trouble within the royal House." At this Erestor snorted in contemptuous mirth. He found such open displays of private matters grossly distasteful.

"Nevertheless, Ningloriel has played into Thranduil's hands quite nicely," Erestor stated and met Elrond's gaze. "It would seem we all have so done." He added, and Elrond nodded his confirmation.

"Yes, in one move Thranduil deepens the xenophobia of the woodland folk, removes my principle spy, and disposes of any threat that Legolas will ever challenge him for the throne. He was always a better tactician than his father was. Had Thranduil been in command of his folk at the Last Alliance, history might be quite different."

"To say the least!" Erestor exclaimed. "Now he appears as the long-suffering victim, yet his loyalty to his people causes him to take another Danwaith as consort in order that a true heir be gotten. Oh, the Council must love him." His words dripped with disgust. Erestor hated to be bested in anything, especially by such as Thranduil, a common enough Sinda until his father invaded the lands of the Wood Elves and turned it into a kingdom. Lands too vast for such unenlightened elves as the House of Oropher represented to have control over, in his opinion. Elrond should rightly have the lands as a fief of Imladris, at the very least. "What will we do now; without Ningloriel we have no direct access to Othronnen Thranduil [Underground Stronghold of Thranduil]." Elrond sat back and remained silent for a time, his brows drawn together in frustration creases.

He had not handled Ningloriel well over the years and had over estimated her ability to glean the information he desired while underestimating Thranduil's responses to his wife's foolishness. In addition, the downfall of Legolas had proved to be a decided and unexpected gain for Thranduil. It crossed Elrond's mind to wonder if Thranduil might have engineered the entire fiasco. This sent a jolt of shock through the Lord of Imladris; he could not fathom such cold-heartedness. He sighed and rubbed his forehead; no closer to anything approaching a new plan than before the conversation began.

Seeing his Lord's distress, Erestor rose and went to a serving table placed conveniently in the alcove created by the ascending staircase. From it, he selected two carved crystal goblets and poured into them a rich and aromatic red wine. One goblet he handed to Elrond, and returned to his seat with his own.

"Perhaps we can turn things back to our favour again. Who is the new consort? Is it likely she will be as easy to seduce as Ningloriel?" Erestor ventured. Elrond sipped the glittering ruby liquid appreciatively as he thought on this, and finally rejected this idea. He had already mulled it over, and Erestor bringing it up sealed his judgement against it.

"Nothing I know of her indicates this would be possible. She is Danwaith, named Meril, daughter of a warrior named Thalacrist [Stalwart Sword], and is wife to one of the lost warriors that fell by Legolas fault in the Battle of the Five Armies. She has used some vague and ancient law of her people to claim Legolas' rights for her own son. Having secured her family's place within a royal House, I am doubtful she will do anything to jeopardise that position."

"I wonder what part she played in the young prince's downfall? Valar! Could any elf be so cold as to send their own mate to Mandos' Halls just to rank higher within a backwater realm like Mirkwood?" Erestor shivered at the idea, finding the savageness of the Wood Elves' dealings horrifying. Elrond, hearing this comment, began to place Meril in league with Thranduil in the scheme. This pair would make gruesome adversaries, willing to sacrifice mated husband and named son and heir to cause a shift in power in their favour. He decided to present the only alternative he had yet envisioned.

"Ningloriel expects me to salvage the son," he said, "and probably find some means to redeem her honour at the same time." His tone was flat and offered no hope for this to occur. Erestor was of equal disbelief.

"Is she beyond reason now as well as common sense?" he queried incredulously and Elrond shrugged.

"I know not her mind any longer. She has become less rational, certainly. In spite of what we say, she must feel both grief and guilt for her son. It is affecting her, surely." He said.

"You told her you would do this," Erestor intoned the words in mildly accusatory disapproval and again Elrond shrugged.

"She would not be satisfied otherwise, however unlikely my success would be in such an undertaking." Elrond was silent, thinking a moment. "Long has she held the hope in her heart that the child was conceived of our union, so great is her resentment of Thranduil." He remarked. Erestor hazarded a glance in his direction. This was the first that Elrond had openly mentioned this part of the intrigue.

"You believe it not, then?" he asked.

"I know it is not so!" The Lord of Imladris huffed vehemently, and Erestor shifted on the settee, looking elsewhere. To his mind, the idea was not so outlandish. The two had been lovers even before Elrond's bonding to Celebrian. Legolas conception day, given the guess at his age by Elrond, fell within a Great Year that Ningloriel stayed in Lorien, and the Queen was only in Lorien if Elrond was there also. Erestor cleared his throat.

"Nonetheless, it might be advantageous if he were your offspring." He stated and held his breath for the expected explosion of wrath. Elrond stared at him, saying nothing nor moving a muscle, for some minutes, and Erestor worried. At last Elrond sighed. He knew well what his seneschal really thought and decided to just let it go.

"How would such a thing be beneficial, Erestor; and speak plainly what you mean to say," he admonished sternly. Erestor drew a deep breath.

"You might gain his trust if you could convince him that this is true. This might give you the access you need to Othronnen Thranduil," he continued.

"Are you forgetting his status? He cannot even enter the city except on prescribed days and certainly has no right to the palace grounds now," Elrond replied.

"Yet, he probably knows more about the ins and outs of that cavernous place than even Thranduil himself. He grew up there; he is an only child. What else had he to do but go exploring? If there are alternate routes into the King's vaults, he would know of them." Erestor argued.

Elrond himself had thought this also, and indeed it was at the heart of the only strategy he had yet devised to correct the loss of Ningloriel's intelligence gathering. For this reason he had agreed to Ningloriel's pleas for her son. However, he had no wish to burden himself with parental concerns and responsibilities, much less the upset and turmoil this would create in his own family. He had previously decided on a different approach.

"There is merit in what you say, Erestor, and I have considered it also. However, I think Legolas need not believe himself of my blood to be courted into betrayal of Thranduil," Elrond responded with careful emphasis on the word courted, and Erestor sat up in surprise, a distinctly wolf-like gleam of predatory delight visible in his grey eyes.

"When do we leave to search for this fallen prince?" he asked eagerly and now Elrond smiled broadly as well.

"I would rather not go wandering within the boundaries of Mirkwood, Erestor. I plan to try and recruit an ally to bring the fallen prince here to me. On the morrow I will confer with Galadriel and Celeborn; I have little worry that they will object. We are all in accord over what is at stake here, and Gandalf has been unable to garner the information on his own. Celeborn will object; he did over the design to utilise Ningloriel. In the end, Galadriel will consult the mirror and the Lord will acquiesce to her fore knowledge."

"Who is this ally? There are none here trusted by Thranduil; his guards would surely deflect any uninvited search party away from their borders. Better for the two of us to sneak in alone and spy out the situation." Erestor said.

"The Queen's guardsman, Maltahondo. He is Danwaith, well known to the patrols and can come and go as he pleases within Mirkwood. I believe I can convince him to help Legolas," replied Elrond. "In fact, I plan to go from our meeting to seek him out." At this Erestor drained his cup and rose, returning it to the serving cart.

"In that case, I must request the end to the discussion. I can not allow Penbara and Penraeg to forgo the wild and unbridled ecstasy my skilful and creative lovemaking adds to their sedate and predictable mating," he chortled gleefully as he headed down the stairs, then halted. "Is it to be a secret that I may take this fallen prince in the near future?" he asked and Elrond burst into laughter.

"Yes! It is a secret and also highly unlikely that you will be the one sampling that particular delight. Go, get you back to your triad's tryst, Erestor, and I will seek you when all is prepared."

With that Erestor's face fell and he departed with a less buoyant gait. Elrond followed minutes later, leaving his comfortable quarters in search of Maltahondo.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	12. Echui na Ruth

Echui na Ruth [Awakening to Anger]

Fearfaron shifted his burden, weightless though it seemed to his shoulders, as he carefully maneuvered through the canopy towards the Wood Elves' city. Legolas was unconscious again, his breath faint and rapid amidst the unnatural warmth radiating from his skin and the faltering rhythm of his heart's tempo. Fearfaron gripped him round the waist as he limply sagged against his back, arms swaying with the motion of their progress and lanky legs gently butting the carpenter's shins with every movement he made. Fearfaron felt none of it, lost in worry that he had delayed too long and Legolas was already beyond the reach of the healer's skill. He could go no faster laden as he was and for fear of aggravating the archer's injuries, now gruesomely abscessing and poisoning his body, yet dearly did he wish for a swifter route.

Under normal conditions, they were no more than 2 days journey through the trees from his own talan. As it was, he would be lucky to reach the city in 3 days time. For this reason he made the decision to head for the cove and ride back upon the barge of wood, using the current to speed their journey. This meant he would have to pole the raft alone, a difficult task in itself, but more to the point he would have to tie Legolas down to prevent him from toppling into the cold waters if he woke in his delirium. While he hated to do this, he knew no other way to proceed, and so he arrived with his slight encumbrance at the river's edge where the barge was fastly secured.

Legolas remained insensible to all that transpired, lost in fevered dreams and given to incoherent mumbling as he tugged against the bonds securing his wrists and ankles to the wood logs. Fearfaron was grateful for that as he struggled to keep the heavy craft from grounding on sandbars or foundering in the shallows of the lazily meandering stream. Here, the Taur Sîr [Forest River] had no need for raging strength and churning waters, for the Luithad [Enchantment] of the Wood Elves seemed to make its mood dreamy and slumberous even as it promised sleep and forgetfulness of any who ventured into its current.

Yet the course was sure and steady as it wound its way towards the stronghold downstream, bearing its heavy freight along willingly. Fearfaron realized with joy that he had regained the time lost by his careful movements through the tree limbs as the sun set and the rising tips of the stronghold's cliffs could be seen peaking above the tree tops on the far bank ahead. Unable to navigate by night, the carpenter put in and secured the barge until dawn.

With gentle care Fearfaron tried to cleanse the infected gashes, more worried by Legolas' lack of response than he would have been by cries of pain. For too long the younger elf had remained lost in the ramblings of his febrile brain, unable to find his mental way up into the pathways even of the elven dreamscape.

Now, in the darkness of Gwain Ithil [the new moon], Fearfaron tried to rouse him, speaking softly and pouring the cooling liquid from his water skin over Legolas. He dared not use the water of Luithant Sîr [Enchanted River] for this would only enhance the unnatural stillness of his charge. No change occurred throughout the night and as soon as the first hint of morning appeared to dim the stars Fearfaron was back on the raft with Legolas securely constrained. By mid afternoon, the barge came in sight of the docks and bays of the stronghold where goods from Dale and the Iron Hills were unladed.

Fearfaron called out to two elves manning the gates there and they hurried forward to help secure the barge, familiar with this task of the craftsman before them, yet they refrained from stepping onto the raft, as they perceived the disgraced prince. Fearfaron sent them forth, one to summon the healer and have her meet him at his talan, the other in search of Mithrandir. With concerned glances one to another, the elves dashed away from the barge as the carpenter carried Legolas seemingly lifeless form onto shore.

He easily bore Legolas draped within his arms, limp limbs swaying in ungainly time to the older elf's steps, head lolled back and twisted golden locks trailing down in sweat-dampened and matted strands. His skin was colorless as though all the blood had drained away from his body, or his heart had ceased to propel it throughout his flesh. Indeed, the rumor quickly spread by the dock-wardens was that Edledhron [Exiled One] had perished, and thus all debts were paid and the Warrior's Release achieved.

Their progress through the courtyards took them near some of the private gardens of the Royal House, and the whispered comments of the household staff drew the attention of Lindalcon, practicing with his bow nearby. He gasped as the gossip reached his ears and he focused his eyes upon Legolas' inert form. Against the cries of his tutor, the young elfling dashed out to join Fearfaron, falling into step beside him and gazing up with worry.

Fearfaron looked at him and nodded briefly, giving his unspoken consent for the youngster to follow them into the city. Before they had gone far from the main gates, Mithrandir hurried to join them, huffing a bit as he exerted himself in his efforts to catch up. He gazed keenly at the unseeing eyes of the fallen archer but relaxed when his gnarled fingers pressed against Legolas' neck and revealed a stringy but insistent pulse. Lindalcon gazed from one to the other and finally returned his eyes to studying Legolas.

"Is he, is Legolas dead? " he asked cautiously, trying to keep the fear from his high youthful voice. Fearfaron shook his head and smiled grimly.

"He lies near enough to it that I would guess he can hear the voices of those that have passed beyond to the Halls of Waiting," he said seriously. "But he will survive; he has too much to live for," the carpenter spoke with determination. "He is very strong, Lindalcon, and the healer is awaiting us at my home. She will set this to right and he will heal up. Would you like to come?" Mithrandir cleared his throat to catch their attention before the elfling could respond.

"I am not so sure that is a good idea. Lindalcon, does your mother know where you are? Have you permission to leave the compound unattended?" he asked sternly, not certain how Meril or Thranduil would react to the elfling's disappearance and association with the disgraced prince. Mithrandir knew both the custom of the realm and the personal dislike of the King regarding Legolas. Knowing well how strong Thranduil's rages could be, the wizard had no wish to have it directed against either the young usurper or Legolas' champion.

Also, his growing suspicions concerning the exact circumstances surrounding Legolas' Judgement prevented him from saying too much in Lindalcon's presence, not wishing to alarm the youngster further concerning his father's death. Gandalf wanted to discuss his ideas with Fearfaron, and perhaps question Legolas himself if his health permitted. The young elfling tossed his brown curling locks and sniffed with pre-adolescent contempt.

"Why do they have to know about it anyway? This is a stupid Law! Legolas did not kill my father," he scoffed at the very concept. "I want to come along, maybe he will wake up and want someone to talk to," he continued, disregarding the obvious fact that Mithrandir and Fearfaron would be there.

Lindalcon considered himself to be Legolas' contemporary and assumed the archer would be as bored as he with the elder's droning talk on politics and gossip among the noble Houses. He wanted to tell Legolas about his progress in archery and gain his support in appealing to his mother regarding joining the guard when he came of age. Most of all, he just wanted to talk to him about his father.

No one would even speak of him, and his mother cried whenever he tried to get her to tell stories she knew of Valtamar's young days or listen as Lindalcon related a memory that warmed his aching soul. Legolas had always been willing to listen before, no matter what Lindalcon wanted to talk about, and he had never betrayed a confidence.

Fearfaron was nodding, allowing his gaze to linger on Legolas with a slight smile. He knew of Legolas' friendship with Valtamar's child, and thought it would be good for him to learn the young elf held no grudge.

"I think your tutor is plodding along a little distance behind us, being careful not to lose sight of you and still obey the custom to shun our friend here. That should prevent most of the blame from falling upon you," he said in conspiratorially pitched tones for Lindalcon's ears alone.

"This tutor will have to absorb most of the wrath of your mother and the King. And you are right, Lindalcon; Legolas did not cause Valtamar's death. That is a fate awaiting many a warrior called into battle or patrolling against the Orc hordes and all know this. If only those of us with greater years could also possess the greater wisdom. I will tell you that even if he is not to blame, Legolas has taken very seriously his obligation to his lost comrades. You may be the first to hear of it: Legolas has obtained the Release of my Annaldír." Fearfaron spoke up at this last sentence and let his words carry into the hearing range of the groups of curious elves lingering in the walkways as the trio paced past.

This revelation caused a stirring of confusion to ripple through the scattered citizens of the Greenwood and a rising hum of softly voiced exclamations to travel through the city and back into the courtyards of the stronghold itself. The rumor became confused; was the fallen archer dead? If so, then why would only one Warrior be released from Wandering? On the other hand, a counter report attested to Legolas being alive and if anything this produced even more consternation. For never had any Release been accomplished while noss-dagnir [kin-slayer] yet remained alive. In all the tales of their ancestors and the legends of their mythology, Warriors' Release was traditionally accomplished only by exchange: death for death.

The news captured the disgruntled tutor and stopped him where he stood, gaping around him for someone to share his surprise at this disclosure, until he realized he was alone and turned, hurrying back into the compound.

The Wood Elves drew a little closer to the wizard, the warrior's son, and the carpenter hoping to hear more of this story or catch a closer look at the insensible elf that had achieved this feat.

Lindalcon's eyes grew wide as he stared with lips parted in speechless amazement at Legolas. He reached out tentatively and took one of the archer's cold and lifeless hands in his own as he fought to forbid the tears to fall from his somber brown eyes.

"I… I am happy for you, Fearfaron," he began softly, using his other hand to carefully rub the icy fingers he clasped, trying to send some small semblance of warming friction into the digits. "Is that what this is from? Is this what he had to endure to gain the Release?"

Lindalcon was clearly not comfortable with this idea. He wanted his father to be at peace, and in spite of himself he was jealous and perhaps a little angry that it was Annaldír that Legolas had suffered so to save. Yet he liked Legolas and even looked up to him, and wished no further torment to befall him. In the young elf's confusion over his conflicted emotions, he could not restrain his weeping.

Fearfaron and Gandalf exchanged dour glances. Lindalcon presented as a precocious youngling, yet both elders knew this was often a mere façade the inexperienced produced to feel more comfortable when exposed to trying and troubling situations. Neither the wizard nor the carpenter wanted to destroy whatever innocence Lindalcon possessed by revealing what had been going on between Legolas and Ailinyéro.

"No, what you see has nothing to do with how Legolas gained Annaldír's Release. What you see, Lindalcon, is the result of a sickened mind, warped in its cruelty and selfishness. This is the work of Ailinyéro," Gandalf said quietly as the three approached the carpenter's talan. Fearfaron approved; if more were asked he would direct the elfling to query his mother. The healer was waiting there as well as another elf, a warrior. Lindalcon released Legolas' hand and raced to him, grasping the former corpsman's arms in warrior's greeting.

"Maltahondo! I saw you leaving with the Queen. Why are you here; is it because you have heard also? Annaldír is Released; Legolas did it," he said and stepped back to regard the tall warrior.

Maltahondo stared down at Lindalcon in surprise and then let his eyes travel between the wizard and the carpenter, questioning, before resting sadly on his former charge. As always, a strong wrenching spasm twisted his insides as guilt rose against his stern composure. He swallowed and attempted to smile at Lindalcon, achieving a crookedly weak semblance of the usually pleasing facial expression.

"Nay. This is news indeed. As you say, I left to escort the Queen to the Havens and have only just returned to the Greenwood. How is Legolas?" he said calmly. The healer stepped forward and made a rapid inspection, frowning and shaking her head.

"Barely breathing, but he may survive yet. Really, after the events of Edinor Baudh, I expected no more than what the gossip relayed to me and to have only the duty to declare the death official. Give him to me, Fearfaron, and go up first to prepare a place for the healing," she said crisply, taking charge of the scene at once as she received the wounded elf into her care. Legolas stirred slightly during the exchange to new arms and tried to lift his head, but succumbed again to the rampant infection and slid back into oblivion. With speed and efficiency, the healer set to work as soon as Legolas was laid upon the comfortable bed in Annaldír's rooms, and the other elves left her while Gandalf remained to lend what assistance he might.

Fearfaron settled Lindalcon in the common room beyond the sleeping chamber where he could observe yet remain beyond the ability to interfere or hinder the healer's activities. He refused to go down from the talan, insisting he would remain until Legolas woke and he was able to see this with his own eyes.

Fearfaron was happy with this, as he wanted Maltahondo to himself for a bit. He bade the warrior to descend with him and the former corpsman did so, disconcerted by the poorly disguised hostility on his old friend's features. The two were barely on the ground before Fearfaron spoke.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You were to leave for Valinor as well, were you not?" Maltahondo stepped back a pace and stared in amazement at the fiery tones of the usually serene carpenter.

"I am here to see to Legolas," he rejoined. "I had no intention to go to Valinor myself, and tried as best I might to convince Ningloriel to remain and come here herself." His voice was brusque, for he knew not what had angered Fearfaron.

"Legolas does not need you to 'see to him'. That you have done enough of! There are those here that will not allow further abuses to be perpetrated upon his soul and his body," Fearfaron seethed in hushed tones so as not to alert the traditionally quick and impressionable ears elflings possessed when their elders were arguing.

Maltahondo was taken aback; the carpenter's meaning could not be clearer: he was accusing the corpsman of these crimes.

"You sound as though you think I am the one that caused him to be there in the healer's care now. I am not, and have not seen him since the day by the river, as you well know. Speak your concerns plainly so that I may answer whatever your charges may be," he said in bold tones while his own heart misgave him; he did feel responsible for what had happened to Legolas. Yet, it was fear that tinged his words and seeped into his voice, for he had thought that his affair with the former prince was a secret. He would fall to disgrace and banishment if the truth were to become public. Fearfaron snorted his disdain.

"What you dread has come to pass; Legolas has at last confided in someone regarding your, your despoiling and defiling him. How could you do such a thing?" he tried to keep his voice down as his anger rose to dangerous heights and he took a step closer to the warrior.

Maltahondo's mouth fell agape and the color drained from his countenance at these words, and he again fell back from the carpenter's advance. His eyes darted up to the talan as a strangled sounding groan caught their attention.

"Be silent!" hissed Fearfaron. "I do not want him to hear your voice and know you are here. That he does not need right now." With these words Fearfaron leaped up, climbing the rope ladder into the dwelling, and peered through the doorway of his son's room.

Legolas was fighting against the painful draining of the abscesses yet still seemed more unconscious than not. Lindalcon was looking on in worry, pale and drawn, and the carpenter drew him away from the gory sight as the gashes were reopened to bleed freely.

"Perhaps this is not something you should watch so closely, pen-neth [young one]," he said as Lindalcon swallowed against the sour taste rising up in his throat. He had never seen wounds such as these, and even when his own father had occasionally been injured, he had seen only the cleanly wrapped white bandages on Valtamar's recovering body. The smell of Legolas' diseased blood was sickeningly sweet, as rotting flowers might be, and Lindalcon was glad to be lead down the rope ladder to the forest floor. The young elf drew several deep breaths as he fought off his disgust and fear.

"Oh, he is very sick, and he suffers so!" he cried in alarm when he could speak again. Fearfaron nodded and reached out to rest a comforting hand upon the youth's shoulder. As he did so he sent an angered glance to Maltahondo.

"Perhaps you should escort the young one back to the compound. No doubt his mother has been told he is here and will be sending the tutor to retrieve him or will arrive herself," he said. Even as the words left his lips the hurrying figures of two elves could be seen approaching from within the stronghold: Meril with the hapless tutor close at her heels. Lindalcon sighed dramatically and tossed his head again. Maltahondo grinned at the reaction and chuckled in spite of the tension surrounding the carpenter's home.

"Come now, Lindalcon, it is not so bad," he said. "You will be allowed to return when Legolas has regained consciousness."

"No!" the youth yelled unexpectedly as his mother hustled forward and opened her mouth to scold. She held her tongue in surprise and stopped abruptly a few paces away so that the tutor nearly ran into her backside, avoiding the embarrassment by skittering sideways at the last moment. "I want to stay! What if he wakes and no one is there but that healer? He should not be alone." The strength of the emotion in the young elf's voice was a surprise to him as well, but Fearfaron felt he had a fair idea of the cause. Lindalcon was simply projecting his own fears of being alone since his father's death and his mother's new involvement with Thranduil. Instinctively, Lindalcon had recognized a common ground between himself and Legolas that had nothing to do with archery. Meril smiled sadly; she also understood her child's fears.

"I know you wish to stay, but that cannot be. Legolas will not be alone here. Fearfaron will remain, and perhaps Maltahondo as well," she reassured her son, but he shook his head and folded his arms across his chest in defiance.

"That is not the same thing! I want to be here. He is terribly ill and the gashes, they are, they ooze and, and the smell is, is . . . What if he dies? Nana, just let me stay and I will stop pestering you about the commission in the guard," he struggled to impress upon his mother the seriousness of the situation, believing that if he left then he might lose his friend.

Fearfaron raised his brows at the elfling's offer and even Maltahondo could not hide his surprise.

Meril tisked and fidgeted about her son, pushing the hair back from his face and straightening the hem of his tunic as she fought against her better judgement. She did not want to seem to flaunt open disregard for the Law and Custom but she loved her son and worried over his reluctance to accept the changes in their lives. She knew he grieved for the loss of Legolas' friendship almost as much as he grieved for his father. Meril sighed in resignation while Lindalcon scowled in annoyance but held his peace.

"You cannot stay round the clock, but I will let you come to visit everyday. After your lessons are completed," she countered, recognizing what it cost her son to propose to forgo his unending pleas to join the patrols. Lindalcon gratefully agreed and Meril handed him off to the tutor, watching with concern as her son returned to the stronghold. Once he passed beyond earshot, she rounded on Fearfaron in fury.

"How could you allow him to be here and see such horrors?" she demanded, but Fearfaron was unruffled and gazed back blandly.

"It is not for me to interfere in how Lindalcon chooses to deal with his father's death. However, I think it was good for him to hear that Legolas is doing what he is required to do, and that he will be successful," he said quietly. "Lindalcon's compassion for Legolas is a credit to him and to the manner in which he was raised. His instincts are true; you have taught him well.

"As for the horror of the injuries, you are right. I had not thought carefully of what treatment would be needed. Lindalcon should not have seen that, and I am deeply sorry to have upset him," he continued. The mother glared at him and Maltahondo shifted uncomfortably in his spot behind the carpenter. Meril's glance turned to him and became even harder.

"I suppose you are also here to protect the interests of the kin-slayer?" she demanded, but Fearfaron would not allow that to go unchallenged.

"Legolas is no kin-slayer, and in your heart you know this," he said. "The fault must be shared among many, including Maltahondo, Talagan, and Thranduil himself," he continued.

Both elves gasped at this; it was not common for the Wood Elves to openly denounce the actions of their King, no matter what misgivings they might have privately. Even more unusual was it to challenge the Laws and Customs that had stood since the Elder Days when the Green Elves were driven back from Ossiriand across Ered Luin with great losses after the first battle against the evil of Morgoth.

"Further more, Legolas does not seem to have anyone else watching over his interests, as you call them, other than myself," he concluded and turned to climb back to the talan, leaving the two elves staring.

Meril shook her head slightly and glanced back up towards the talan as the muffled sounds of Legolas' struggle against his torment reached her. She heard Maltahondo sigh and transferred her regard back to his figure.

"I must concede he is right; I do not believe Legolas deserves to bear this Judgement alone. The fact that he has endured and accomplished one of the Tasks is a testament in itself to his strong spirit and true heart," he said.

Meril merely looked at him, saying nothing as she considered the harshness within the calmly spoken words of Fearfaron. She wondered how exactly Maltahondo was at fault, though she shared the carpenter's opinion of Talagan's and Thranduil's responsibility. The warrior spoke again, uncomfortable under her silent regard.

"If you would permit it, I will accompany you back to the compound. Fearfaron has made it clear he does not wish me to remain here, and no doubt you would prefer to check on Lindalcon's wellbeing," he said. "It was good of you to allow Lindalcon to visit," he added. Meril nodded and they turned to walk through the shaded paths of the Wood Elves' city towards Ennyn Daer [the Great Gates of the stronghold].

"I, too, share some of Fearfaron's opinions regarding Legolas. My occupancy within Thranduil's household has enlightened me as to the origins of the faults his son does possess. Why does our old friend so strongly reject your presence and name you as a betrayer?" she asked directly and was pleased to see that her query startled the usually composed warrior. But Maltahondo was quick to recover; he had no intention of his secret getting farther than the carpenter's knowledge.

"I have said so myself, perhaps he only now accepts this as he sees the degree to which Legolas suffers. I was certainly remiss in my duty to him on the battlefield that day. I should have been alert to the dangers of the ridge above us. Further, I should have prevented him from moving out onto the ledge in clear view to those below as well as above," he said the words with the ease of long practice; thus has he told himself, she thought. Meril nodded slowly.

"Perhaps, yet you feel so because you were more to him than just his corpsman," she spoke softly and watched from her sight's edges the elf's reaction. Maltahondo remained composed, however, and she was dissatisfied.

"True," he replied. "I was his personal guard since the day he was born, and failed him in that aspect on that battle field. Thus does Fearfaron rightly call me responsible for the deaths of the warriors. Had I done my duty to Legolas, he may have avoided the errors of that day." Meril noted that Maltahondo shied from using the term betrayer or kin-slayer to signify his lack of action.

There was more to it than this, she was certain of it. Meril prided herself on her ability to discern the truth or fiction held within the words of another, and her instincts told her the warrior was concealing a deeply held remorse and a great fear. The causes of such depth of response to her queries would be interesting to root out, yet she did not want the corpsman lingering around the stronghold long enough to achieve that end. She had her own theories regarding the corpsman's relationship to his Queen and his prince, and wanted no such reminders to sour Thranduil's mood further. The petition regarding her status as Royal Consort was still in debate before the Council, and Thranduil was already chaffing under their foot-dragging. They had reached Ennyn Daer [the Great Gates] and she stopped.

"Have you business with the King this day? Will you stay and dine within?" she offered courteously, knowing he would decline.

Maltahondo bowed briefly to the wife of his lost comrade, remembering Valtamar and Meril as they had been on the day of their joining, and felt saddened for how things had changed. Joyful, loving, and happy had been their union, and Lindalcon had deepened the love between them and their commitment to each other. This icy and calculating inu [female] was not the Meril that had befriended both him and Legolas when the archer suddenly joined her husband's company. Grief, he surmised, was a bitter brew to stomach and remain unaffected.

"I would enjoy your company and that of Lindalcon, for seldom do I have the chance to see any of my old friends now. Yet, I would prefer not to speak with Thranduil. While I may not be as outspoken as our formerly shy friend, Fearfaron, I also have misgivings about the King's part in the downfall of Legolas. I do have messages for him, having recently come from Lorien and the Havens; perhaps you would be willing to deliver them for me? I believe they are mainly from the Queen," he stated the last sentence rather pointedly. Two could play at this teasing with guilt. Meril smiled politely while feeling anything but friendly.

"Of course, I will be happy to give them into his own hands," she cooed with false gentility. "Will you be returning to the southern patrols?" she asked with a smile. Maltahondo stared at this coldness; she might as well have asked how soon he planned to die. He returned her wooden grin, however, and bowed again.

"Alas, I must. There is too much evil yet pouring from that accursed fortress of Dol Guldur. Our efforts there are all that holds the Enemy at bay," he replied and took his leave of her, returning in the direction of Fearfaron's talan. Meril watched him go, silently shredding the rolled parchments bearing Ningloriel's seal and releasing the fragments to join the detritus in the dusty courtyard below her feet. She entered into the Gates and went in search of her child.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	13. Edair, Ionath, Gwenyr

Edair, Ionath, Gwenyr [Fathers, Sons, Brothers]

In Annaldír's room, Legolas strained against the weight of Gandalf as the wizard held him firmly pressed against the mattress. The elf cried out piteously as the healer scrubbed the rotted remains of flesh from the inflamed areas and used a rather caustic mixture of herbs and water to further burn away any remaining infection. He was vaguely aware of the hands and voices surrounding him and fought to retreat from increased perception of his painful state.

The healer wanted him awake, however, and relentlessly called and coaxed him to sensibility. He was at least able to co-operate when she attempted to force a potion past his lips, getting the desired response when she explained the fever would break sooner if he swallowed the vile-scented concoction. After that, they let him drift back towards the darkness yet kept him from fully becoming enveloped in it. Fearfaron watched with anxiety from the doorway, and turned back to the talan's opening as he heard the returning steps of Maltahondo. He hurried to meet the false-hearted warrior below.

"You cannot stay here. He will wake in a few hours and you must be gone," Fearfaron demanded before the warrior could utter a single word.

"I mean to stay and help him, if I am able. He is in peril you cannot know of," he retorted and regarded the carpenter gravely. Fearfaron was no one to pass judgement on him.

"Indeed? Well, the peril I do know of is sufficient to denounce you before the Council if you refuse to go," he whispered loudly. Maltahondo frowned at his former friend.

"You do not know the truth about this, Fearfaron. It is a private matter and it is over anyway. Why force Legolas to endure the public disclosure of such a sensitive subject?" he argued. At this Fearfaron was almost beside himself with anger, a state of emotions he had rarely had opportunity to experience in his long life.

"That is just the most preposterous statement I have ever heard! I know the truth of it, for Legolas himself told me. A private matter? I dare say that is what you have hoped for all this time, to spare yourself. Over, did you say? You can not be further from understanding how it is with Legolas if you can say that. As for public disclosure, he has already endured that experience in a like vein and I would gladly spare him whatever pain I might. You must go and not seek him out again. Allow him the opportunity to heal his heart as well as his body," he spoke heatedly as he gestured towards the rooms above him. Maltahondo tried to take this in, conflicted between defensive self-protection and remorseful repentance. He found himself unable to let go of either emotion when next he spoke.

"I too want him to be well and whole, Fearfaron, though you seem not to believe it. I do know the damage done; I can not undo it however much I may wish it. It was Ningloriel who gave him to me, and I could not resist although I tried," he began, but Fearfaron cut him off with an enraged shout.

"Silence! Do you think such words carry any worth except to your own ears? By the Valar, you would blame the mother? What did she do, hold him down for you, grab you by the penis and shove you in him? I cannot believe you have the gall to speak so!

"And what of her; you and she were lovers for centuries; did you do this out of revenge for her feelings for Elrond? And what of your relations with her; for all you know you may be his father." Fearfaron had to turn away for he found he wanted to strangle the warrior and the idea shocked him. After calming himself a moment he faced Maltahondo once more.

"And do not act as though you did this just once and then realised your transgressions. You used him for how long, Maltahondo, how long?" he demanded as the warrior flinched under the barrage. "Do you know that he still loves you? Do you know that he wonders what he did to cause you to give him away? Gave him away! I cannot even tell you how sickening it was to hear him speak those words."

Maltahondo remained silent and still, hearing the indictments that he had staved off for so long finally thrown in his face and he knew he had no defence. The weight of the guilt actually lessened as he endured the derogation of Fearfaron and was at last forced to admit his shame. His shoulders dropped and his proud demeanour vanished. The warrior no longer felt worthy of the death awaiting him in the southern patrols, and wondered if the Law allowed him to take his own life as recompense in such a situation.

The carpenter was breathing loudly and exerting such effort to bring himself back under control that he failed to hear Gandalf descending the rope ladder. The wizard observed the two a moment before speaking.

"I think it would be best to continue this discussion in a more secluded setting, for Legolas' sake at least," he said and Fearfaron jumped, turning swiftly to him. "Though the paths are empty, elven ears are notoriously acute and elven curiosity equally heightened," he added.

The warrior gazed about at the vacant city in alarm; had any heard Fearfaron's shouts?

"Yes, you are right Mithrandir. I do not know what has come upon me to behave so," Fearfaron said, but Gandalf smiled.

"Never mind, you need not apologise for speaking the truth, even if you were a little loud about it. Maltahondo, I believe you have true regret for what you have done, is this so?" the Istar asked. The warrior looked at him and nodded listlessly while Fearfaron glowered, unbelieving. "Come up, then, and we will discuss what is best to do. Let us try and remain cool-headed and choose what will best serve Legolas' future." The two elves followed the wizard into the talan and they seated themselves awkwardly while Gandalf paced slowly about the room. "We must take care; Legolas lies between sleep and waking while the fever still claims him. I know not how his mind will interpret what we say here," he said.

Fearfaron got up to check on Legolas again, leaning into the room and gazing down at the still form on the bed. Legolas lay on his stomach and his head was turned away, but his back looked cleaner and the lashes were sealing over with the normal dark brown of dried blood rather than seeping the puss filled ooze that had predominated earlier. His torso rose and fell in even intervals and the gleam of sweat was lessened. The healer looked up and smiled reassuringly.

"He is more comfortable now and the infection I have cleansed away. With enough rest and care I believe he will recover fully," she said and Fearfaron smiled his thanks.

"Do you think he can hear and understand what we are saying?" he asked worriedly. The healer shrugged.

"Who can know? It is possible, yet he still struggles against the fever. It may be that he can hear, but fails to comprehend what is being said. He drifts near but does not reach wakefulness, nor is he likely to for some time as the sickness works its way out of his system. Perhaps it will seem as a part of the delirium," she could offer no firmer reassurance and Fearfaron nodded, returning to his seat. He looked over at Maltahondo and frowned again.

"This is just not forgivable. Really, you must go. It is the only thing that can help Legolas at all. What would you say to him that could possibly mitigate what you have done?" he said in a strained yet quiet manner. Maltahondo shifted in his chair and kept his eyes down not certain if he was expected to respond. Gandalf nodded slowly and drew out his pipe, taking his time to fill and light it as he leaned against the trunk of the tree.

"I am curious as to what brought you back here," he said but continued without waiting for the warrior to answer. "And I would like to know if you are the father. What say you to the charge, Maltahondo?" The warrior's head snapped up at that and he shook it firmly to indicate his negation.

"No, that much is not true," he insisted. "Ningloriel assured me of this long ago, when Legolas was born." At this Fearfaron groaned.

"It is telling that you needed to ask, Maltahondo. This proves nothing and only adds more confusion. Obviously, you suspected your paternity or you would have needed no reassurance from her," he said irritably. Gandalf grunted his agreement but Maltahondo again shook his head.

"No, of this I may be certain: I am not his father. It is true that when he was born, I hoped it would be so. That is why I questioned her. Clearly, you know the Queen but little. It is not in her nature to bear the child of one so low in rank and power as I am. My family has served hers since they first arrived from Ossiriand, and have been pleased to do so, owing a life debt as it were from those days.

"Ningloriel always wanted more for her family, and sought an advantageous connection among the High Elves. Her father agreed this would strengthen the position of the Danwaith and chose for her Thranduil, for the Noldor were implicated in the curse of Feanor. This, she never forgave him for, and it was me she turned to when the despair overcame her.

"She meant to run away alone to be with her sister in 'Lorien. Of course I went with her, and thus did the pattern of her behaviour emerge. In me she confided her true desire to bond with the Lord of Imladris, as she considered the wisdom and skill of the Noldor greater than the Sindar, and she scorned the ineptitude and pride that had caused the decimation of the Sindar at the Last Alliance. Yet, that was not to be, as he had already made arrangements to wed Celebrian of 'Lorien and thus form a powerful alliance of his own," Maltahondo's words ended as he recalled these events.

"Her infatuation with Elrond did not prevent you from presuming to overstep your duties to her, your charge, did it?" Fearfaron spat. "It seems she is not the only one whose pattern of behaviour revealed itself! You have a propensity for taking sexual satisfaction from those entrusted to your guardianship in exchange for needed emotional support."

Maltahondo stood in anger and faced his old friend then. "No, it was not like that with her! I would have bonded with her, had my station been such to allow it. Believe what you will, but my motives towards Ningloriel are not base," he rationalised as Fearfaron also rose.

"Really? And then what of your rape of her child? Where does that act stand in your true devotion to Ningloriel?" he yelled. The warrior would have responded but Gandalf stepped between the two and cautioned them to be quiet.

"This will not do," he said and furrowed his bushy grey brows in a menacing scowl that he flashed at both the incensed elves. Maltahondo returned to his seat as Fearfaron glared sideways at him, taking a chair further from the warrior. "Now then," the Istar continued more graciously. "It seems Ningloriel is the only one who knows the true answer to this riddle. Do you know when the relationship with Elrond began?"

"Yes, I know they were lovers almost from the time they met and this precedes my own involvement with her," he chanced a glance at Fearfaron as though expecting another outburst. "For her, it was as close to love as she is capable of feeling. For him, I think not. He wishes to add the lands across the Misty Mountains to his holdings. And he has always had an unusual interest in Thranduil's treasure horde, an unlikely thing considering he has never shown a desire to accumulate like wealth," the warrior continued.

"They met through Celebrian, as a matter of fact, so we may assume the affair was as long-lived as the true bonding. A long time to remain with one you do not love when no obvious motive of alliance can be seen," the wizard mused. They were silent for a time and Fearfaron observed as the wily old wizard, drawing contemplatively on the stem of his pipe, pondered the information. It seemed to the carpenter that what had thus far been told served not Legolas in any tangible way, and rather he suspected the Maia was gathering news for his own purposes.

"What is to be done? None of this aids us in comforting Legolas through this mess. He asked her himself, and her response was anything but gentle. She alone knows and she is gone, and still Legolas must deal with it all while serving out this Judgement against him. What she may have wished in her heart may not be truth in reality, as her long-standing belief in Elrond's love for her attests. So I say again, Maltahondo; you may be his father. Then, this would make the injury you have done already that much more abominable. Did you not think on this before you committed such atrocities? How could you use him so, who never harmed you and trusted you with his life and soul?" Fearfaron was quickly becoming agitated and rose from his chair to loom over the warrior. Gandalf reached over and carefully drew the elf away, silencing him with a pointed dip of his head in the direction of the sleeping chamber.

"Peace! You are right; this does not help the fallen archer. Now, what did bring you to return here, Maltahondo?" Gandalf asked, again directing the topic to less volatile ground.

"And how do you plan to answer for your misdeeds?" Fearfaron added.

Maltahondo looked from one to the other miserably. How could he explain to them the cock-eyed reality one inhabited in the company of Ningloriel? All they said to him now sounded true and he was filled with disgust for what he was become. Yet, when with his Queen it had all been so easy to overlook and shrug away, considering his own feelings paramount.

He loved her, and had accepted whatever she chose to give him of her heart. That this had included Legolas had not seemed so scandalous at the time. After all, it was common for parents to choose an elfling's first, and Legolas had clearly wanted it. The idea of rape had never entered his thoughts; he had just been too rough and rather careless. He had made it up to him later; Legolas had revelled in his attentions and craved their love-making. And when the time came to end it Legolas had not complained, so it was easy to assume his heart had not been affected by the joining.

Maltahondo had salved his conscience with these lies, while assigning motives similar to Ningloriel's to Legolas; knowing nothing could be more false. Maltahondo remembered more clearly now the devastation on Legolas' face when he had announced that a new lover had been found for him; the confused but trusting acceptance as Maltahondo made his excuse of having merely been teaching the young one of the ways of love. Now he saw his actions through the eyes of Fearfaron and understood the rage the carpenter felt and he ground his teeth in frustration.

"I returned to warn him. While in Lorien I was approached by Lord Elrond. He said that he was acting out of fondness for the Queen and that he promised her to help her son. He bade me fetch Legolas back to Lorien to his care. This I do not trust, for I have long known he was using Ningloriel to seek information against Thranduil. He has tried many times to draw him into open conflict and thus take from him the Greenwood, but Thranduil has been wise enough to spend his rages at home. Thranduil has a repugnance of harming any elf, even Noldor, and will not raise sword against any elven realm, no matter the bad blood that arises," he stated.

Gandalf was clearly unimpressed with Thranduil's magnanimous restraint, thinking of the circumstances Legolas found himself in. Fearfaron was just as clearly amazed, but rather at Elrond's audacity, and turned to Gandalf for his comments only to see the Istar brooding in contempt.

"He seeks to turn Legolas against Thranduil because of the Judgement?" the carpenter wondered aloud, and Gandalf raised troubled eyes to his.

"Perhaps. I had hoped to talk to Legolas about the Judgement more closely, but this may be impossible until he is recovered. In any case, I would not think it a bad thing if he goes to Lorien and comes under the influence of Elrond. It is equally possible that he is Legolas' father, and would explain his interest in less mercenary terms," the wizard replied thoughtfully, but Fearfaron disagreed.

"No, he must not go to Lorien now. If Elrond is the father, he has shown only disregard for Legolas thus far. If he cared for the relationship as you suggest, he could long ago have sent word to him through Ningloriel to join him at Imladris. Once in his majority, Legolas was free to leave if he chose to do so. Given that he used the Queen for his own purposes, he is likely to do the same with her son. Legolas has only his Tawar and myself to depend on, and neither can reach him there. He is far too trusting, assuming the motives that drive his actions are the same for others," here the carpenter shot another scorching look at Maltahondo. "He cares not for power or possessions and does not understand jealousy or hatred at all. I do not think he would fare well among the Noldor." Fearfaron's prejudices could not be put aside, yet Gandalf could not deny the soundness of much he said.

"I agree with you, carpenter, though you may disregard my opinion. The Lord of Imladris is not inspired by kindness. At any rate, Legolas would never leave without completing the Tasks, for you are also right about the genuine quality of his motives. He will fulfil the obligations of the Judgement or die in the attempt," the warrior said and Gandalf stirred.

"Then that must be helped along. I have no intention of allowing him to die; I have seen something unusual in him and would have it develop further. I need him, and can lend him guidance in exchange," he murmured as Fearfaron arched a brow in his direction. {At last, the Istar reveals his true purpose, and it has nothing to do with Legolas' well-being for his own sake,} he thought angrily.

"He will not accept your help and your guidance would serve him in what way? You have not said anything about what you are doing here, Gandalf," he said and Gandalf calmly dumped out the blackened ashy remains of his pipe's bowl, casting it over the edges of the talan before answering the challenge.

"I do not claim to have only Legolas' interests foremost in my mind, yet you do not have any reason to distrust me, Fearfaron. Did you not send for me to come when you arrived? It seems that in spite of your protective nature, or more truly because of it, you seek to involve me in your foster son's future."

Fearfaron sat up straight and wondered at these words as Gandalf's eyes crinkled warmly to see his reaction. Yet, the carpenter found the concept neither foreign nor unpleasant and let it run a few times across his thoughts before replying. Maybe it was right to claim Legolas as his foster son and as he thought this he acknowledged that he had already done so, on the night of Edinor Baudh. With a flash of realisation he understood that subconsciously Legolas had accepted, and that this agreement was somehow linked to Annaldír's release. Fearfaron smiled to himself and focused again on the Istar's speech.

"You know that what Maltahondo states is so, and on considering it, I also agree; Legolas will not cease trying to complete these Tasks until he frees all the lost warriors or dies. I can be at his aid when neither of you can for no Law or Custom of the Wood Elves binds me. And, my council will indeed benefit him as I have reason to believe he intends to locate himself near Dol Guldur," the wizard continued and watched as Fearfaron's placid features contorted in alarm.

"Why would he do that? There is surely enough trouble near by to keep him busy for numerous years and to fulfil the completion of many Tasks," he complained. What cruelty was this to give him another son only to snatch the hope for his living long away?

"He has already expressed a desire to continue his efforts in a more substantial way. He thinks more now of his responsibility to Tawar than his obligations under the Judgement. He has become a bit disillusioned with the Laws and Customs," Gandalf replied and Fearfaron snorted at this understatement. The warrior shifted a bit and stood.

"I can also follow him there and perhaps be of aide," he began but immediately Fearfaron rose to contest him.

"Oh no, I think not! You will stay away from him; have you not done enough harm?" he fought to keep his tones low as he uttered these words.

"I was with him all the years we served in the guard together and never in all that time did I touch him in that way," the warrior argued. "You said yourself he still trusts and cares for me," he was again cut off by the carpenter's derisive sneer.

"No, I said he still loves you, Maltahondo. I do not believe you honourable enough to refrain from taking advantage of that fact, so far away from any eyes to observe you. It was your own reputation you sought to protect when you handed Legolas off to some other elf's use. You did not want word to get around within the guard of your crimes." Fearfaron stopped speaking as Gandalf caught his eye with an irritated and impatient scowl. Maltahondo said nothing to these charges and turned as though to go.

"Wait," spoke Gandalf. "Can you swear that there is no veracity in what has been said?" Maltahondo sighed despondently. He wanted to loudly protest that none of the condemnations were accurate, except that the last part of him that was ethical refused to allow it. He remained silent, head bowed, and waited for the Istar's decision. The wizard sighed with equal grief and turned away. "Then, I must side with Fearfaron. You will stay away from Legolas. What help you can give you must render from within the confines of your company. Should you disregard this request, I will back the carpenter's claims against you in Council," he said bluntly. A movement from the sleeping chamber surprised them as the healer leaned out the doorway.

"As will I," she growled with fervour before disappearing back within the room as quickly as she had come forth.

Fearfaron refrained from adding to what he had said already and stood as well, moving as though to escort the warrior down the rope ladder. Maltahondo accepted his dismissal and retreated from the talan, moving off towards Ennyn Telei [the Rear Gates] that opened into the barracks and stable-yard. He planned to ride back to Talagan's company the next morning, relieved that his secret sin was yet a mostly private concern, and determined to prove to himself that there was still something worthwhile within his character.

Afternoon's golden gleam dwindled into tinnu's shadowy softness as Fearfaron and the healer kept their vigil near Legolas. Gandalf made his excuses before the evening meal was missed and returned to the stronghold, promising to check back later.

With a strong sensation of déjà vu, Legolas breathed in deeply the fading scent of Fearfaron's son within the pillows and mattress of the comfortable bedding.

He was aware of the same dull aching across his back and shoulders and the same lightness of breath and dizzy spinning in his head as before on the night of Edinor Baudh. Was it still that same night? Somehow this seemed wrong and he struggled to order the fuzzy fragments of memory and regain a coherent timeline. He sought to lift his head and found it unbearably heavy. A sharp pounding started immediately in his temples and he groaned into the pillow as he let his head drop back quickly. Nearly instantly he felt hands gently gripping his biceps, even as he had before, and recognised the touch of the carpenter's roughened and callused fingers.

"Legolas? Are you awake?" the familiar voice spoke close to his ear and he nodded once against the pounding in his brain. "Then, you must be thirsty. But lie still, for you have been struggling long against this sickness. The healer has only left a few hours ago when she was convinced the fever was finally broken. Here, drink slowly," he said and helped Legolas raise his head to the water skin he held, this being easier to drink from in such a prone position.

Legolas found himself parched and would have gulped down the entire contents, but the carpenter restrained him and forced him to rest and breath between swallows. Slowly the liquid refreshed him and the headache began to subside a bit. Legolas managed a lopsided smile for his friend before shutting his eyes again and drifting back into much needed healing sleep.

Sunlight, softly muted through the filter of the last lingering leaves of the autumn-kissed beeches, played about the flowing net draperies surrounding the bed in which Legolas reposed. Exquisitely the gentle afternoon's illumination sang in the air as the cooling breezes blew their own calming notes throughout the talan. Both cautiously caressed the cruelly used body that held there so strong and bright a soul. High and sweet the clear tones of a sylvan voice joined the glory of the lengthening day and the soothing sounds eased Legolas into consciousness. He smiled to hear the sunbeam's song joined by the youthful exuberance of that very elf as Lindalcon recited a tune he remembered from his own lessons in geography of Middle Earth.

"Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui  
In the green fields of Lebennin!  
Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea  
The white lilies sway,  
And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin  
In the green fields of Lebennin,  
In the wind from the Sea!"1

Lindalcon crooned in dulcet timbre as he absentmindedly turned the pages of a thick tome filled with maps and verses for all the regions known from the First Age to the present. Legolas roused himself at last convinced this was not, after all, a dream and the young elf was actually seated next to him on the bed, legs crossed beneath him with the book upon his lap. Lindalcon felt his movement and ceased singing to peer into his face with concern. Legolas gazed back with a hazy smile through slumberous eyes. Lindalcon jumped up and ran to the doorway, a bright smile upon his countenance.

"He is awake, Fearfaron! Really, this time he is awake," he called out and then ran back and climbed back with exaggerated care to resume his place, cautious not to jostle the recovering elf even the smallest bit. "It is high time, too, Legolas. Every time I come here you just sleep the whole time, and then Nana sends for me to go home again. It has been three days thus," he spoke in exasperated cadence and Legolas smiled more. He shifted, trying to determine if he could raise himself up, only to find Fearfaron's arms quickly assisting him to roll carefully onto his side. Legolas propped himself up on one elbow with effort and gazed from one to the other.

"Well now," said Fearfaron happily. "Three days indeed it has been. It is good to see you clear eyed and cognisant."

"I thought you were dead; it was awful to see you like that, all white and limp," Lindalcon breathed out in distressful accents and reached over to touch Legolas' arm lightly.

"Sorry," Legolas' voice was dry and cracked and he frowned, trying to clear it in vain. Fearfaron went to the side table and poured out a cup of water and handed it to him, watching as he drained it in seconds and handed it back, eyes pleading for more. Fearfaron complied and sighed contentedly to hear the hurried gulping and slurping as Legolas again downed the contents. Lindalcon snickered.

"Nana would scold you for such noisy swallows. Lucky for you she is not here now," he giggled and then stopped abruptly as Legolas paled and all the peace left his eyes. Lindalcon dropped his smile and his eyes as he remembered that Legolas' own mother was gone. How could he be so stupid, he berated himself silently? But the next instant he felt a hand against his chin and a gentle pressure forcing him to lift his gaze. Legolas smiled a sad smile to reassure him and dropped his hand back to the bed.

"Have you been here every day?" he asked and was pleased his words sounded more like his normal voice. Lindalcon was nodding.

"I am allowed to come after lessons and stay until dinner-time. My tutor usually brings me back and forth." he replied.

"Speaking of dinner, you have been all this time without anything nourishing and I would like you to try and eat something. I'll be right back," Fearfaron left to prepare something light for the three of them and returned with a tray of sliced apples, sweet and golden as the sunlight. Legolas devoured four pieces before he noticed the other two were just watching and smiling at him. He grinned timorously and slowed down to give them an opportunity to help themselves. Lindalcon snickered again and Legolas raised his brows in inquiry. Lindalcon tossed his wavy tresses pack from his face.

"I was remembering that picnic we had two summers ago when it was my Edinor-ned-Nauthad [anniversary day of conception]. You ate so fast you choked and Ada had to pound on your back." The young elf watched as Legolas' face grew serious and sad again, and he knew his own looked similar, but somehow that felt comfortable at the same time. "I do not believe you killed him," Lindalcon blurted out and Legolas caught his breath.

"I did not mean to, Lindalcon, but I was careless. I am sorry," he whispered hoarsely, but the elfling refused the apology.

"No!" he countered. "I have seen the battle over and over, almost every night in dreams. It is the nasty Goblin King that killed Ada. He was very brave and he stepped in front of one of the Men to save him from the beast." The child was crying quietly and Legolas instinctively reached out and pulled him into a tight hug against his shoulder. "Why does no one ever tell the tale of the battle and sing about the brave deeds?" he wailed and Legolas looked helplessly over the elfling's shoulder to Fearfaron, who had no solace to offer. "It is as though everyone is afraid to speak about it; as though the fight was shameful and something to forget," Lindalcon went on through his broken sobs as he clung to Legolas. "My Ada never did any shameful thing," he cried and Legolas was angry to hear how the fallen warriors were ignored and forgotten so quickly by their people.

"You are right, and your father was very brave and fought well that day," Legolas said. "He did save that Man, and many others. Before he was struck down, he twice pushed back Andamaitë from danger. I saw this myself from above the battle plane. His efforts should indeed be sung on Edinor ned Dagor-od-Eriador [Anniversary Day of the Battle of Eriador]. We will never forget him." Fearfaron was nodding in agreement and reached out to soothingly rub the elfling's back as his shuddering sobs slowed.

"Aye, Lindalcon. We will have to remind the others of these things you say. Valtamar was my good friend, and I am proud my son was beside him at the end," he said, but at these words Legolas descended into despair again as he realised all this sorrow could have been avoided but for his own failings that day. His own tears began then and he leaned his head against Lindalcon's, whose sorrow spilled over anew as he felt and heard the archer's lament. Fearfaron sat on the bed and encircled them both in his arms and thus they remained until the sun's golden globe became a coppery orb and Lindalcon's tutor called him away.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	14. Tirn-en-Tawar

Tirn-en-Tawar [Watcher in the Great Wood]

Other Characters:

Herdir [Master]: Elf scout from Lorien, spying around Dol Guldur

Rusciphant [Wise Old Fox]: same as above, Rusci for short  


* * *

"Eru's arse! This place is the most foul!"

An irritated cry tinged with the overtones of pain sounded through the dismally dark forest. The disgruntled words followed the grunt and were in turn answered by a sniggering guffaw close at hand. The dark haired elf glared belligerently at his similarly crowned companion as he gingerly extracted a long, curved and gooey thorn from his thigh. "Oh, you find this amusing, mellon nîn [my friend]? If it becomes rancid I shall use you as my horse for the return home."

"It does look as though that plant is venomous. If it is unpleasant, dangerous, or smelly one is sure to find it in Mirkwood. Does it burn greatly, Rusci?" The other was more serious now, inspecting the spike cautiously and poking at the puncture in his comrade's leg.

"Ai! Stop, of course it burns! But it is just a plant, Herdir; I am sure its toxins are not enough to finish me," the injured one replied but made no objections when his companion slit open the cloth around the wound and inspected it more carefully. Herdir frowned a bit and searched his pack for a powdered general-purpose disinfecting and pain-killing herb he always carried. Finding it, he turned back to Rusciphant and pressed down on the swelling muscle, forcing a thin stream of watery looking blood to discharge. Rusci tensed a little from the stinging pain as Herdir washed out the wound with the contents of his water skin and then pressed some of the powder down into the cut.

"That should keep it fairly clean; although there is no telling how bad the poison is or how much of it is still in you," he said. "I better keep the thorn, in case you worsen. There is probably an antidote already, back at home."

"Wonderful!" Rusciphant flung out his sarcastic comment and resumed his progress through the tangled undergrowth. "Herdir, I think it is pointless to continue on this track; the path has not been used by anything bipedal in long years."

"I agree. Indeed, this stopped being any kind of pathway some hours ago. If the Orc band came this way it would be evident. However, the reports definitely pinpointed this region of Mirkwood as their staging area for the raids on the villages east of Lorien. We are less than a league from Dol Guldur." A faint rustling in the canopy above caught both elves' attention and they instantly stilled, scanning the high, camouflaged branches. Rusciphant drew in his breath sharply.

"There! Do you see?" he whispered, and Herdir nodded.

"Oh, my," he murmured breathlessly as his gaze concentrated on the drawn bow trained directly at them and the still form wielding it. They could just make out the Wood Elf among the leaves, dressed in very little more than ragged leather breeches that scarcely reached the knee, unshod and lacking even a tunic. Fierce were the piercing blue eyes that held theirs, adorning a youthful countenance with features noble and fair in spite of the unkempt poverty of his attire. A tumbled mass of golden hair drifted in the faint breeze, pulled back in twisted strands and bound with a leather cord to prevent entanglement in the bowstring. Both were dismayed for having missed the creature before he got the drop on them.

"Man caril sí?" Sin aldorlin; boe bado!" [What are you doing here? These are not your lands; you must go!] A quiet voice spoke and the elves had the eerie realisation that the entire forest around them had become silent at the sound. Rusciphant shifted, moving his weight off the injured leg and flashing a glance at Herdir.

"We are from Lorien, hunting a band of Orcs we got news of seven moons ago," he said in answer to the challenge.

"Within Tawar you are not free to hunt any beast, be it fey or fair," the archer responded and Rusciphant made a derisive snort.

"I had not heard that Orcs were now under the protection of the Wood Elves," he replied in disgust, instantly regretting the remark as the sound of air parting before the flight of an arrow was followed by the sight of the missile buried half way up its length in the dirt by his boot. In fact, he noticed with a mixture of admiration and uneasiness, the arrowhead had sliced through the tip of the boot while leaving his toes untouched, and he was anchored to the spot. The interlopers' eyes met in silent communication: there would be no getting beyond this creature's aim, especially if he stayed up in the trees. Herdir sighed in irritation.

"We apologise for both the trespass and the misspoken comment, archer. In the past, we have come into Mirkwood to route out such bands of Orcs that strayed too close to the Nimrodel or harassed the lands nearby. We have never been questioned by any of the Woodland King's guard when we met them." Herdir hoped to ease the tension while still pointing out that they knew the elf had only the authority of his weapons and did not represent the Elven King's wishes in any way. He was startled when bright laughter sparkled down upon them and the unusual elf relaxed and dropped his arm.

"I think it is obvious I answer not to the Woodland Realm's King," he said mirthfully. "And you are closer to Dol Guldur than I have ever seen any Lorien elves approach before, even when advancing a full sortie. And so I ask again: what are you doing here, so far from your own lands?" The two elves stared wordlessly, first at their captor and then at each other.

"We might ask you the same thing, then," Rusciphant countered for lack of a better idea and Herdir gazed at him in exasperation.

"And gladly would I answer you, though it must seem evident. I live here; Tawar is my home," he replied with amusement. He laughed again at their consternation, these elves were not used to being caught out unawares so. "Poor spies you make, for I have had you under my bow for three days. I did not know the Golden Wood was becoming lax in its standards for warriors." He gazed down from his perch smiling slightly, balanced gracefully on a slender branch, one leg drawn under him and the other casually swaying back and forth through the air. His bow he held in a seemingly careless grasp, an arrow between the fingers of the same hand, but in truth he was alert and even tense as he considered his unexpected guests.

"Three days! Oh that cannot be, you are being facetious now and boastful," Rusciphant retorted his pride prickling. The offhand demeanour of the Archer's posture remained but his voice dropped to low and menacing tones.

"That is a poor choice of words, considering your position," he said quietly and again there was the unpleasant sensation of stillness throughout the vicinity, as though even the wind ceased moving and streams halted their flow at his voice's understated command. Herdir felt his skin tingling as though the air might erupt in lightening sparks and he watched in nervous anticipation when the archer suddenly rose and rearmed his bow. He did not turn it upon them however and instead seemed to be concentrating on a distant point beyond them.

"Up!" he ordered abruptly and climbed higher as he glanced down at them. "Quickly, there is little time. A large troop approaches, and the Wraiths are with them." He waited no longer and was soon far ahead of them moving through the trees at an incredible rate. The two elves then heard the distant noise of many trampling feet, as the very ground seemed to protest against the passage of the vile creatures from Dol Guldur. Rusciphant snapped off the arrow's tail, pulled his boot free, and they rapidly ascended into the canopy. They started to move off in the direction of their former captor but could no longer discern his path.

"Now what? Have you any idea where he was leading us?" queried Rusciphant and Herdir shook his head, then his eyes grew wide as he beheld within his mind a clear image of the trail to take and their destination. He waited not to question this but set off in haste for the Orcs were now nearly within sight.

"Come on!" he called and led the way. Soon the cacophony of the horde's progress faded and he saw the haven to which they were being directed. A great circle of trees rising higher than the others and with branches intertwined far above the forest floor came into view. There the foliage was dense and dark and they sought the safety of a well-hidden talan nearly at the very top of the tallest tree. Their former captor was not there, however, and as they settled in the sounds of the Orc troop grew near again so that they dared not venture out to seek him.

For a time the beasts seemed to be aimlessly milling about in an ever widening circle, and then a triumphant shout was called and they tore away en masse. Before the elves could even think of leaving the security of the flet, a strong sense of doom and dread crept over them as though a foul breath were sampling their scent and craving to devour their very souls. In spite of themselves they cringed low against the wooden platform and covered their heads, remaining still in frozen terror until the sensation abated gradually. Cautiously, Herdir raised his head and glanced about as his heart's tempo returned to normal. As he sat back to survey their location Rusciphant came to his side.

"In Eru's name, what was that?" he said and Herdir grimaced.

"Unless I am mistaken, that was a Wraith. It does not seem to have cared that we were here, however," he replied and stood, walking to the edge of the talan. The woods were still and he could not hear the sounds of the Orcs.

"Perhaps it did not know we were here," Rusci ventured, but Herdir gave him an incredulous look.

"That is highly unlikely. It seemed to have a specific goal and would not be deterred. Our presence here is not a threat to it, and this place, though known, seems protected somehow," he responded.

"Ah yes," Rusci began. "Exactly how did you know about this place? And if you had knowledge of these protected flets then why have you been forcing me to sleep on the hard ground or in the branches of trees the last five nights?" Herdir was quiet, for he had no answer to give. The knowledge was not his own, of that he was certain, and it definitely was not Rusci's. That left only the wild elf they had encountered, and the implications were troubling. He took a breath before speaking and glanced back at his friend, who waited in patient if not gracious expectation for an answer.

"I did not know of it before the instant we heard the Orcs, nor can I explain to you how I came by the information. It seemed to me a clear image in my mind, and it did not waver until my feet felt the wooden floor supporting us now. I suspect it is connected to our fey Tawarwaith," he replied reflectively.

"And where has he gone, I wonder," Rusci mused and Herdir shrugged. "It must be him, of course, though he is like nothing I could ever have imagined. No elf I have ever seen looked so primitive. Hard to reconcile that figure in the trees with the Royal House of Oropher. I hope we may get a closer look," his words mellowed into a distinctly seductive and hungry rumble and Herdir sent him a sharp glare.

"I told you before; hands off," he snapped and Rusci shook his head in amusement.

"All right! But you must admit he has quite an effect on the libido. I have to confess I am very jealous he is communicating with you in this clandestine and uncommon manner rather than me," Herdir snorted his scepticism but said nothing as he considered the impression the Wood Elf had left in his mind, acknowledging that his interest was stirred in that regard as well.

"Yes, he is not what I expected either. I do hope he has found a similar safe spot to evade the Enemy." Rusciphant nodded his agreement and rose also, going to the edge of the flet and gazing around in each direction. They were high in the canopy and he could make out what appeared to be a sort of trail way through the branches leading away into the forest to his right. It seemed to him as if elven feet had lightly crossed there many times and the trees had attempted to align their limbs to make the passage easier. What it was that made this obvious he could not say, only that his senses told him this was so. He looked at Herdir for confirmation of this impression and the other elf nodded briefly. Rusci felt the skin on his neck prickling uncomfortably and he shook himself to rid him of the eerie sensation. Perhaps this sort of communication was nothing to envy after all.

"What now? Should we continue on or wait for him to seek us out again?" he asked.

"We are clearly being invited to proceed," Herdir replied, extending his hand toward the tree top trail. Rusci frowned.

"I do not like this; suppose it is some trick and we end up in the Orc's camp or happen upon that Wraith?" he whined but Herdir merely smirked at his discomfort.

"He could have done us in any time over the last three days had he desired to kill us off," he reminded his friend. "I think he trusts us and takes it for granted we will return the sentiment. We are all elves, after all, and likely the only ones in this part of Mirkwood. At the very least he is curious and has not figured us out yet."

"Yes, perhaps he is lonely," Rusci could not keep a suggestively hopeful quality from coating his words and Herdir rolled his eyes in irritation. Without further discussion he moved out into the branches following the path revealed to their inner eyes and Rusci followed. They were soon deeper into the claustrophobic forest.

The day wore on toward night and no further sign had the elves of their unusual quarry, nor of any dangers. The woods grew steamy and as the sun dipped below the horizon a misting rain began that furred their clothes with a fine gleam of water droplets as the moisture beaded up on their sturdy garments. The limbs grew slick and their progress slowed as Rusci's leg began to grow sore from the continued exertion. He cursed as his foot skidded off the branch he was on and he had to struggle to maintain his balance. Herdir reached out and grabbed hold of his arm to steady him and pull him over onto the branch he stood upon. The rain had become a torrent now and the elves were quickly becoming soaked to the skin. A low rumble flowed through the air as thunder sounded its distant voice.

In his inner vision, Herdir realised they were near another talan and glanced at Rusci; he nodded to indicate he was aware of it too. They scampered through the trees cautiously and climbed gratefully onto the wooden structure. To their joy they discovered the talan bore a partial roof near the tree's trunk and they hunkered down under it as the grey sheets of rain blurred the landscape all around them, reducing everything to shimmering shades of lowering shadow. They sat silently as the storm raged, digging into their packs for lembas to refresh their bodies.

As the night lengthened the rain abated, leaving behind an unbearably humid heat instead of the clean and refreshing breath of night the elves were accustomed to after an evening shower. Rusci removed his boots and weapons and stripped off his outer garments, laying the saturated clothing flat upon the platform. Herdir followed suit and soon the elves were slightly more comfortable. The shared insight into their surroundings departed abruptly and both elves started in surprise at the loss of this connection. They gazed at each other, concerned about what it could mean, and almost immediately found themselves unaccountably drowsy. Within minutes both had drifted into reverie.

A tumultuous pounding of feet and the raucous calls of commands in the Black Tongue stunned the elves into awareness late into the night. In alarm they drew back against the tree's trunk, realising a large troop of foul Orcs was swarming below them in the forest. No sensation of the demoralising dread spawned by the Wraiths reached them and for this they were grateful, as a pitched battle seemed to be taking place nearby. They could clearly hear the zing of elven arrows and the cries of the fell beasts when they met their targets. Occasionally they seemed to hear a fair voice taunting the Orcs and the ensuing rage drowned out the merry laughter. Finally they heard a great crashing of wood as though the very trees were being felled in the battle; and wails and cries of agony and wrath joined the sound. Soon, the twang of a bow followed by grunts of pain as death claimed its victims was the only sound, and even these grew lesser and at last died away. The silence of the forest was more complete than they had yet heard, and they could do nothing more than await the morning to understand what had happened and where the elves they had heard had come from or where they now were gone.

Dawn was only a dim brightening of the air under the heavy eaves of the massive trees in the southern reaches of Mirkwood. Thus Herdir and Rusciphant slept longer into the morning than was their wont. They quickly dressed and with unspoken agreement set out from the talan in the direction of the night's conflict, trusting to their skills in tracking to guide them as the peculiar inner connection to their environment had not returned. After less than half a league was traversed the terrain below them gave evidence of a large troupe of careless beasts having plunged through, slashing and uprooting the dense underbrush in their way. The wind shifted and the unmistakable sourness of death and decay reached them. They continued and soon came upon the location of the night's combat.

Rusciphant carefully scanned the earth below them. The gruesome scene of destruction was unlike anything he had witnessed before. The ground was deeply pitted and honeycombed with traps, and they were able to see that each of the open pits held one and occasionally two cold carcasses of orcs. Every one of them was impaled through the base of the skull or the neck with an arrow identical to the one the feral elf had used earlier. Numerous spikes set in the bottom and walls of the pits also pierced through the orcs' bodies. Rusciphant sounded a low whistle of amazed deference and shared a glance with Herdir. It was obvious that the elven army they had assumed to be at work in the darkness was in fact one lone daredevil: their elusive Tawarwaith.

"Building such defences must have taken a long time and keeping them cleared and set would be a huge undertaking in itself," he said in clearly impressed intonation. They finally cleared the scene of carnage, passing overhead the ten or so dead orcs that, having observed the fate of their comrades, had tried to escape. Each was cleanly felled with a single arrow. Rusciphant respected such economy, and thought the wild archer would probably return and remove all the arrows so as to recover and reuse the tips. They both also realised that the archer would have had to use some sort of a lure to cause the beasts to come right to this spot, and recalling the taunting words and laughter of the night, surmised that he had used himself. This they found disturbing for they would never take on a large band alone, even with traps.

"I count 24; that is admirable," said Rusciphant and meant it. Herdir nodded one moment and shook his head the next.

"Perhaps it is so in our home, but here it is of little consequence. What are 24 against hundreds more? No one can put an end to them piecemeal like this, even given all eternity to finish the task," his tone was dismayed and gave away the perplexed curiosity he felt. The two elves once more found each other's eyes.

"Still, you must admit the courage to try so is commendable," Rusci countered and Herdir did not argue against this.

"I thank-you, yet would I agree with your companion if destruction of the Orcs was my Task," the light and musical voice that reached them sounded bone weary and faint. It seemed to originate from high in the canopy and further away from the disgusting remains below, yet the precise location they could not perceive.

"Where are you?" Herdir called, but no answer came back. Rusciphant and Herdir scanned carefully for any glimpse of their wild elf to no avail, and at last had to move forward in the general direction of the words as they searched, concerned for the lack of response. With abrupt clarity, an image of the elf sprawled out senseless on a nearby flet briefly illuminated Herdir's mind, and he gasped in the intensity of the feeling of absolute exhaustion radiating through the image. "There!" he called and made his way quickly towards another cluster of mighty trees and climbed higher. The flet was broad and sheltered over with a living roof of leafy branches, and there upon the floor the feral elf lay still. Herdir scrambled up as Rusciphant followed yet both stopped short just over the lip of the platform, struck by the sight before them.

The prone elf was stretched out his full length, one lanky leg fully extended and the other bent at the knee. He lay partially on his side and mostly on his stomach, one arm stretched above his head as his hand still loosely clutched his bow and the other lay draped across his waist. His golden locks splayed out upon the floor behind him and his quiver was still strapped securely about him. His position was such that his back was facing them, and even in the dim midmorning Mirkwood light and the partial cover of the quiver, the ugly criss-crossing of numerous scars was visible. Rusciphant caught his breath.

"Elbereth!" he whispered, but Herdir said nothing as he cautiously approached their unconscious host. He carefully felt for the buckles of the leather harness securing the quiver and released it, drawing the straps out from under him with slow care. With a tentative hand he touched the disfigured flesh and his healer's fingers instinctively counted and dated the overlapping marks, as his eyes grew sorrowful. He then pressed fingers around the limp wrist draped across the elf's midsection and looked up to send Rusciphant a relieved glance. Rusci let out the breath he had been unaware he was holding and moved forward. Herdir gently turned the elf over onto his back to check for injuries and as his head rotated over both were shocked to see the eyelids drawn down. Quickly he inspected for wounds and found none that were apparent.

"I believe he is suffering mainly from exhaustion and probably hunger," Herdir said quietly. Rusciphant pursed his lips bitterly.

"And no wonder, to be out here alone fighting bands of Orcs single-handed," his words barked out in displeasure, although who he could direct his anger upon was uncertain. Herdir smiled at his friend's outrage; he hated the needless abuse of any fair thing, and this elf was both fair beyond measure and bold beyond compare. "He will recover then?" Rusciphant queried and Herdir nodded.

"It is best we allow him to sleep as much as he needs, as long as the danger remains distant. If he does not wake in a day's time then we will need to move him. The air will soon become unwholesome from the decomposing beasts down below. No doubt he did not plan to stay here; his body simply could not carry him further," he said contemplatively. His eyes had returned to studying the elf with a healer's appraisal and he noted with umbrage the number of ribs he could count without effort. His glance fell upon the faded scar upon his chest and he reached over to caress it, learning its history in the touch and recoiling as though burned. Rusciphant looked at him in alarm.

"What is it? Is there an injury there, internal and unseen?" he asked with concern and Herdir eyed him balefully.

"Aye, and a deep one at that," he said. "That wound was self-inflicted! Physically it has healed, but the soul still bleeds." Both elves returned their scrutiny to the sleeping patient with distress. The elf before them was suffering from grief and this at least helped explain the depth of his exhaustion.

They watched him quietly for a while, but as he did not move save for the steady rise and fall of his chest in breathing they relaxed somewhat and removed their weapons and packs. Rusciphant scooted over against the tree's trunk and fished in his pack, drawing out an apple. He tossed this to his friend and found another for himself and quietly munched his luncheon as he continued his observation of the sleeping elf.

"He must be very strong to survive the torments his flesh records," he said. "These Wood Elves are completely barbaric to allow such abuses," his words were laced with disgust and the archer twitched slightly as they were spoken. Both elves ceased chewing and watched, but no further movement occurred. Herdir swallowed and sent a cautioning glare to his friend.

"He may be sleeping, but he has incredibly acute senses. I suggest you guard your tongue," he admonished. Rusciphant nodded and allowed his eyes once more to sweep across the prone half-naked form before him. He sighed.

"Absolutely magnificent, even blemished so," he remarked, switching into Quenya. It was well known that Thranduil forbade the use of the High Tongue within his realm, as had his father before him. Herdir allowed himself an appraising ogle as well and nodded.

"The golden hair, much richer than any other I have seen before, surpasses even the lustre of the legendary Glorfindel," he agreed, responding in the High Tongue also. "But it is the eyes more so. When he looked upon me from those depths of blue they seemed to go on forever. Quite rare, that," he continued but Rusciphant dissented.

"Herdir, one cannot smell eyes or bury one's fingers in them. No, the hair is by far more tangible and thus more to my taste regardless the eye color," Herdir merely shrugged at his friend's opinion and took another bite from his fruit.

"Do you suppose all of his hair is that color?" Rusciphant pondered aloud and Herdir almost choked. At the same moment the feral elf opened his eyes, blinked once and sat up staring while Rusciphant slapped the back of Herdir as he coughed raggedly. As soon as his composure was re-established Herdir tried a weak smile and extended his hand.

"Hello! I did not expect you to wake so soon; you seemed beyond tiredness. I am Herdir, a healer, and this is Rusciphant a warrior," he said calmly in Sindarin again. The wild elf gazed at the hand before him and eventually extended his own to grasp it in warrior's fashion just below the elbow. To Rusciphant he did the same and then all sat silently regarding one another. Rusciphant cleared his throat.

"Who are you?" he said and the elf looked at him sharply.

"This you know; I am Legolas that some call Hecilo and others Tirn-en-Tawar," he said curtly and glared first at one then the other. At last the elf's eyes fell to the half consumed apples the others held and his stomach squeezed forth a loud complaining rumble. It was the scent of the fresh food that roused him. He blushed in embarrassment and frowned as he rubbed his stomach and the other elves smiled in merriment.

"We have more, do you like apples?" Rusciphant asked, pulling one from his pack and holding it out. Legolas looked from Rusciphant warily to the fruit hungrily and finally his appetite overcame his reservations and he took it, smiling slightly.

"Thank-you, I am famished. The Orcs have cut off one of my routes back into the Woodland Realm and the other we are battling over constantly. Hunting is poor this close to Dol Guldur as the Orcs have already killed off or driven away every living thing," he stopped and took a ravenous bite of the apple and sighed contentedly as he crunched the tangy fruit. In minutes it was consumed and he tossed the core away over the side of the talan. Herdir quickly offered another and it was almost as quickly gobbled down. Rusciphant offered his water skin but the elf sipped only a little before handing it back. He sighed contentedly again and stretched back down on the floor, rolling over again in the half-side, half-stomach position, his back to the other elves. Without a further word he drifted back into slumber and the two elves just looked at one another in surprise.

"That was unexpected," said Rusciphant. Herdir chuckled and resumed eating his own apple.

"Golden everywhere, without doubt," he said softly, resuming the conversation in Quenya. Rusciphant nodded, grinning.

"Can you not make up some healer's excuse to get him out of those ridiculous leggings? You did not check him thoroughly for wounds and should do so at once," he said with a giggle. Herdir snickered too.

"Aye, I will do that later, when you are not around," he teased and Rusciphant pouted.

"Well, you must at least tell me all afterwards. Did you see how he blushed? I would wager he gets flushed all over when he is aroused," he rejoined. Herdir was nodding; his lusting eyes intent upon Legolas.

"Oh yes," he whispered. "Flushed all over, his cock all rosy and rigid," he breathed and both elves shifted uncomfortably and groaned in unison, casting rueful glances at each other.

"That was an unfortunate topic of reflection to choose, Rusci," Herdir scolded. Legolas stirred and they fell silent as he propped himself up on his elbow and gazed back at them over his shoulder with irritation.

"Apparently you have been poorly brought up," he said haughtily. "Has no one informed you it is impolite to talk about someone in another language, especially when they are right in front of you?" The two elves stared with stricken faces as the archer regarded them coldly. "Say what insults you have directly and to my face, Noldor!" Herdir and Rusciphant exchanged troubled looks and Herdir drew a deep breath.

"I apologise. You are right, of course. We were not actually speaking insults as such; but we are strangers and the peoples of our respective lands are not on friendly terms. We did not want to reveal our true purpose to you," he said, telling as much of the truth as he dared, desperately hoping the elf before him did not understand the words they had spoken. Legolas held their eyes a few moments longer and then resumed his prone position with a displeased humph! Herdir and Rusciphant remained silent for a long time, uncertain anymore what the unusual elf before them could or could not hear, even when asleep.

Legolas lay very quiet and willed his heart to still and his respiration to remain normal. There was no way, of course, that these Noldor would know that while speaking the High Tongue was forbidden, understanding it was required, especially among those of noble blood. It afforded a certain advantage to the Woodland realm for the elves of Imladris and Lorien to assume that their communications in Quenya were unintelligible to Thranduil's folk.

He had stood it as long as he could, but the remarks were too personal. None should speak so about another, as though he was some, some mere trifle for them to explore and then discuss afterwards. How dare they talk about him so! They were the most odious elves he had encountered, with the possible exception of Ailinyéro, and the idea of them seeing him naked and aroused was positively repulsive.

Except that that was a lie. He was already aroused and wanted to just let them play with him awhile. In truth he had stopped their conversation to prevent the rising heat he felt from becoming obvious and giving away both his knowledge of their speech and his own desire for their attentions. Especially Herdir, with the gentle touch and kind eyes, broad shouldered and dark, his hands long-fingered and. .

Legolas stopped himself from continuing his mental reflection on Herdir's attributes lest he need to pull off his breeches himself and present his body for the healer's closer inspection.

Surely, it could not be so terribly wrong to want to feel something other than loneliness, could it? He had not been with another since before the Judgement, and that was now seventeen years past. Surely he could be forgiven one small indiscretion?

Even as he thought this, he knew he would not follow through and that they would not take the initiative after his admonishments earlier. And then they were Noldor, after all; their true purpose in the region was still obscure and they certainly did not intend to tell him. Everything about their words and actions bespoke deception, as when they claimed to be on a scouting mission from Lorien and not to know who he was. Every elven realm had been informed of his status to prevent him from escaping the Judgement; it was unlikely they would encounter another banished elf within the borders of the Woodland Realm. And they were clearly not Sylvan elves of Lorien, for they were dark and sleek and used assumed names in case they were discovered. Herdir just meant 'master' and Rusciphant was just 'wise old fox', hardly true names. Did they think him a fool also? He had determined days ago that they had to be spies from Imladris. No, he could not allow his baser drives to cast him so low as to become a plaything for these elves.

It was a very long and uncomfortable day for the three unlikely companions.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	15. Mael nuin Daedelu

Mael nuin Daedelu [Lust under the Canopy]

Legolas rested only fitfully and never reached the abyssal reverie his body needed to ease his weariness. For five years now he had toiled against the blackness of Dol Guldur, and the constant effort to draw out the Wraiths yet remain alive had taken its toll. The Orcs were wiser and harder to trap here while the cover of the trees was diminished, for the foul emanations issuing from the fortress tainted the streams and infused the earth, poisoning the trees with its vileness. An ever-expanding circle of death was replacing the living wood in the immediate vicinity of the stronghold.

Some did not die, succumbing to the Shadow and becoming enemies of the Wood Elf in their midst. It had been a horrible realisation for Legolas the first time a living tree deliberately sundered one of its limbs in the hope of plunging him into the waiting clutches of a band of Orcs. There had been several such narrow escapes early on, but as Legolas' bond with Tawar grew stronger he was able to determine the trees that were already lost and avoid them.

His alacrity in assailing their minions had quickly garnered the Wraiths' attention and now they sent out their demon hordes intending to capture him alive and bring him to their dungeons. He was constantly harried and found they were slowly trying to cut him off from the central and northern regions of the Greenwood, attempting to prevent his escape back to the Woodland Realm. Legolas was unable to return as often as the Judgement required, and he had not seen Fearfaron in over two years.

He had determined to make the effort to out flank the Orcs that were steadily working to fence him in. Before getting far he had come upon the two unknown elves wandering around the most dangerous area in Middle Earth save only Mordor itself. He could not in good conscience stand by while the Nazgul took them prisoner, whatever their purpose might be. Thus Legolas lay still upon the talan floor, in the distracting company of the two elves, hovering near true repose yet never achieving it.

Herdir and Rusciphant were forced to remain on the talan and wait for Legolas to awake, for they had come far into unknown regions by aid and guidance of a strange source and knew they would become hopelessly lost if they attempted to move on their own. With the proximity of Dol Guldur and the high numbers of Orcs, such a move would mean certain death for them. Ithil was high and bright by the time Legolas at last gave up trying to sleep and stretched upon the talan, cracking several joints as he did so. He rolled to his feet and regarded his guests.

"I will lead you back to more familiar paths that will eventually get you nearer to the borders of Lorien. The territory here is replete with various sorts of traps and snares that would certainly harm or kill you should you come upon them unexpectedly," he said quietly and picked up his quiver and strapped it on as he did so, not certain he had ever removed it. Herdir rose and stepped closer to him.

"I am not in any hurry to leave. We are here to act as spies on Dol Guldur and cannot leave without attempting to complete this mission. I was hoping we could work together on this as the information would benefit all of us," he said, and Legolas smirked.

"Well you will have to forgive me for my lack of faith in your words, Herdir," he said, emphasising the false name. "I have my own work here in which you may not participate. As for your goals, I can not assist you for to do so would hinder mine. Besides, I have not the resources to protect you for any length of time. You must go." These words drew Rusciphant forward.

"We do not need your protection, hênellon. [male elf-child, little boy] In fact, you are the one in need of a healer's care," he snarled with irritation, but his words only elicited a half shrug from Legolas and a smile.

"I am well enough; Tawar looks after me when I am far from friends," he said serenely. Rusciphant raised his brows and an unmistakable expression of condescension clouded his features.

"Tawar! What rubbish! If there is any Woodland Spirit it cares not much for you. Look at the state you are in," he scoffed and instantly regretted his outspokenness as he found himself bowled over and flat upon his back with a very irate Wood Elf straddling his chest and holding a gleaming dagger to his throat.

"Do not speak to that of which you are ignorant. You owe your deceitful hides to Tawar here and now, for so were you led to safety through the woods amid the hordes of Orcs and the fetid evil of Wraiths. My state is my own concern and my own responsibility. I serve Tawar and not the other way round, pen-alhand! [idiot]" he shouted and then immediately stood up, backing away, and paced to the far end of the talan, breathing hard. He passed a hand across his brow and shook his head slightly and abruptly sat down upon the floor. Herdir roused himself from his surprise at the outburst and cautiously approached him, kneeling down close by but not daring to reach out. His healer's insight scanned Legolas critically and he had to admit he agreed somewhat with his comrade.

"I am sure your communion with Tawar is what kept us safe, and we are grateful, despite my friend's uncouth tongue. Yet, he also is not inaccurate in some of what he states. You are truly not well and were we in my homeland I would forbid you to do any work for many days. How long has it been since you last ate or slept well?" he asked calmly. Legolas was staring out into the canopy with unseeing eyes and did not respond for several minutes. At last he breathed a small sigh and glanced over at Herdir.

"We cannot remain here; they will fell all the trees in this area in revenge for the kill last night," he said, ignoring the healer's questions, and stood up slowly. Herdir frowned and rose also, as did Rusciphant. That elf smoothed down his garments a little shakily and kept his eyes on the feral elf and his lips wisely sealed. Legolas was staring out into the woods again, a deep sorrow in his eyes. "I have delayed too long; usually I have the traps cleared and ready before they come back, and that keeps them from harming the trees."

"It is a clever idea; certainly. As long as they know the traps are set they dare not draw near. No wonder these talans have a sense of protection about them," Herdir said as a way to draw the elf back into discussion. Legolas looked at him and gave him a brief smile, though filled with sadness.

"Nay, the protection you sense is from Tawar, not the traps," he said, allowing a hard look to slide over in Rusciphant's direction. "That is why the trees must not suffer for this," he added forcefully and moved out into the branches heading back toward the carnage of the pits. Herdir followed quickly and Rusciphant brought up the rear, but even in his reduced condition Legolas soon was nearly beyond their sight. Fortunately the distance was short and they found him again, though unexpectedly they spotted him on the ground. They followed him down and watched to learn what he was doing.

He had already pulled free every arrow he could reach from the stinking bodies and a large pile of the bloodied missiles lay at the foot of a tree. Legolas glanced at the two elves briefly as he laboured at his task, dragging the heavy carcass of one of the Orcs that had thought to escape him towards the maze of pits. Herdir noticed he seemed to be struggling with the disgusting burden and was already panting in his exertion.

"Beware the ground," he cautioned and they knew he was not warning them of the obvious. As Rusciphant carefully surveyed the forest floor, he noted several traps still intact, and to these the archer was straining to drag the disgusting remains, dropping them onto the woven coverings that quickly snapped, giving way under the dead weight.

"We will help, although why this is necessary is beyond me," Rusciphant said and shook his head as he grabbed the feet of another of the beasts from Legolas' hands and flung it into a hole. Together Herdir and Rusciphant continued the loathsome duty until all the bodies were collected within the pits.

Legolas took a moment to catch his breath and then moved to one of the overflowing traps, reaching into his quiver to withdraw a flint stone. Kneeling over, he showered the disgusting masses inside with sparks and soon the acrid aroma of burning flesh began to waft through the air, for he always lined the bottom of each pit with dry branches and twigs for kindling. Rusciphant at last comprehended the goal of the effort they were expending and grudgingly acknowledged its requisite nature. He gagged a bit in the billowing black smoke that momentarily engulfed him and staggered back as Legolas approached the next pit to repeat the procedure. Herdir found his own flint within his pack and copied the elf's example as did Rusciphant, and between the three of them all the bodies were quickly blazing darkly, the flames barely rising above the forest floor as great clouds of noisome ash and smog drifted up through the trees.

Legolas moved restlessly between the smouldering holes, slapping out any sparks that flew out into the surrounding underbrush with an evergreen bough he took from a tree nearby and carefully testing the heat on the tree's by pressing his palms against their bark. Herdir and Rusciphant soon began stamping out sparks and small spitfires as well. In between these activities, Legolas salvaged as many arrows as he could, cleaning and returning them to his quiver. He removed the heads from the rest, dumping them in, too. The rest of the night tediously passed as the despicable chore wore on. By dawn, the fires had almost consumed the bodies and festered near the bottom of the pits. Legolas seemed content to leave the glowing blades and simmering bones alone to burn themselves out. He scrambled into the nearest tree and climbed high up to the canopy, not even waiting to see if his two assistants followed.

Legolas proceeded carefully along the elusive treetop pathway and the two spies had no difficulty keeping apace with him this time. It may have been out of consideration for his followers' lesser ability in the trees, but Herdir doubted this as he shrewdly observed the feral elf. It seemed to be requiring vast stores of energy for each movement he forced from his overburdened body. He did not travel back towards the broad talan in which they had spent the previous day but instead seemed to be leading them ever deeper into the cloistering woods. Midday had again brought its pale illumination to the trees and still he continued on making no sound or even acknowledging that he knew the other elves shadowed him.

By afternoon Herdir noticed that the trees had changed in character, seeming brighter somehow. It took him a moment to realise that it was the sound of wild life moving about and birds singing that caused this distinction. Their guide was obviously leading them farther and farther from Dol Guldur. Without a clear view of the sky to note the position of the sun, Herdir could not tell if they were moving eastward towards Lorien, or northwards towards the central forest where the woodsmen dwelled. Rusciphant noted the change in their environment as well and called out suddenly.

"Daro! Where exactly are you taking us? We can not be found by Mirkwood's patrols, pen-rhovan [wild one]," he said suspiciously. Legolas halted and stood still for several moments as though trying to collect himself. Herdir noticed he was holding very tightly to the trunk of the tree he stood in, and could even hear his arduous breathing.

"Enough, Rusci," he said to his friend. "He cannot be found by the patrols either. Be silent for once and do not offend our guide further."

"It is no matter for concern," Legolas said without looking back at them. "We are nearly there anyway. There is a high talan just a few trees beyond that clearing, which was once a trap field. I planned to stop for a time there and decide which pathway is least perilous to take." He began moving forward again and the elves had no choice but to follow him. Their journey ended at last as the wild one climbed up onto the narrow flet and immediately stretched out upon the floor. He did not even bother to remove his weapons, and indeed kept his bow in hand as he rested his head against his arm and dropped into exhausted repose.

Rusciphant and Herdir joined him and noted he was already asleep with his eyes drawn shut again before they had even had time to remove their weapons. They seated themselves with care not to disturb him on the limited floor-space and rummaged in their packs for something to eat. They had not stopped the entire journey and had been on the move for hours, and both were near starving and parched with thirst. In spite of himself, Rusciphant was again impressed with their unusual guide's resilience.

"What now?" he asked, reverting to Quenya for secrecy. Herdir sighed, worry creasing his brow.

"We must not wake him. Leave the apples we have left for when he has fully rested, he needs them more than we do. Let us rely upon the lembas and try to get some rest as well. That was hard labour and a rapid pace he set for our march," Herdir replied in kind. He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper, in hopes not to disturb the fatigued elf this time. Rusciphant gazed at his friend with critical regard.

"Well, yes, but that is not what I meant. I was referring to our mission. Surely you remember the reason we came out to this Valar forsaken land? He does not seem likely to form an alliance with us willingly," he said somewhat sarcastically and Herdir gave him a warning look.

"Of course I remember. Do not be impertinent, Rusci. He has little reason to be willing. We underestimated his skills and his intelligence, quite obviously, and will need to reassess our tactics, that is all. We have foolishly treated this like a game or an elfling's adventure when it is clearly quite a serious business. It would have been wiser to be more truthful with him," he responded sharply.

"We cannot give him our real names, then all will be evident and we will never win him over."

"I did not suggest we do so; however, we will need to adopt names that are real, even if they are not our own. In addition, he knows we are not from Lorien, so we may as well own up to it. That you yourself already confirmed by your unbridled tongue today. Lorien elves are not in danger of capture should they encounter the Woodland King's patrols. Really, Rusciphant, one would think you had no experience with this sort of activity." Herdir chided his friend. Rusciphant was duly downcast with this chastisement and remained silent, consuming his lembas slowly. Herdir scowled to himself trying to come up with an alternate scenario that would be believable to their wild quarry.

Legolas slept, dreamlessly and deeply, as his endurance had reached its end and his body simply shut down. He slept with eyes shut and thus lost the benefit of visual perception, always active to alert the elves should sudden action be demanded or self-defence become necessary. His overtaxed brain refused to acknowledge the sounds around him and he lost the ability to detect a stealthy approach or a whispered plot. His weary muscles fell lax and he neglected to register the ever-present grip on his bow and it slipped from his fingers. Legolas slept while his unlikely companions reordered their strategy and devised a more plausible set of lies with which to confound him.

Ithil shone down from a waxing fatness just two days shy of full upon the elves crowded together on the narrow flet. Herdir had managed to secure the inner space close to the trunk and curled around it appreciatively, glad he had no need to worry about how near the edges were. The Noldor seldom spent much time in such treetop platforms, preferring solid structures of wood and stone set upon the sturdy ground. Legolas lay where he had dropped upon climbing up having moved not an inch, and indeed one foot dangled free beyond the edge of the platform. Rusciphant thus had to make do with the limited space left between the other edges and Legolas' slumbering form.

He lay facing the feral elf and used the placement to his advantage. Calmly he waited for Herdir to drop into reverie, and when he was certain that elf was deep within his dreamscape he turned his complete attention to Legolas. With slow and careful movements his fingers sought the confining clasps holding the quiver secure and loosed them. No movement or indeed any indication revealed that the archer was aware his weapons had been removed and placed aside beyond his reach. Rusciphant sidled slightly closer so that his face was only inches from the object of his desire, and he dipped a careful hand into the mane of golden locks, drawing it back from the fair face and revealing lips slightly parted and darkly red in the starlight.

Rusciphant inhaled as Legolas breathed out, capturing each exhalation as he lowered his own lips cautiously to brush against the alluring vermilion mouth before him. No reaction followed the brief contact, and so he dared to be more brazen, darting his tongue lightly between those supple lips to taste the warmth within. As the archer remained motionless, Rusciphant pressed his advantage, deeply caressing the insensible elf's tongue, and at last a reflexive response rewarded his efforts as Legolas' kissed back, seeking the Noldo's expressive tongue when it retreated. Rusciphant gasped lightly as he withdrew and Legolas' tongue flickered out and caressed his lower lip invitingly.

"Mmmm," the seductive murmur vibrated from Legolas' throat, punctuating the action and he shifted slightly, canting over more to his back than before.

Rusciphant leaned up and smoothed back the hair from Legolas' temple, exposing his ear, and licked along the outer rim, gently massaging the pointed tip with his mouth. Legolas sighed appreciatively and moved into the touch then turned his head aside to offer the other. Rusciphant's breath came in shorter draws and he carefully pushed Legolas all the way over onto his back, taking a moment to kiss along the length of the elegant neck before pulling back to survey his prize again.

Legolas' eyes were only half-lidded now and his lips remained parted; his face was warmly flushed and Rusciphant wished he could better see the spreading blush creeping over his body. He propped himself up on one elbow and traced along the archer's collarbone with one finger, winding his way down over the breastbone and then back up over the pectorals to slowly circle rapidly rising nipples. Rusciphant dared to lap one wet with his saliva and Legolas fretted in needy complaint when he leaned back to enjoy the sheen of Ithil's light on the delectable morsel lifting and falling with each breath Legolas took. Rusciphant moaned softly, yearningly, as he fought the impulse to nuzzle against the firm muscles and suckle the inviting flesh, for he did not want to completely wake his aroused sleeper.

"You are so exquisite," he whispered into a red-tipped ear as he swiped his tongue across it again. He retreated and was excited to see Legolas exhale a barely audible plaint as his hand trailed up across the still wet and erect tit.

"Oh," Rusciphant breathed as he watched the slender fingers coax the sensitive jutting teat to become even harder and darker. He could not resist and bent to taste and give suck to its companion as Legolas arched up and spread his legs, lifting one on bended knee so that his groin was accessible. Feeling the motion, Rusciphant pulled back again and watched with glittering eyes as Legolas' other hand burrowed under the rugged breeches and fondled his swelling sex hidden there. Rusciphant attempted unsuccessfully to unknot the cording holding the leather shut and gently tugged a little to see if he could draw the garment down. Legolas' weight prevented this and the leggings only shifted slightly as the feral elf continued to stroke himself, softly voicing his desire.

Rusciphant undid his own leggings quickly and withdrew his eagerly straining member. With his other hand he dipped into Legolas' breeches and coddled the tight sack, lifting the balls and gently manipulating them in his fingers. Legolas twitched and pushed his heel against the floor, flexing his hip as he groaned more loudly.

"Oh, you like that, pen-rhovan." Rusciphant moved his hand up and cautiously replaced Legolas' grasp with his own, shuddering as he enveloped the smooth and throbbing organ still hidden from his view. Unable to see with his eyes, he used his fingers and palm to explore the stiff extension, raising his brows in surprise as he felt the velvety hood of the foreskin slip back. He pumped both their cocks in unison; enthralled and excited, as the head of Legolas' penis became slick with his need.

An urgent cry sounded from Legolas' lips and Rusciphant transferred his attention back to the flawless face, inhaling sharply as he took in the open dark blue eyes dreamy and glazed in erotic fantasy, lips open and impossibly enticing. He wanted to get his swollen and aching cock into the warm and luscious mouth he had already sampled, to feel the mobile tongue lave his pulsing shaft, to be sucked to orgasm by those perfect red lips. The very thought of it brought him tantalisingly close and he stopped his movements, staying his hands and gazing lustfully at the dreaming elf, wondering if it was possible.

And strangely it was the abrupt cessation of stimulus that jarred Legolas awake. He blinked, focusing on the elf next to him, instantly aware of the unfamiliar hand wrapped around his eager erection. He raised his head and allowed his eyes to travel down, taking in the arm buried wrist-deep under his breeches and the burgeoning member of the Noldo boldly presented before him. For a second neither moved and then Legolas pushed back to sit up, unexpectedly pulling his cock against the firm grip encircling him and he shuddered at the sensation, involuntarily sending a lust-filled grunt into the night. Rusciphant let go at once and hurriedly started to do up his leggings as a cry of outrage erupted from Legolas and he jumped to his feet.

"You! What do you think you are doing? How dare you touch me?" he shouted and Herdir awoke at once in the commotion. Rusciphant was vainly attempting to look unconcerned, for Legolas looked as though he might launch himself at him any second.

"Peace, be calm! I was just helping you rid yourself of some of the tension afflicting you, nothing more. You seemed to appreciate my attentions," he soothed, standing and chortling a little, as his eyes travelled down to the archer's groin. But Legolas was incensed and was searching for his quiver to retrieve his dagger and put it to use.

"I will slice you to a nub! You will regret your attempt to have your pleasure at my expense!" he shrieked in his uncontrollable outrage and Herdir's eyes grew wide as he looked from one to the other.

"What is going on? Rusciphant, what have you done this time?" he bellowed and quickly positioned himself between the two. Rusciphant shook his head vehemently, darting his gaze to his friend briefly then back to Legolas who was reaching into his quiver.

"Stop him! He is serious, Herdir! He has a knife and means to maim me," he pointed but Herdir did not turn. With a murderous cry Legolas lunged to get around him and Herdir wheeled, catching the Wood Elf around the waist with one arm while the other deflected the dagger-hand. Throwing his whole weight upon Legolas, Herdir bore him down and with a shuddering crash they hit the floor.

"Release me! It is my due! He has no right to put his hands on me! Let me up at once!" he yelled in his fury but Herdir simply allowed himself to go limp, becoming a dead-weight on the smaller elf's chest. As Legolas fought the burden to no avail, Rusciphant stepped over and pried the dagger from his hand, standing hard upon his wrist to force the archer to relinquish his hold. Legolas cried out in frustration as he continued to writhe against Herdir and at last, out of breath, stilled.

Everyone was quiet a few moments as only the sound of Legolas' panting suspiration broke the enforced tranquility. Herdir filled his lungs to steady himself and looked down at the feral elf, arranging his features in as calm and non-threatening an expression as he could contrive.

"Legolas," he said very softly, but Legolas had his face turned away and his eyes squeezed shut. "I am sorry, truly. You are right, his behaviour is inexcusable, but I cannot permit you to do violence to my friend." Legolas eyes snapped open and he turned his blazing regard upon Herdir. With all of his disgust and outrage he spat into the elf's face.

"Bado Angband-na!" [Go to Hell!] He seethed through clenched teeth and Herdir sighed, wiping his cheek against his arm resignedly. He could hardly blame Legolas for his reaction; he would have done the same.

"I will not hold that against you, as your anger is understandable. I will let you up but you must accept that I cannot return your weapons until the situation is settled, alright?" he continued. Legolas was breathing hard, trying to contain his rage so that Herdir would get off him. He looked away again and did not respond, for he could only manage to think of more curses to utter. Herdir shifted and lifted his weight from the elf, kneeling and offering his hand to aid him. Legolas slapped it away and rolled to his feet, stalking to the farthest corner of the flet where he leaned against the tree with his back to the other elves. No one spoke and Herdir and Rusciphant awaited the feral elf's next move, for they could see the subtle rippling of his shoulders as his body shook, his wrath yet unabated.

At last he composed himself with a loud sigh and turned to confront them. His face was deadly pale and the dark stain of ire still upon his cheeks looked livid. He stared coldly from one to the other of them, and in spite of himself Rusciphant stepped back and dropped his head in shame, for there was more there than anger in the gleaming azure eyes. Legolas walked quietly back to them and stood with arms crossed before his chest, then slowly unfolded them and let them drop, tight fisted, to his sides. He waited, never letting his attention wander from Rusciphant, and finally that elf could stand the wordless recrimination no longer and faced him.

In a blur of movement Legolas' arms came up and he buried one fist into Rusciphant's stomach, landing a vicious jab to his jaw with the other. Rusciphant went down hard upon the talan and curled up with a grunt. Herdir immediately made as if to grab Legolas again, but he was already out of reach. He leaped out into the air, just snatching a slender limb in his fingertips, and pulled himself into the next tree near. Legolas climbed high and entangled himself in the topmost branches, clinging tightly as the tree swayed gently, providing the only comfort it could.

Herdir watched him a moment or two and then returned to his friend, kneeling next to him where he was gingerly rubbing the growing bruise on his jaw. They smiled ruefully at each other and Rusciphant shrugged.

"It was almost worth it," he quipped and sat up, adding, "He is all yours, mellon nîn," and laughed softly at Herdir's doubtful and half-hearted grin.

TBC  
A/N: 02/23/2008 This chapter marks the beginning of beta work by SarahAK, my second attempt to find a beta reader. The association worked well for more than a year before we parted ways. She was a great help with punctuation, grammar, and a good motivator.

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	16. Dolen enath Utummen

Dolen enath Utummen [Hidden name uncovered]

It rained; mighty torrents of water streaming in curtains of stinging, icy needles pelted through the trees, drumming against the lush summer verdure, threatening to shred the leaves to tatters. Thunder was not heard nor did any lightening rift the dim half-light; no birds sang and on the forest floor no animal scurried. All were hiding sheltered deep in their burrows and nests from the mourning firmament that seemed to crouch down upon the earth, seemingly seeking merger with the Greenwood.

The great trees were motionless in the absence of wind, standing resolutely in the chilling onslaught, having had their fill of the sustaining fluid hours ago. Rivulets were forming and racing furtively among the roots on the ground, digging under them and threatening to scour out their shallow purchase within the saturated earth. With a shattering lament and a fulminating clash, an aged pine lost its footing and tumbled in agonisingly slow descent to splash in the slimy leaf-filled mud. In hopeless desperation, three smaller trees had tried to stay the demise of the elder one, and a sickening stentorian snap bore witness to the death of one as it broke in two under the strain.

Herdir and Rusciphant sat hunched in misery as their clothing hung, cloying and sodden, to their chilled bodies. All around them legions of droplets danced in the sliding pools collecting and scurrying across the talan floor, pouring in an ephemeral waterfall over the edges of the wooden platform. They did not bother to try speaking for the incessant droning of the falling deluge numbed their hearing and muffled their voices. Every now and then Herdir stole a glance towards Legolas, still cleaving to the top of a nearby tree, his head bowed low and his limbs insinuated within the slender boughs.

With the combined weight of the elf and the water, the limbs were bending down and seemed to be dropping lower every time Herdir looked. He wondered how long the tree could hold out before the branches fractured and Legolas fell from the dizzying height. He wondered why Legolas did not seem to notice the danger he was in. With a sudden inspiration, Herdir considered whether the elf had fallen asleep again and was as thoroughly senseless as previously. Herdir poked Rusciphant's arm to get his attention and then pointed to the Wood Elf. Rusci merely shrugged and Herdir frowned, rising and moving out to the edge of the talan as he did so.

"Legolas!" he called out, but no movement rewarded his effort. Herdir cupped his hands about his mouth to concentrate the sound and shouted louder. "Legolas!" Slowly the feral elf raised his head and Herdir could see him turn in his direction, but just as gradually he returned to his prior position. It seemed as though he rested his head against the wiry branches. Herdir was greatly concerned, for he did not know if he could reach the elf and was more convinced than ever that the tree must give way at any moment.

With a grim set to his jaw, he cautiously stepped out into the branches, sliding and slipping haphazardly upon the soaking bark, trying to find solid enough footing to carry him over to the next tree. His boots were not made for such activity however, having been designed for long marches across hard ground, and one foot slid completely off the limb and sent him flailing wildly as he grasped at the leafy branches, cursing loudly.

He managed to hold on and draw his leg back from the open air. He feared to move even an eyelash and worried the thundering vibrations emanating from his chest would be enough to shift him from the bough again. As his breathing calmed, he chanced a glance behind toward the flet where Rusci stood, tense and rigid, watching anxiously. Herdir lifted a hand in an attempt to reassure his comrade, and when next he looked out into the forest he was amazed to see Legolas rapidly advancing towards him.

"What are you doing?" Legolas shouted over the din of the rain when he reached him, grabbing his arm firmly and drawing him up onto a more stable perch. "Even Wood Elves do not travel the treetops in such storms! Come!" he commanded and led him forward without releasing the tight grip lest he slip again. Slow and cautious movements from branch to branch brought them to another talan just beyond the sight of and lower than the narrow flet upon which they had rested through the night. Legolas let go. Herdir noted that this talan looked more like the guard's posts seen throughout Lorien and Legolas nodded, reading his assessment.

"This is a far outpost of Greenwood's guard, but seldom do they journey so distant from the stronghold in these times. Thranduil has all but ceded control of these lands, and the woodsmen are ill equipped to defend them, being craftsmen and foresters rather than warriors. No doubt they assumed they would have the protection of the Woodland King when they settled their families here, but it is not so," his words dwindled away; they were the most he had ever spoken to the Noldo and Herdir was surprised at the honesty of the revelation. Not only were the words directly critical of the King, they also underscored Legolas' earlier statement that he was not one of Thranduil's subjects.

Legolas moved over to the trunk of the tree where a sturdy chest was built into the structure. He lifted the lid and withdrew a folded tarpaulin along with a winding of elven rope. Lying flat against the floor were two narrow rods, taller by at least a head than he, and he took these and set them into prepared slots on the floor. In minutes he had established a temporary roof against the downpour by connecting the tarpaulin to the rods and the tree's trunk. Next, he returned to the box and rummaged inside, pulling forth a heavy mat and a soft blanket and those he spread upon the dripping platform. He settled himself on the edge of the talan and dangled his legs free, ignoring the rain that drenched him and the shelter he had just constructed.

Herdir stood within the tent, grateful for the chance to escape the torrent, yet uncomfortable in his waterlogged garments. He could not suppress an irritated grimace, as he wondered why Legolas had not brought them here in the first place, but then he recalled the bone-weary elf's immediate collapse on reaching the high flet. No doubt he had been aiming for this spot, and simply could not continue further at the time. And after all, even a Wood Elf could not control the weather. Herdir plucked at his clinging tunic and smirked thinking of Rusci still huddled in the downpour. No more than he deserves. He stole a peek into the chest and pulled forth a second blanket and began to strip, casting aside the saturated cloth in a sodden heap.

Hearing the movements, Legolas turned back to see what was going on and caught sight of his guest just as the leggings were coming down. His eyes expanded but he did not look away quite fast enough and thus observed the full revelation of Herdir's sex hanging heavy against his thighs. Legolas gawked; the head of the organ was fully exposed and naked, no skin covered the succulent tip. Legolas blushed when he realised he had been staring too long and Herdir had noticed, and turned away to studiously glare at the rain plummeting down. Herdir smiled and wrapped himself in the warm blanket before settling in the middle of the sparse shelter.

"You can look now; I am decent," he said with amusement but Legolas only shifted awkwardly and did not look back. Herdir sighed. "You are so full of contradictions," he murmured in exasperation and Legolas dared a confused glance over his shoulder.

"What do you mean, I am not so!" he objected, though he was not exactly sure if the statement was an insult or not.

"Oh I disagree," replied Herdir. "I have never met a more erotic elf yet you are so painfully repressed. You should be celebrating your incredible allure."

Legolas looked away, uneasy with such a personal assessment. "I do not know what you mean," he mumbled.

"I mean that were you not hidden away in this wilderness you would have a constant stream of suitors seeking access to your considerable enticements." Herdir could not suppress a light laugh when Legolas looked back incredulously, frowning. "Really, Rusci's response to you was not surprising, and I am amazed you did not suspect it the moment you spoke to us." Legolas twisted around, anger crowding out his former hesitancy.

"You think it is meet for him to handle me so just because he feels his lust rising? If that is the behaviour I might expect in more civilised regions, then I am thankful my home is not so placed," he growled hotly and Herdir noticed again the rapid flash of something more than anger pass across his face. Was that sorrow or was that fear? Herdir experienced a vaguely constricting sensation around his heart.

"Nay! Understand, when first I woke I thought the sounds of shared passion had ended my rest, and remained quiet so as not to interrupt. I did not know you were unwilling," he protested. "He was wrong to take advantage of your exhausted state; never would I presume to do something so crude to satisfy my own desires," he tried to send all the reassurance he could through his words, but Legolas made no response.

He sat propped with his arms behind him slowly swinging his legs into the empty air below, his head lowered and his hair plastered in a sopping mass down his back. The rain caressed him, running in strings of water over his shoulders, flowing down his arms, twisting and turning around the muscles and sinews made strong by his years as a warrior and the hard labour spent towards the completion of the Tasks.

The water pattered heavily on his head, insinuating mellifluous fingers through the saturated hair to glide along the planes of his face. The streaming fluid traced the line of his jaw and dripped off his chin and danced along the bridge of his nose before leaving its tip in a strand of liquid beads that dropped with measured persistence. Glittering droplets collected on his long lashes until they could hold no more and they fell away sluggishly, as though reluctant to leave him. Herdir found it enchanting and imagined what it would be like to taste the water trailing down that faultless countenance.

"Legolas? Why do you not come under the shelter?" he asked finally and Legolas looked back, sweeping his vision over the swaddled figure before meeting his eyes cautiously. But Herdir controlled his expression and willed the desire he felt to remain hidden, and so Legolas saw only his even smile. He shrugged then and turned away again.

"The rain does not bother me; I live here and am used to it. In summer, the rains seldom cease for long," he replied and glanced back again.

"You must then be part otter to love to be wet and cold," Herdir joked.

"I am not cold," Legolas said, but at the same time he shivered without realising it. But Herdir did notice and remembered that the Wood Elf had eaten nothing since before the previous day. Yet he had worked as hard and traversed the same distance as had his unwanted guests. On top of this, Legolas was already malnourished and his desperately needed sleep had been stolen from him. Herdir suddenly decided that Legolas must be willing himself to stay awake, and it could only be for fear of being accosted again by his unwanted companion. Herdir cursed himself for his indifference and his stupidity in leaving his pack with the apples and lembas in it on the other talan.

Abruptly he got up and dragged his permeated tunic towards him, running his hands into the pockets to see if he had already eaten the way-bread that he usually stowed there. It was his habit to keep such a store handy to prevent having to remove his pack while on a long march. With a victorious flourish he drew out a small packet of the elven bread and was happy to see two pieces intact. Even one piece could sustain him for a full day's trek, and two would certainly go far towards restoring Legolas' strength.

"Legolas, I know you are hungry. Here is lembas, please take it," he called and held out the packet when Legolas looked over at him. Legolas did not hesitate for he was beyond ravenous and quickly accepted the offering, crawling closer to the shelter as he did so. The rain still reached him, however, and Herdir feared most of the nourishing food would dissolve and flow away to enrich the woods instead.

"Come under the shelter; the bread will crumble and do you no good in this downpour," he coaxed and Legolas heeding his warning recovered the bread in the waxy leaf wrapper after breaking off a small sample.

"Nay, I am too wet. I would only spoil the dry area by bringing the rain in with me," he declined, but Herdir was adamant.

"There is another blanket in the chest there. Do as I have done and throw off those wet things. You will be more comfortable when you are warm and dry," he advised him and Legolas glanced up severely, suspicious at once of his motives based on what he had said previously. Herdir understood and held up a hand, shaking his head.

"Worry not, I will not try to infringe upon you in any way, this I swear," he proclaimed and Legolas regarded him critically.

"What is your name?" he asked and Herdir was taken aback.

"What?" he stalled.

"Why should I trust anything you say when even the name you give is a lie," he expounded, and Herdir had to admit he had a valid point. Yet he hesitated, not certain if this was the wisest course to take. Once crossed, it was a boundary he could never reinstate. He ventured a look at Legolas, who sat in the streaming rain waiting, and his healer's insight drew to his attention numerous indications of the elf's urgent need for restorative rest. He sighed; he was a healer first, after all; this spying business was but a necessary departure from his ordinary routine.

"I am Erestor," he said flatly and observed the amazement that spread across the Wood Elf's features upon hearing this.

"Erestor! Of Imladris?" Legolas almost spat out his lembas as he said the words and the other elf nodded.

"I know of no other," came his dry reply.

"I know not if I believe you. Why would you be here? Why would the Lord of Imladris send you to spy the territory out? And who then is your companion, Gildor of the Havens?" he spoke in a rush of scepticism.

"Believe!" Erestor laughed. "I assure you it does not benefit me to reveal to you that two of Imladris' most respected citizens are lurking about Mirkwood. I have no reason to place myself in jeopardy by granting such knowledge to the son of our enemy. My companion is Berenaur [Brave flame], an advisor and assistant of which you may not have heard. You have yourself discovered he is less than trustworthy in certain situations," he said, his lies smoothly enfolded within truth.

Legolas was still staring wide-eyed and had even stopped chewing the bite of the lembas he held in his mouth.

"As to why I have been sent, that is simple. Elrond had hoped to use a member of Thranduil's own guard as a contact of sorts, but though he seemed in accord when we spoke he did not follow through. It has been five years since we initiated the contingence, and our informants lost track of him over two years ago. Elrond had to assume he reported our attempts to recruit him to Thranduil. No doubt the King will be overly cautious of every elf that comes and goes from the Woodland Realm from now on.

"Elrond had no choice but to attempt this mission using those he trusts, meaning Glorfindel and myself. That elf cannot be spared for he oversees the safety of our borders and is master at arms for our forces. I thus, unwisely perhaps, selected Berenaur to accompany me." As Erestor finished his speech Legolas swallowed the lembas and looked away, considering the import of the disclosure.

He had not expected to learn that one of Elrond's most trusted advisors was among his guests; he had merely assumed the two to be warriors in the Imladris guard. Their quest must be serious and dangerous to account for so high-placed a participant in the espionage. Also, Thranduil would indeed be wrathfully vigilant and interrogate anyone coming and going from his realm if his own guards had been compromised. He would expect Elrond to try and recruit someone else, less high placed perhaps, next time.

Only a few elves in the patrols were high enough in rank to journey singly beyond the realm to Lorien and Imladris, and all of these were longstanding and personal friends of Thranduil from the First Age. Such a betrayal was implausible, and indeed Legolas could understand why the initial attempt had failed. He was dying to know who the targeted accomplice had been and mentally ran through the list of warriors that were credible candidates. He was certain none of them would ever betray Thranduil.

Not everything had been told, of this he was certain, for there was a very practised air to the speech delivered, as though it had been decided in advance how much could be revealed if they were caught out. Yet, if any other than he had discovered them, they would be prisoners in Thranduil's dungeons right now. The idea that they were attempting to recruit him burst into his thoughts. He was the mission?

In a way it was logical, as he was already outcast and disowned. From their point of view, he would seem to have reason to hold a grudge against Thranduil. Still, it rankled that they believed him capable of treachery against his own people. And what could they hope to gain by it, if he were to fall so low as to aid them? He had no access to the realm any longer, and never had been privy to matters of state even before the Judgement. Something was going on here, and he was sure Erestor had no intention of revealing it to him. Legolas eyed his companion shrewdly and with no small amount of belligerence.

"I am no traitor!" he snapped in dark and threatening tones. "Your Lord Elrond is gravely mistaken if he thinks I would ever betray Tawar," he snarled as he let his anger grow. "He should have found out what kind of character I have before sending you on this fool's errand and risking your lives for such a hopeless endeavour."

Erestor blinked; Legolas had reached the correct conclusion more quickly than he would have thought him able, given the small amount of information he had divulged. He had expected some questions.

"The Lord of Imladris has indeed underestimated you; your assumption is correct. Elrond hopes to make you an ally," he said quietly. The two elves stared at each other in silence; Legolas surprised at the admission and Erestor paused in quiet admiration of the elf he was dealing with.

He let his gaze shift and he took in the Wood Elf as a whole again and was suddenly aware of a tingling of fear in the back of his mind. Legolas appeared to be slouched upon the floor in cold misery yet he was taut as a drawn bow. Even weaponless and exhausted he might be capable of sending his companion sailing over the edge of the talan to the ground far below if threatened. This elf was dangerous.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

Note: The elvish is terrible in these chapters, but I am leaving it alone because some of it is really funny in translation :) Also, it's the first slash sex scene I'd ever written, or sex scene of any kind. Can't say I've really changed much over the years; I tend to enjoy such things in royal purple hues.


	17. Nasto naith lîn born, tharn nedhnîn

Nasto naith lîn born, tharn nedhnîn! [Thrust your red-hot, rigid penis inside me!]

Erestor shifted uneasily and unobtrusively, he hoped, drawing closer to the pile of discarded clothing where a dagger lay attached to his belt. He castigated himself for yet again failing to appreciate the menace this wild elf presented. It would almost serve him right were he to come to harm from his lack of insight. He frantically tried to conjure a way to remedy the infraction, and settled for depending on honesty and his companion's honorable nature to forgive the slights his words had inflicted.

"Consider not that he thinks you capable of treasonous acts, but rather that you are of high enough caliber to hear out his goals and act such that both our peoples benefit." He spoke calmly and allowed the truth of his words to be heard, for in these there was no falseness.

Legolas listened and could not deny the sincerity he discerned. They were good words and complimentary to him rather than insulting or base. Yet he knew there was still more to it all. However, he deemed it reasonable for Erestor to withhold whatever he could; he was no traitor to his own either. Somehow he respected that and he decided that enough had been shared to trust him in lesser things if not in matters of state. Besides, if he feigned acceptance the spies would reveal their true plot sooner or later. He relaxed and broke off another bite of lembas. Seeing this, Erestor eased himself down from his highly agitated state, relieved he would not have to combat the Wood Elf.

"A truce, then, at least for now?" he asked and was completely overwhelmed by the bright and genuine smile that illuminated Legolas' features.

"Aye, a truce it shall be, Erestor of Imladris," he said and stuffed the last piece of lembas into his mouth.

"Excellent! Then come out of the rain, Legolas, before you drown in this deluge," the Noldo exhorted and motioned with his hands towards the dry blanket resting on the wooden chest.

Legolas swallowed and looked from the blanket to his soaked and uncomfortable breeches. In truth, when it rained like this he usually did take them off for they clung to him and chaffed unmercifully otherwise, even as they did now. And he could almost feel the softness of the blanket's woolen fabric against his skin. More than anything he wanted to rid himself of his meager clothes and bundle up on the floor and sleep. To do these things meant he would have to strip in front of this stranger, and he was loathe to do it. It did not feel like five years since the last time he had been forced to strip under another's scrutiny. He shuddered as the memory washed over him.

Mentally he tried to prepare himself. This was not a sordid demand, he was choosing to do so in order to gain some much-needed comfort from the weather. Besides, the other elf was already naked under the blanket he had snuggled into.

The other elf was already naked.

Legolas peered furtively at Erestor's enveloped form, remembering what was covered there, and began to feel warm. Erestor's body was magnificent; broad chested and well muscled, with a lean, flat belly. A line of short black strands marched down from his navel, culminating in a dark patch of thick and curling hair where his organ hung with its naked tip and promising weight. Legolas acknowledged that the warmth was definitely radiating from his groin and shifted in discomfort as he hardened. He had never completely rid himself of the yearning fullness since waking to find himself being stroked to near madness by Rusci, or rather, Berenaur. His penis twitched in the memory of that sensation and Legolas almost groaned but caught himself in time.

"Oh come!" Erestor teased. "There's nothing there I have not seen before. Keep your back to me if I make you so uneasy." Legolas considered that to be a good idea. The last thing he wanted was for Erestor of Imladris to see him fully erect in impassioned prurience.

Except that was false. He did want Erestor to see, and to want what he saw. He wondered if Erestor would get hard when he stripped; perhaps Erestor was already erect. The thought sent a thrill through his body as his cock swelled even tighter. He found he was having trouble keeping his breathing regular.

Finally he stood and unknotted the leather cording at his waist. This was more difficult with the lacing so saturated, but at last he had it loose. With a swift motion he bent and drew his legs out of the dripping garment and his cock bobbed forward with the activity, jutting forth from between his thighs and glistening in the raindrops that fell upon it.

Legolas heard Erestor's soft intake of breath and his own heart leaped as he reached over and retrieved the blanket, straightening just enough to allow an unrestricted view before quickly wrapping himself up. He ducked under the canvas shelter and settled cross-legged near the Noldo, yet not so close as to seem too eager. He chanced a brief peek at his companion and was rewarded with an expression of open desire, which Erestor did not attempt to disguise.

"You have made me a liar after all," he said seductively and Legolas met his smoldering eyes in anticipation, "for you are more fair than any I have seen before. Never have I beheld an elf so completely enthralling." His words were barely above a whisper and Legolas shivered as he held his gaze.

"Thelin le-geri, Legolas [I intend to have you, Legolas]," he said directly and Legolas stifled a gasp.

"Sui anirach; mabo nîn [As you desire; take me]," Legolas exhaled the words and moved closer, letting go his blanket to reach out for his lover.

Erestor met him and claimed his mouth in a fiery kiss as one hand caressed the smooth perfection of his cheek. The other hand wrapped around and slid beneath the limp and dripping hair to slither down his spine, his fingers flowing gently over the marred skin. Legolas moaned into the warmth of the embrace and darted his tongue into the inviting orifice, stroking the roof of Erestor's mouth and massaging his animated tongue.

Erestor returned the favor, exhaling contented sounds of rapture as he entwined their tongues and explored the sweetness of Legolas' lips, still tasting faintly of lembas and rainwater. Legolas' fingers were busy behind Erestor's neck, combing through the dark and shimmering locks, and he pressed closer to enjoy the full contact of their bodies and skin. Erestor's nipples were hard and Legolas could feel them against his chest. He moved against him, dragging his own nipples across the firm pectorals and they yowled together.

Legolas broke the kiss and moved to nip and suck along his lover's throat from the collarbone up to his earlobe, which he gently tugged on with his teeth. He nuzzled his nose up around the outer shell and softly licked the maroon stained point and Erestor sang out, reaching down to tweak the peaked nipple he sought. Legolas trilled a beseeching sigh and moved to the other ear. Erestor's other hand rubbed gently against Legolas back, just brushing the cleft of his firmly rounded arse. Legolas trembled.

Gently Erestor eased his lover back yet kept his fingers busy kneading Legolas' nipples.

"Let me see you," he whispered his demand and Legolas unfolded his legs and spread them, leaning back comfortably on his elbows, completely exposed and vulnerable. Erestor cupped his sack, gently lifting to better examine his bounty, and smiled: rosy and rigid indeed. Legolas watched, watched the fingers tugging his tit; watched the hand cradling his balls and thought he might go mad if something did not happen soon.

"Saes! More! Saes, Erestor, touch it!" he begged between shuddering gasps and Erestor growled as he knelt between his legs and swallowed him down.

Legolas shrilly screamed as he tried to pump up into the sucking torridity of his lover's mouth. Erestor held him as still as he could and worked him with his lips and tongue, swirling and teasing the head and laving down the svelte shaft. He dropped his hand to tickle the tightly carried balls and Legolas writhed wantonly like a feline in a patch of catnip, close to tears in his need. His passion rose in a searing crescendo and he tensed as Erestor sucked harder, sensing his orgasm building. Legolas arched up from the floor with a long explosive wail of ecstasy and erupted in tumultuous spurts down his lover's throat. Erestor gulped the viscous seed; voraciously sucking until the last drops of Legolas' semen was expelled. He fell back limp upon the blanket and lay panting in ragged breaths, smiling in the giddy aftermath of surging glory.

Erestor grinned, releasing the softened penis, and stretched out beside him, kissing the open lips and exhaling back to Legolas a hint of his own essence. Legolas shivered and rolled to press his still wet member against Erestor's hip and, draping a leg across his thighs, rocked lightly against him. Erestor enfolded him in his arms and relished the weight of the golden head upon his breast.

Erestor smirked as Legolas beamed dreamily.

"I think you have needed that for quite a while, pen-rhovan," he teased softly and Legolas giggled as he leaned up to kiss him.

"There is more I need," he whispered in sultry decadence, reaching down for his lover's erection as he did, languidly massaging the slightly pulsing rock-hard cock. "You have not had me yet."

Legolas quickened his tempo and kissed the hollow at the base of Erestor's throat. Erestor expressed his pleasure by reaching round to caress the nape of Legolas' neck and then again smoothing his palm down his lover's back. Legolas answered the sumptuous touch by blazing a tongue trail across Erestor's chest, ending in a steady lapping at his nipple. Erestor lurched up into the sensation in appreciation and would have crammed his cock vigorously into Legolas' talented grip but the archer's leg was there, heavy against his body. Erestor caressed the pleasing encumbrance, working his way around the inviting curve of the firm gluteus, allowing his fingers to slip underneath and brush the sensitive region between Legolas' anus and balls. Legolas called out Erestor's name and shoved his stiffening cock roughly against his pelvis.

Erestor let his finger tips circle the tautly puckered opening in Legolas' body as the archer continued to thrust against him in synchrony with his relentless attention to Erestor's cock, now a dark and ruddy red and exuding a steady drip of clear slickness.

The naked head fascinated Legolas. None of his previous lovers had ever been shorn thus, and he found the oral sensations the deficit produced immensely enjoyable. He trailed his lips across it, licking under the ridge and down into the slit, making soft plaintively thrumming murmurs deep in his throat while he tasted and sucked. Erestor pivoted up as much as he could to force more of his pulsing flesh into his lover's mouth, encouraging Legolas with keening sighs as his fingertips continued to dance against the boundary of the flexing entry.

Erestor pushed his finger into his lover.

"Hah!" Legolas shouted the syllable against Erestor's erection, stilling his movements momentarily. The digit shoved in, rapidly palpating the squeezing muscles, anticipating the ingression of the distended cock.

Then Erestor stilled also and began carefully probing his lover, feeling gently with healer's fingers, pushing further and exploring as far as his digit's length allowed. For as deep as he could penetrate, Erestor's finger encountered a series of irregular and coarse disfigurations upon the normally smooth lining of the tissue. As before, the history of the ill-healed hurts was revealed to his touch and he was shocked at the brutality Legolas had borne.

"Legolas?" he said softly and cautiously withdrew the finger. His hand lifted Legolas' chin and turned his head to meet his eyes. "You have, inside, you are scarred there," he tried to keep his voice calm as he struggled to get the words out, and watched as a fleeting shadow of fear flitted through his lover's eyes.

"Does it bother you? I know I will please you; I was once told it even increases the pleasure," he said as he dropped his eyes. "Please do not let this change anything," he whispered and hid his face against Erestor's broad chest. Erestor encircled him tightly in his arms and held him, stunned that this was what his lover feared.

"Nay, I only worry I may damage you more. I have come away without my pack and have nothing to ease the penetration. Legolas, you will tear; look at what I will put in you," he admonished and Legolas complied, eagerly grasping the thick and lengthy prominence awaiting its sheathing within him. He quivered with anticipation and pulled at it possessively.

"Aye, I see, and I do not care if you have to split me just get it into me. Now, Erestor!" he urgently cajoled, bending over to take the piece back into his mouth. He held it up with his hand, making sure Erestor could see his tongue darting out and around the lip of the head, determined to lift his lover's ardor beyond concerned protests.

He felt Erestor's guttural vocals more than heard them and pulled his mouth off him with a slurping pop as he broke the suction and allowed the heavy organ to drop back against his stomach. Legolas sat up and then crawled over Erestor, stopping fleetingly to pump his erection against Erestor's in flagrant lechery.

"Elbereth!" Erestor shouted and clutched at the buttocks rubbing his body, squeezing the muscular cheeks as he lifted questing lips to the archer's sensuous mouth. Legolas swept his tongue across his lover's palate, murmuring responsively into the taste.

But Legolas broke the kiss and scooted forward, bending low to drag his nipples over Erestor's mouth, which opened and bit at the brief yet delectable offerings. The wild elf wriggled into the nibbling caresses, pulling lightly against Erestor's gentle tugs, sending his urgent groans into his lover's ear as he licked it. Legolas finally snatched back the swelled tidbits, slithering off Erestor's chest, and waddled on his knees over to his destination, the wooden box. He rooted through it and Erestor had an excellent view of his firm arse, his balls just barely visible as he leaned over into the chest. Erestor could not restrain himself and got up behind Legolas and forced two fingers into him, working them deeply inside to find the prostate.

"Erestor!" Legolas screamed as the gland was jolted three times in rapid succession and he grabbed onto the edge of the chest and pushed back, splaying wide his knees invitingly, relishing the feel of the fingers fucking him. He let his forehead fall against his white-knuckled grasp on the trunk and Erestor pushed aside his golden hair and claimed the nape of his neck. He bit into the cream colored skin sharply enough to draw up a purple bruise, while his other hand gripped the wild elf's elegant organ and pumped it solidly, just once.

"Erestor!" the archer cried again. Then he lifted his head and unfurled one hand, triumphantly smiling as he showed his lover what his scavenging had yielded: a small container of sweet and slippery oil of athelas seed. Erestor grinned delightedly and pulled his fingers out, reaching for the bottle, but Legolas shook his head, concealing the bottle in his palm again and holding it jealously to his heart.

Eyes gleaming, Legolas pushed Erestor back so he was settled on his haunches beside him. Still on his knees, the fallen prince opened the bottle and coated his fingers thoroughly. Leaning over with one hand on the chest for support he slid two lubricated digits inside his body, giving Erestor a clear view of him plunging them incessantly against his pleasure point as he exhaled a carnal grunt with every jab. He leaned his head against his arm and his hair slid down, a soggy drapery wafting its dripping fringe against his protruding cock with each insertion.

Erestor leered slack jawed but then Legolas raised libidinous eyes to capture his and, muttering an oath, the Noldo pounced upon his lover, mounting him as he yanked the fingers free. He plowed his obdurate shaft up the waiting channel and stabbed impatiently against the resistant flesh, desperate to relieve his pent salacity.

Legolas howled with the impact as he was breached and slicing stringers of agony broke upon him, signaling the ripping of the muscle, followed by rippling swells of euphoria as the mixture of blood and oil eased the thickened immensity deeper.

"Ah! Valar! Legolas!" Erestor shouted out the continuous, lascivious mantra in accord with every impact of their flesh as they copulated.

Legolas had to brace his arms against the box as Erestor's potent lunges hammered him.

"More! Erestor!" Legolas shouted in his cupidity, lost in the avalanche of pain-laced ebullience as Erestor filled him beyond capacity.

He was aware of every inch of his lover's penis ravishing him and urgently sought to spread himself to allow greater access. He wanted to feel him deeper; to know the sensation of that naked head marking him, exceeding the extent of its previous onslaught each time the cock intruded. He needed to be seared by Erestor's heat, scorched by his inflamed passion, scarred by his insatiable craving.

Erestor grasped Legolas tightly around the waist and gripped the wooden box with his other hand, thrusting mercilessly, shoving in his cock as far as he could force it, nearly climbing up Legolas' back in his desperate need to embed himself in his lover's body. He could feel Legolas' penis bump against his arm every time he rammed into his rectum. With increasingly rapid and brutish impetus he drove against the constriction of Legolas' passage as the muscles encircled the invading organ in a tightening noose of relentless friction. Both elves were insensible to anything but their rutting need and the pounding of skin against skin as their delight rose to exalted ecstasy.

Legolas looked down between his arms and emptied his lungs in a tremendous holler of delirious abandon as he watched his penis shoot forth his second ejaculation across Erestor's arm and the side of the wooden chest. Erestor balanced on the pinnacle of his orgasm a moment more and then injected his semen deep into Legolas, a shuddering spasm rocking his entire body as his primitive outcry of gratification rumbled and reverberated through the rain-scissored air.

The elves collapsed onto the blankets.

tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	18. Aniron isto; uciriel le ross?

Aniron isto; uciriel le ross? [I want to know; have you never seen the rain?]

Rain. Bloody vicious rain. Does it never end? Has every bloody drop of water in the Great Sea evaporated only to be precipitated right here over this dismal bloody forest?

Erestor, formerly Rusciphant now re-christened Berenaur, squatted in unbearable discomfort in the unceasing sheets of liquid misery that poured over him, and contemplated his plight.

Ah, but this is not a forest; no, this is a malignancy festering on the soul of Arda, a cyst of the Void welling up on Yavanna's visage, threatening to spew its poisonous and infectious evil in an ever widening, water borne epidemic! Of course it must rain half the bloody year in Mirkwood and broil in a sweltering inferno the rest of it! These are but the symptoms of the disease! Normal seasonal variations have no defence against the insidious sickness that is Mirkwood!

He had already removed everything but his leggings, his clothing having swelled to twice its normal weight as the overabundant moisture was absorbed. His pack was drowning, veritably stewing in a soup of dissolved or waterlogged supplies. He was certain his maps and journal were ruined, no doubt reduced to a thoroughly congealed mass of sticky ink blotched fibres by now. The other pack was equally clammy and viscid. Medicinal herbs were rendered ineffective, their potency leached away into the forest's acidic soil. Bandaging was now merely a mass of pulpy cotton good only for sponging away dirt or blood and absolutely useless for binding wounds.

The Noldo's mental grousing halted as he thought he caught the sound of an animal's howl. Erestor poked his toe into the heap of garments and goods piled on the platform, uncovering his weapons, and reached for his hunting knife and sword, to be safe.

Of course, he resumed his internal dialogue, it will no doubt be the case that Mirkwood Orcs love to hunt in the rain, prefer the slogging muddy tracks, aim their bows better in the grey half-dark of the cloud shrouded skies! I expect to hear them any moment now, only, oh yes, the bloody pounding rain damps out all the sounds for miles around! When they do arrive, my sodden arrows will fly off in wild arcs, unbalanced by the sorbed water in the fletching. That is, if the bow will even draw with its string so completely permeated!

He dared not move from the high, narrow flet after observing his companion's near catastrophic misstep on the water-slicked boughs earlier. He would not be able to go in search of food as long as the storm persisted. Erestor's mood ran to acerbic sarcasm as the rain drummed upon his pate.

When the lembas runs out I will starve while the rain graciously gives me plenty of water to prolong my demise! I will die in the Shadow's Lair, having fallen and fractured all of my bones while trying to descend to seek sustenance, for orcs will come upon me in my helplessness. No one will ever know what has become of me! Penbara and Penraeg will never even find my lovely body to hold a proper commemoration!

And for what purpose am I trapped in this Ulunn-infested [Monster], Nazgul-ravaged, Orc-plagued, Eru-condemned, and blighted land? Have I been lured by the anticipation of fornicating with a very forbidden and luscious bit of Nandorin arse? Enamoured by the romance of danger the Outcast Kin-slayer conjures in my brain? Tempted by the exotic allure of that primitive, savage, throwback Tawarwaith living here?

Erestor sighed amid his mental haranguing. He had to admit that was all true. He was growing stiff just thinking about the blatantly tantalising elf. He repositioned himself and adjusted the drenched and clinging leather leggings.

He did not really believe this outcast elf could be of any service to Imladris; Elrond was mistaken this time. Just as he had been about the mother.

Legolas certainly does favour his mother; Erestor mused. In fact, Elrond is probably interested not so much to recruit the fallen prince as to fuck him. With Ningloriel gone, there is a hole left in my Lord's life. Or rather, there is not a hole.

Erestor lightly and repetitively bounced the back of his head against the tree trunk as he sat, thoroughly bored, irritated, agitated, and frustrated.

Why did I agree to the division of the spoils as Elrond dictated? Why must it be Elrond who debauches the Wood Elf? Why, oh why, have I doomed myself to unbearable longing and lusting for the creature and only the satisfaction of my own hand as I watch the Lord of Imladris spending himself deep inside the supple and sensual body of the young Tawarwaith? If I even get the opportunity to watch! Doubtful, after that little indiscretion earlier.

He had beheld the two elves among the trees as they cautiously moved away from his flet, surprised that Legolas had led his friend further into the woods. Yet, the rain was so opaque they might not be far away at all. In either case, they had soon vanished from his sight. That seemed hours ago but he could not tell; dawn could be fast approaching and he might never know it in this environment. However, he felt no concern for his comrade; he was armed while the aboriginal elf was not. No, Erestor envied him.

He recalled how easy it had been for Elrond to overcome the smaller elf. No doubt that was due more to the depth of his fatigue and the length of his privation in this reeking, rotting land than any weakness of his nature. Yes, he was an extraordinarily resistant creature, from what he had thus far observed. What had that been like, he wondered, for my esteemed colleague? What had Elrond felt, lying in full-body contact with the half-dressed elf writhing underneath him? Legolas had still been aroused; Erestor was sure of it. He groaned in dismal discomfiture, shifting on the soaked wooden floor and displacing a handful of water that had pooled in his lap. He watched as the small wave crested across the slats and gushed over the edge, joining the rest of the flood far below.

By Ulmo's balls, will this deluge never end?

Another eerie cry filtered through the perpetual monotony of the rushing rain and Erestor sat up sharply. That had sounded distinctly like a name, his name. It came again, louder, and now he was sure of it. There, that was a different voice now, and a different name: Legolas, and Valar something or other. There was no mistaking it; those were the calls of the elves in the throes of their passionate coupling.

Erestor was furious and crawled to the edge of the flet, trying to peer through the watery barrier to learn where they were. The yelling was increasing in both volume and frequency, yet the raindrops seemed to be diffracting the sounds and sending false echoes from counter directions, and he still could not tell where to look. They had to be near in order to be heard above this din, yet he could make out nothing beyond indistinguishably wet, dun-coloured, and dripping leaves and branches. He cursed under his breath; those two were mating madly and he was not even able to catch so much as a distant and blurry glimpse. It was beyond unfair!

Legolas' long-drawn soulful shout of satisfaction as he emptied his testes and his lungs wafted through the liquefied air and lingered before drifting away, dissipating into the torrent, seeping into the very earth, then resurging throughout the woods, penetrating by slow diffusion the essence of the trees. The beech bearing Erestor's talan seemed to stretch, flexing its sturdy limbs and he stilled, forgetting his carping complaints as the entire environment luxuriated in the archer's long-desired release.

Elrond's resonating response boomed out moments later and was as languidly stolen away into the rain, and Erestor had a brief yet radiant image burst upon his mind of Legolas held close in comfort and contentment against the body of the Lord of Imladris. They lay together chest-to-chest, the young one's crown tucked under the legend's chin, their arms encircled ribs that held safe their hearts beating one rhythm together, their legs entwined at knees and ankles.

The scene was infused with and emitted a poignant sensation of the joy of the woods in the delight of their champion. Unbidden, a whisper as of new leaves rustling in a subtle breeze formed words within Erestor's mind: Dagnir-en-môr, Vín Maethor, Harthad-en-Taur, Legolas. [Bane of the Darkness, Our Warrior, Hope of the Forest, Greenleaf] The vision burned away in seconds leaving a sweet and smoky perfume within the air, reminiscent of some rare and fragile orchids that bloomed but once a century at the breaking of the dawn.

And as he was feeling this, for thought was too concrete a construction for the visual expressions of the Greenwood's soul, the rain ceased and the light brightened around him. It truly was dawn, and Erestor realised with amazement that he no longer felt burdened or downhearted, but instead was refreshed and rejuvenated, as though he had slept in the deepest comfort in his own bed in Imladris.

He turned automatically to his right and gazed into the trees, knowing now where they were and yet not in any great hurry to disturb them. He found himself smiling and cocked his head with a small laugh as he set about sorting and shaking out the clothing and the packs, adding the last few drops of the storm to the soil below.

He was pleased as his inventory progressed and he found most of the lembas still dry in its waxy packaging and the apples still crisp. His journal, too, had sustained little damage, having been wrapped inside a spare undershirt, while his maps he had wisely bound within an oiled cloth, as was his custom to do on any journey, and had never been in harm's way at all. Erestor's lips formed a wry smile as he recalled his own foolishness just a short time past.

He spread out all the clothing to dry, noting with interest a pair of soft black leggings and a contrasting tunic of a blue shade much like the color of Ningloriel's eyes. These he found within Elrond's pack, in addition to the Lord's own spare clothing, and were of a size too small for his stature. Erestor snorted; Elrond had not revealed he had brought gifts for the fallen prince.

The seneschal dumped out all the contents of the second pack and rifled through Elrond's personal items without conscience. He lifted a brow in incredulous wonder as he found two more presents. The first was a worthy souvenir; a magnificent and very ancient dagger made by Celebrimbor himself, marked with runes of power and potent spells upon the blade. The other was an ornament of mithril that appeared to be a ring made for no finger, for it had a peculiar clasp that opened out into a fine needle-like extension.

Erestor had once seen such worn by an elf maid through the very flesh of the most sensitive part of her ear's tip. He laughed aloud at the mental image of the feral elf wearing such a thing; Elrond would not be offering this trinket to that pen-rhovan, he sincerely hoped.

While he was thus occupied the forest had come to life, bustling with the sounds and colours of vibrant and vocal birds and small, scurrying four-footers. The call of a songbird right next to his cheek seized Erestor's attention and he turned from the mundane examination of the Elf Lord's version of love tokens. His abrupt movement startled the bright blue avian and it shot across to a neighbouring limb with two rapid snaps of its lapis wings and Erestor's eye travelled with it. He caught his breath as he gazed upon the woods.

Vision dazzling lances of golden sunlight pierced the canopy in a random array of slanting shards. The contrast between the shadowy leaf-shielded woods and the illuminated columns of Anar's glory was startling and underscored the sacred solemnity of the forest; both living sanctuary and ancient, venerable power at once, its roof adorned in living banners and buttressed with colonnaded radiance. Within the narrow aura of each luminous pillar, the colours of the elision trees shone forth in a palette of greens that ranged from the softest mossy sage to the most luxuriant aqua-tinged fir to the glossiest emerald of summer-leafed maples. Gone was the dull lead-grey monochrome of rain blown wooden husks, replaced with an indescribable diversity of bark and bole in chestnut browns, mellowed sienna hues, silvery greys mottled white, and gleaming near-ebony richness. The whole of Mirkwood glistened in its storm-recovered grandeur, transcending the encroachment of darkening evil and defying the accursed name used by Men.

Erestor felt transported beyond himself, his comprehension enlightened by the incarnate spirit woven within every root and sprig as the dancing pattern of ethereal splendour disclosed the hidden majesty of the forest. He realised this must be the Greenwood as it had looked in the First Age of Anar when it was still connected to Lothlorien and Fangorn. The jaded and cynical seneschal stood up and looked out with eyes somehow new and unspoiled despite long age, lost in entranced veneration. His soul swelled in joyous amazement and he felt he understood some small inkling of Legolas' communion with Tawar.

As suddenly as the transfiguration had occurred it diminished and departed. A remnant cloud of the night's storm passing somewhere overhead occluded the brilliant beams and he was once more in Mirkwood. Erestor drew in a deep and stabilising breath as he sought to ground himself; he had not felt awe since his elfling years.

With the lingering sensation of beatification upon him, he knelt to organise the contents of the packs, separating each item to allow as much air to circulate as possible and speed the drying process. Satisfied he had done all that was needed to restore their possessions to their former condition; Erestor drew out his comb and sat back again. Carefully he worked through the lush and lengthy onyx filaments, coaxing out the lustre and sheen he was so proud of until not a snag remained and the mane was dry, bound back again in a mithril clasp. He thought of how he might pass his time and instantly retrieved his journal, a slender quill, and his bottle of blue-black ink, for there was much he wanted to document of his recent adventures. He settled against the tree's trunk.

He recorded his memories and observations in neat and careful characters, each precisely the same size as the next, each line of text equidistant from those above and below it. His words were skilfully chosen yet allowed neither excessive nor unnecessary embellishment, yielding an account perhaps a little dry in comparison to the true experience. But Erestor had an artistic flair, and he often added quick drawings to illustrate his prose on the facing leaves of the leather bound account. His gifted hands imbued his pictures with much of the raw emotion the journey had thus far exacted.

He was sketching the trees around his flet, attempting to capture that sense of uplifted glory and strength that had stirred him so, when he heard the sound of feet upon the branches, and looked to his right. The Lord of Imladris was making slow but steady progress, barefooted, along the limbs still wet and hazardous to those unaccustomed to such pathways. Erestor capped his ink and closed the book, standing to meet his Lord with arms akimbo and a disgruntled expression upon his features.

"So! You recalled I still exist! Or, more likely, you got hungry and remembered where you left your pack. And what of the Wood Elf?" he spoke his reproachful greeting in Quenya, as they had agreed all their conversations must be, voicing high words for low thoughts.

Elrond stepped gratefully onto the flet, glancing down to the floor of the forest as he did so, and then faced his old friend. He took in the sodden leggings and the bootless feet, the immaculately coifed hair and scowling brow, and Elrond could not help but laugh.

"What a sight you are, Erestor! No one in Imladris would recognise you; you have gone native, my friend," he managed to state before laughing again.

"Then we are a pair," Erestor glared and looked the Elf Lord up and down. "You look the worse, for you have not even tended your hair. And at least I do not reek of certain bodily excretions," he said with icy hauteur. "Some of which are not your own, I might point out. Honestly, Elrond, with all the water that has assailed us, could you not find enough to wash up? I believe you are boasting, and it is not flattering to your character."

Elrond had the good graces to be dismayed if not to blush; he had really not thought about it and had not intended to offend his friend.

"Erestor, that is not true. I was in a hurry to return so we may speak before he wakes nothing more. Do not be angry; we agreed this way was best," he said.

Erestor was but minimally mollified. It was he after all who had been left alone in the rain while his Lord had enjoyed the pleasures of new flesh.

"Perhaps, but maybe not for my best. Have you any idea what it is like to hear your name shouted in impassioned ecstasy while being nowhere near the orator? The least you could have done was grant me the opportunity to observe the activity," he fumed.

Elrond smiled and placed a placating hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I am sorry for that, but it did work. He believes most of it, and what he doubts is not what I have said but what I have held back. As for the rest," Elrond shrugged, "I was not entirely in control of events. He is very demanding and will have things as he chooses. You are unlikely to be honoured with any visual stimulus; he does not like you."

Erestor raised his brows as he momentarily contemplated what sorts of things the wild elf might demand, but his complaints were not yet done.

"I have had time to think on this, Elrond, and it would have worked as well if he actually was with me rather than merely believing this to be so. Remind me again, logically, why the good of our realm depends on you being the one to bed the fallen prince?"

Here Elrond allowed himself a small knowing grin; there was an easy answer. Erestor liked to pretend to be a sexual dilettante; sampling his lovers briefly and laconically while returning nothing of his heart or mind, yet it was false. The seneschal preferred the young because of their willingness to allow him to talk out his frustrations and exasperations of daily life in the service of his Lord, as much as for the thrill of divesting them of their virginity. Erestor loved to gossip as a sort of after-sport to his lovemaking.

"It would be impossible for this to work if you became his lover simply because you would quickly loosen your tongue and unwittingly reveal our purpose here," Elrond said.

Erestor's eyes opened wide as his lips followed suit and he was struck dumb a moment, so great was his outrage.

"That is just preposterous! I cannot think why you would call me a betrayer. I would never do such a thing; not the vilest and most anguishing tortures could force me to turn against our realm!" he shouted, deeply wounded, and brushed away his Lord's hand from his shoulder.

"Nay, that is not what I think. It is not that you would betray our people but that you would come to trust that one," he said with a brief twist of his head in the direction from which he had come. "Indeed, I feel myself that I could tell him everything I suspect and he would assist us willingly. I almost did not follow through, Erestor. I almost gave him my true identity."

Erestor held the Elven Lord's gaze a moment then looked away, considering these words. It was disturbing to hear and he wondered what it was about the wild creature that could produce this affect on them, remembering the vivid mental scenes and emotions they had both experienced since encountering the Wood Elf. He worried suddenly that the creature knew all their thoughts and plans, then discarded that. If this was so, Legolas would either have killed them himself or allowed the Orcs to have them.

He exhaled a discontented breath and remained silent. Elrond had not truly answered his question at all, for his reasoning was faulty. Erestor enjoyed his open discourse with his partners, but this was only because they were of his own lands and people. He was not loose of tongue even when within the safe embrace of his Lorien lovers, and never did he discuss Elrond's concerns about the Woodland Realm, regardless of who he was with. His Lord knew this; the whole argument had merely been a distraction to turn the seneschal's mind away from the real issue at hand.

Erestor set his jaw as he gritted his teeth; the affront stung his dignity and he would force an honest admission from Elrond's lips. It was the price he would demand for both his wounded pride and his sacrifice of what had obviously been extremely pleasurable. He had played the part of the lecherous rogue perfectly, driving the overwrought Wood Elf straight into Elrond's embrace, and he would have that acknowledged, as well as the reason for it.

He waited and did not bother to look at Elrond, turning instead to put away his journal, quill, and ink. He heard Elrond's shift in position and watched as he moved over to the packs and extracted a wafer of lembas.

Elrond sat against the tree's bole and looked up to meet his confidant's gaze.

"I apologise, I did not mean to call into question your integrity. If I had no confidence in your honour I would not have you beside me," he said but Erestor's expression indicated it was not enough.

"All right!" Elrond threw his lembas down in vexation. "We both know it is true; I wanted things this way for personal reasons. I confess to you my hatred for Thranduil and his folk has not lessened in all this time since that horrendous day. And you were there to see it, too, Erestor. In trying to salvage the foolish pre-emptive attack the Sindar made before the gates of Mordor, Gil-Galad was lost. There, I have said it; does that please you? And, if I enjoyed it, what of that? I will enjoy it even more when I have cleaned him of my semen and his blood, and sent the cloth by messenger to Thranduil!"

Erestor stood aghast, for that was a level of coldness he had not imagined his old friend would know. He wondered if this was the nature of the evidence Thranduil had finally used against Ningloriel.

And he realised Elrond was right. It could never work with himself as the lover. This sort of joining was not one in which he would engage, indeed, such a coupling was for him unthinkable. He could not himself hold the young Wood Elf to account for events that occurred long before his birth. He could not retain both the ice of hatred and the fire of passion within his soul, together. While Erestor would have gladly used the feral elf's body for pleasure he never would do so for the sake of such bitter vengeance.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	19. Abross

Abross [After the Rain]

Rather than offering a respite from the searing summer sun, the overarching limbs and branches of the forest prevented the rising heat of the muggy air from escaping into the bordering meadows. Below the canopy the wearing of the day caused the temperature to steadily climb and in turn coaxed more moisture out of the ground until the invisible gases became nearly tactile.

The thick and sweltering atmosphere was burdened and redolent with the dank fumes of waterlogged earth and decaying wood. Sultry scents emanated from exotic blooms caught amid the statuesque timbers and dangling down from creeping vines that swayed against the ground when a rare puff of a wind stirred the duff. Under the torrid hand of the sweating woods, living things slowed to sluggish subsistence and bare endurance during the simmering mid-summer's morn.

For the two Noldor interlopers within the steaming sauna it was becoming progressively uncomfortable to breathe the cloying air and the exertion this normally reflexive action required was draining. They were unused to the higher altitude, the excessive heat, the burdensome humidity, and the rugged conditions; preferring the domestication of the open yet protected lands beyond the Misty Mountains. It was obvious that Elrond and Erestor were more accustomed to being the hosts than the wayfarers and had not packed appropriately for the climate.

The two elves had spoken little since the argument at dawn and now were silently repacking their belongings in preparation to removing to the larger talan where their Sylvan companion still slept. Neither had bothered to put on boots or shirts or tunics, as the oppressive heat was hardly bearable even as scantily clothed as they were.

Elrond had self-consciously bathed with the drinking water and Erestor noted he carefully folded and sequestered this cloth within his pack separately, as though to use it later, and this served to underscore the cold brutality of his earlier words. At last all was ready and without comment they hefted their burdens and Legolas' weapons and set out upon the branchway.

Erestor knew the way as well, having been gifted with the vision of the location previously, yet out of deference he followed Elrond. As they came closer, he noted the tarpaulin stretched between the poles and the tree and could not help giving a sniff of indignation and an icy glare when Elrond glanced back. Elrond shook his head slightly and stepped down onto the platform carefully, not certain how deep the Tawarwaith reposed. He heard Erestor's step behind him and moved further onto the talan to allow him room, but the seneschal halted where he was as his senses registered the proof of the early morning's activities.

The musky odor of their coupling hung in the air, escaping into the close atmosphere from the blankets, remaining trapped under the tarpaulin by the lack of wind and the sticky heat. Legolas lay motionless and naked, stretched out in much the same pose he had adopted on the two previous occasions that Erestor had observed his rest. This upset Erestor for reasons he could not quite define. Legolas looked very fragile this way and it jarred with what he thought he knew about the feral elf. He was angry, or perhaps it was merely disappointment over having lost his opportunity to experience such a passionate encounter with the wild warrior.

He shook his head, disgusted with his own self-deceit, for he knew very well that had nothing to do with it at all. He had, in spite of his determination to scorn the lowly backwoods moriquendi, found much to admire in the Wood Elf. He had even found qualities worthy of respect, and did not like to think of such a one being used. Of course, he would have been willing to use him just a short time ago, and this added to his unease. It rankled even more to accept that his Lord, worthy of esteem for his own nobility, was the one who would bring the unsuspecting elf down. It was not the sort of behavior he tended to associate with Elrond.

Erestor sighed, for that too was false. He had known of the situation with Ningloriel right from the start, and had never felt much of a twinge knowing Elrond did not love her with the same intensity that she extended that emotion. Yet, Ningloriel had always understood who she was dealing with and had her own agenda. The true depth of her emotional involvement was limited by her own self-centered disposition. Her son did not even have an agenda that Erestor could determine.

And there was that, too; the very fact that he was Ningloriel's child made the seneschal's skin crawl a bit. It was indecent, somehow, to lie with the child of one's former lover. Not that Legolas was a child by any means, yet it did not set right in his mind. Ever hovering was the belief that the archer was very likely Elrond's child as well, and this made the lies about the Elf Lord's identity a breach of trust that could never be forgiven should it come to light. Unable to clarify his reasoning beyond these impressions, Erestor set his things aside near the wooden box as quietly as he could. He watched to see if the archer would stir, but he remained quiet and somehow this bothered him more.

Elrond was busy on the other side of the talan and did not appear to be paying any attention to his lover. Erestor realized he was going through Legolas' quiver, which had two or three internal pockets or divisions in which he separated various necessary items from his arrows. He watched a moment as flint and arrowheads were removed and set aside, followed by the dagger. He watched as a carefully folded and much worn piece of parchment was drawn forth. Elrond started to open the note but Erestor quickly stepped around the prone archer and snatched the paper away from his Lord, sending him a look of deepest disapproval as he refolded and replaced the letter.

"That is too much! He is unlikely to have any information we can use contained there," he hissed and returned then to his own things, ignoring the look of absolute astonishment on the Elven Lord's features.

"Do not pretend you are not curious. You would like to know who would write an outcast, banished elf a note such that he would keep it when all else he owns is of practical necessity," Elrond snapped in self-justification, but Erestor pursed his lips and glared through slitted eyes at his Lord and shook his head firmly.

"I am not curious. Even knowing him so little, I can assume it must be from his mother. If he was treasured within a lover's heart, would he be out here alone?" he scoffed and pointedly turned aside as he drew out his journal from his pack. Settling himself against the box and facing the archer's back, he began to sketch Legolas' recumbent form, keenly aware of the dusky scent of semen permeating the wood supporting him.

Elrond found his conscience reeling from that simple statement and his eyes fell upon the sleeping elf. Even in rest he was not at peace, and the heavy air was overlaid with a sensation of restlessness and agitation as though these emotions peeled off the Legolas' bare skin with every breath he exhaled. He watched the fallen warrior's eyes, wandering in dream, as feelings swirled through them, and Elrond nearly wished he would close them again so as to conceal the anguish they exposed. The Elf Lord looked back to his seneschal, but he was engaged in his drawing and did not bother to acknowledge his Lord's regard.

It was the perfect proportions of that body that drew the eye, Erestor thought as he rapidly captured the gentle S-shaped posture of the nude elf on paper. One arm stretched above his head cradled it, the other lay dangling over his side, fingertips barely resting against his navel, though this he could not confirm from his present vantage. One leg, bent at the knee towards his chest, prevented him from rolling over onto his stomach while the other rested in a more or less straight line with his spine.

For the first time, Erestor observed a braided lock of dark auburn hair twisted around that foot, clinging around the middle-toe, criss-crossing over the deceptively delicate arch, and finally wrapped twice about the slender ankle and tied off with a strand of leather lacing. He sketched it in detail, wondering whose hair was such a treasured memento. The position of the legs eased the sharp angles of the lean and muscular body, he noted, calling attention to the softer curves of the buttocks.

Erestor abruptly stopped his quill upon the parchment sheaf as he gazed there and observed the dried track of the blood that had run down to stain Legolas' leg and the blanket as well. He tightened his lips in an acrimonious scowl as he looked back over to find Elrond's eyes upon him. The two elves remained locked in a silent discourse, Erestor accusatory and Elrond apologetic, for several seconds before Erestor cursed under his breath and slammed shut the journal with a loud slap.

Legolas jumped; his head came up and he tried to roll up to his feet, but abruptly he stiffened and cried out. He lowered himself back down carefully and did not move as he tried to relax his body to ease the pain, dropping his head back onto his arm with a weary groan. Elrond went to his side and consolingly caressed his shoulders.

"Best not to move so suddenly, Legolas. I will get my medicinal pack and see what can be done, alright?" he said quietly and the suffering elf just nodded. It did not take Elrond long to find what he needed and he set to work as gently as he could.

With elaborate care he used the remaining contents of his waterskin to clean away the blood and semen, even as he had boasted that he would, and tucked the soiled cloth safely away.

This action was not lost to Erestor's notice, and he made a disgusted face and averted his gaze. But his eyes were drawn back in spite of himself by the sound of Legolas strenuously filling his lungs. He did not cry out but it was obvious he was in acute distress as his breathing was rapid and shallow and his hands were rigidly balled into the blankets beneath him.

Elrond did not speak, instead concentrating on being as thorough and quick as possible. He was somewhat concerned that the injuries did not seem to have closed over much during the intervening hours. He used a salve that would protect against infection while easing pain and soothed it liberally inside Legolas. Scrupulously examining the extent of the damage as he applied the medicine, Elrond seemed not to notice the increased tempo of his patient's pulse. Eventually Legolas gasped and sought to draw away as the fingers pressed in too deep for him to bear.

"Enough!" he rasped hoarsely, his throat constricted in his effort not to cry out in his discomfort, and Elrond cautiously withdrew his fingers. Legolas exhaled and slumped down, and only then did the Noldor understand how stringently tense he had held himself during the treatment.

He was drawing deep lung-fulls of air, face pressed against the woolen blanket and eyes screwed shut, trying to command his senses to accept the pain washing through him in virtually visible waves. After several minutes his respiration eased and Erestor got up and passed the waterskin to him. Legolas took it from him, startled, for he had not noticed the other elf at all. He pulled the blanket over himself self-consciously before he drank, and closed his eyes when he laid the canteen aside, not knowing where to look just yet. Erestor retrieved the container and retreated to his previous spot as Elrond resumed rubbing the younger elf's back. After some time, Legolas drifted into uneasy sleep, and Elrond dared a glance over his shoulder to Erestor.

The expression he saw there was anything but admiring and Elrond found it unpleasant to be the subject of such staunch disapproval. First he had willingly used an innocent for his own selfish motives, revealing himself to be vengeful and bitter, and now he must seem an appalling brute to his colleague. The Lord of Imladris was unused to being the object of disdain among his peers, and did not like it. He swallowed, realizing he had to set things right with his old friend if their efforts here were to yield any benefit. He could not bear the thought of Erestor believing he had deliberately harmed Legolas to spite his enemy.

"Berenaur," he whispered and his seneschal's eyes flashed a sneer of contempt.

"Yes, my Lord, what is it?" he murmured back caustically. He had already determined that he could not call Elrond by the name Erestor, and so had decided to address him only with the title of respect when Legolas was near, and he was no longer certain this tribute was deserved.

"It is not how it seems. He wanted things this way," Elrond tried to explain and Erestor's look of incredulity spoke for him. "I am serious; he would not be denied," Elrond continued, turning to face his friend as he crouched next to Legolas. "It is not the first time he has been taken thus; he is scarred deeply inside." The seneschal still looked doubtful, yet at least he was listening.

"Are you mad? No one could want to know such pain," Erestor whispered back.

"I would not lie about such a thing. He would not be refused and made his desires known quite insistently," Elrond continued. "He has known that pain often, from my estimation. In fact, upon considering it, I would have to say he has never known anything else."

The Lord of Imladris suddenly rose and went to sit down next to Erestor, staring at Legolas' inert body, for it was the first time he had allowed his healer's assessment of the internal damage to make itself utterly clear to him. The Noldor looked at one another, both encountering similar expressions of horrified dismay on the other's face.

"Why? What in the Name of Iluvatar does that mean?" Erestor could not contain his indignation and panic at such a statement. It was positively inconceivable for him to associate any sort of discomfort with sex and he found that the idea was vaguely frightening to him in addition to being disgusting. He knew the sexual tastes of some leaned towards the macabre, yet he was normally able to shield himself from ever really having to think about that sort of thing. He could not reconcile the two concepts within his mind: the exquisite sexual allure of Legolas and a craving for such wrenching agony.

Elrond was shaking his head slightly and allowed his eyes to rove over his lover's body slowly, remembering the frenzied lovemaking they had shared. It was a hard truth to face; he had enjoyed it, all of it. Legolas' pain had magnified his pleasure, allowing him to indulge his darkest urges without restraint.

"I do not know why or how, but that is what I sense when I touch him," the Elf Lord said quietly.

Erestor shivered involuntarily and shifted slightly so that he could sit facing Elrond, crossing his knees under him. This took him closer to Legolas and he reached out, unthinking, and lightly touched the golden locks arrayed upon the wooden deck. With Legolas' back to the Noldor, they failed to notice that his eyes sharpened in focus the instant his hair was touched. He kept all hint of his consciousness hidden and listened to what passed between his companions.

"This plan no longer seems so carefree, my Lord," Erestor said defying Elrond. "What may result from this?" But Elrond had considered the situation and was already able to rationalize his actions and his scheming.

"Nay, whatever has happened to him was none of our doing, my friend. He has been this way a long number of years, and I can assure you his life is not in jeopardy, though he is suffering under some long-held grief and the strain of exhaustion."

"Then all the more reason to abandon this course. We must find another way to achieve our objective." The seneschal gripped a handful of the twisted tresses within his fingers tightly as he spoke and Legolas tried desperately not to respond to the tug.

"My dear friend, you are beside yourself." Elrond was surprised and looked askance at his loyal countryman.

Erestor shifted uncomfortably and glanced back at the motionless elf next to him, noticing his hand was tangled in the shimmering yellow strands. He yanked his fingers back as though from a serpent's fangs and his features contorted as if from pain.

"What is he doing so close to Dol Guldur? Why does he offer himself as bait merely to trap and kill a few Orcs among hundreds? If he is banished, why then does he not leave this accursed place and settle elsewhere?" Erestor fumed.

The whole situation in which Legolas existed seemed bizarre to him, and he knew subconsciously that what disturbed him so was that death was lurking all around the Wood Elf. In a strange dance he could not comprehend, Legolas was both pursuing and repelling his demise. Erestor shivered again.

Elrond narrowed his eyes and glanced down at the subject of their discussion and said nothing, peering closely at the rise and fall of the archer's shoulders. Erestor followed his gaze and raised questioning brows at the Elf Lord upon noticing no change. Elrond glanced up and gave his seneschal a meaningful look, and resumed his scrutiny. Their silence stretched into minutes while Legolas hoped the conversation would resume.

He sensed the eyes upon him and sighed just slightly, realizing that he must have given himself away, though he could not think how. Possibly being a healer made his lover more astute in observing one's state of alertness. Legolas shifted, lifting up onto one elbow so he could glare over at Berenaur. He had not forgotten the humiliating things the Noldo had done to him. They regarded one another wordlessly for several seconds before Legolas spoke.

"Would you hand me the water, please?" he asked simply and Berenaur almost laughed to hear the mundane request, and smiled nervously as he complied. Legolas drank deeply but did not return the smile when he handed back the leather flacon. He then slowly began to draw himself into a more upright position, grimacing against the sharp twinges lancing through his lower body.

His lover instantly came to his side to assist and Legolas at first thought to push him away. He was too tired, however, and hurting with a throbbing persistence that only grew worse the more he moved about. Why should he not relent and take advantage of the other's presence? He allowed himself to be eased into a reclining position against his lover's chest, grabbing the blanket just in time to keep himself covered, and did not protest when strong arms encircled him to hold him there. He looked up to find the Elf Lord's concerned eyes studying him, and offered a half-hearted smile. Legolas relaxed as much as possible and settled himself such that the pain was no more than a dull aching. He returned his glowering eyes to Berenaur and let them stay there. At last the seneschal cleared his throat.

"I realize I owe you an apology. I am truly sorry to have allowed my base desires to get the better of me. Normally, I am not so lascivious," he said quickly and awkwardly but Legolas' features only grew darker.

"Are you saying I am to blame, then?" he demanded, half rising from his comfortable position, but Elrond held him tight.

"Nay! I do not mean that at all! I mean that I, well I normally do ask first and I . . ."

"So then you are saying I am not someone you need take the trouble to ask? I am just here for your gratification, whenever the mood strikes you?" Legolas cut in indignantly and again his lover had to hold him back to prevent him from moving.

"I mean nothing of the kind. Sweet Elbereth's tits! You put motives to my actions I never intended," the Noldo objected and threw his hands up in defeat. "Please, hear me!" he pleaded. "I beg your forgiveness, that is all I can do. I was wrong in every way and regret my actions more completely than you can know."

"You were touching my hair," Legolas growled, and Berenaur felt his face flush in confusion as he started to shake his head in dissent. This infuriated Legolas more and Elrond had to tighten his firm grasp around his shoulders to stay him. "Do not deny it! I felt it; that is what woke me just now. Ever as I try to sleep you put you hands upon my person."

"Peace, Legolas! He did not even realize he had laid a hand on your hair. I was watching him the whole time and I assure you this is so," Elrond attempted to soothe his lover and Legolas did ease back into a less tense configuration. His eyes continued to bore into Berenaur's with cold wrath, however, and the Noldo looked away, aware again of the deeper emotions there behind the cover of anger. He recognized them now: pain and fear and sorrow.

The silence was uncomfortably thick.

But Legolas did not have the energy or the will to continue to feed his anger, and he could see clearly that Berenaur was being truthful. He had also heard him arguing against whatever plot they were up to, as though from concern for him. There was something in the Noldo's eyes that reminded him of the way Malthen used to look at him sometimes. Legolas had always thought it an odd mixture: deep regret and honest admiration, and always the heat of desire. He decided to forgive him.

"I thought I told you before not to talk about me in foreign words," Legolas rebuked, directing this irritated comment to Elrond, and transferred the slicing gleam of his fiery gaze to the noble Lord's face. Elrond raised a single brow and stared back, but the Wood Elf was bold and refused to back down. Erestor enjoyed a loud chuckle as his Lord groaned and rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation.

"So you did. We owe you yet another apology. A thousand times we must beseech and plead mercy from you, O Lord of Rhovanion. And exactly how long were you lying there eavesdropping, pen-rhovan?" he demanded in mock irritation and his flippant humour served to break the tension beneath the canvas canopy. Legolas smirked a wry grin.

"Long enough to wonder if all the Noldor use the High Tongue for everyday speech, so often do I catch you at it," he countered. "Surely all your conversations cannot be secret ones." At this he felt his lover's body shaking with mirth and looked up again as the smooth laughs broke from his lips. "What is so funny, Erestor?" he asked.

For half a second the seneschal thought he was being addressed, before remembering their scheme. Of course, it was to Elrond the feral elf directed his question.

"I was thinking that we are well matched as guardians of our respective secrets, for while we two may converse in a foreign tongue, you converse only with trees," the Elf Lord replied.

"I have no secrets to hide for these are my lands, after all, and what can be unusual in wanting to cleanse them of the evil advancing from Dol Guldur," Legolas said and frowned at this comparison, looking from one to the other of them. After a few moments' consideration he spoke again. "If you must know, I am here at the request of Mithrandir; there is nothing secretive about it. I am trying to learn what I may about the Nazgul that are in residence in my woods," he said solemnly.

The Noldor's eyes met above the Wood Elf's head in amazement. Could it truly be so easy as this to discover what they sought?

"What have you learned? Do you know why they are here?" Berenaur spoke, breathless with expectation, for this was at the heart and soul of their own concerns. Legolas shook his head.

"I know not why they plague us. What I am trying to do is determine a way to be rid of them." This reply prompted another shared glance of obvious surprise and this time Elrond voiced his disbelief.

"It is impossible to be rid of them; they cannot be killed. Why would Mithrandir suggest such a thing to you? Have you broken some laws of the Istari in addition to those of your own people, that the wizard should want you dead as well?" He felt Legolas cringe at these words and regretted them instantly as his lover tried to pry his arms off him to get out of his embrace.

"Nay! You are wrong, none want me dead. What makes you say this?" he cried and wriggled out of Elrond's hold, momentarily losing his blanket and snatching it back up as he crawled away from the other elves, stopping only when the edge of the platform forestalled further retreat. He was breathing hard from the pain the effort cost and looked from one to the other, stricken and angry. "It is a lie! Why do you say this?" he demanded desperately and the Noldor exchanged worried yet bewildered looks.

"I think it was not meant so literally," Berenaur tried to alleviate some of the elf's obvious distress. "It is just that this is a dangerous place to call home," he said in what he hoped were consoling tones.

Legolas shot him a look the seneschal could not interpret beyond a deep sense of misery as he cast his eyes about the talan, searching. He found his objective and stretched out to retrieve his breeches, shucking them on under the blanket and yanking hard on the knot he pulled at the waist. With only a slightly stilted gait to betray the discomfort still assailing his body, he rose and strode over to where his weapons rested.

"Legolas," said Elrond, but received no response as the archer strapped down the quiver. Legolas' vision clouded in stormy wrath when he noted several items displaced from their former positions within it. Scooping back up the flint and dagger, he left the arrowheads lying there. His eyes slashed the air between them with seething rage as they finally met his lover's. He snatched up his bow.

"Wait." Elrond tried to be calm, keeping his voice low, but as before Legolas ignored him. In a single leap he was up above them and in minutes he was gone from the tree and darting away through the canopy without disturbing so much as a leaf in his passing.

A few moments elapsed while the Noldor registered the events and then Erestor shoved Elrond hard on the shoulder.

"What is the matter with you, sitting there?" he yelled. "Go! Follow him."

Elrond stared open mouthed at his friend then shut his jaws with an audible click as his molars connected. "It is not possible; there is no way to know where he has gone. Besides, he clearly is upset and wishes to be alone."

"Are you being deliberately slow and insensitive?" demanded Erestor. "He does not want to be alone, no matter how much he thinks he does. That remark cut right through him, now go fix things."

"What suddenly makes you an authority on what he wants?" Elrond demanded uncomfortably, but rose to his feet as he spoke, gazing out into the forest towards the direction of Legolas' flight. "I will never find him; he moves too fast and cannot be tracked."

"Nonsense; the trees will tell you where to go. He was right, they do watch over him and accept your connection to him."

This statement drew a bewildered expression onto the Elf Lord's features as he looked at his old friend. "How could you possibly know that?" he demanded.

"What difference does that make right now?" Erestor impatiently waved away the inquiry. "What are you stalling for? You made sure to be the one to have sex with him, now you will have to deal with the responsibility," he warned.

The seriousness of these words alarmed Elrond.

"What are you talking about, Erestor?" he almost shouted in frustration. "I am not bonded to him, for Elbereth's sake! Do not be so histrionic."

Erestor frowned and solemnly shook his head.

"Well, we will just see what his Tawar thinks about that," he intoned gravely and tossed Elrond his dagger.

They stared together another moment more before Elrond at last moved off into the branches, glancing back one last time at his old friend, an expression between disbelief and dread etched upon his countenance.

Erestor watched him go, breaking down into peals of soft laughter as soon as he determined he was beyond earshot. That, he thought, had been fitting revenge for his earlier mistreatment at the Elf Lord's hands.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

Note: Well, Erestor obviously has a heart and a conscience after all, but really he should not have sent Elrond out after our wild elf :(


	20. Gwedh Saer

Gwedh Saer [Bitter Bond]

Tawar protected its own and, more than any other of its Elven inhabitants, Legolas belonged to Tawar.

The woods shared with him all the undercurrents of life and death within the constant ebb and surge of energy throughout Arda. He was aware of the great part in the Music of the Ainur the forests sang and accepted that he was a mere collection of notes within that flowing harmony. He could tell from subtle changes in tone and pitch when the mood shifted from life to survival, rejoicing to struggle. He recognised the shift in tempo that alerted him to dangers from the gathering Shadow in the south and east.

Thus, it was not remarkable that the Greenwood knew when Legolas was in distress or at ease. Such signals originated from contact with him, through the very soles of his feet and the palms of his hands, as he moved throughout the forest. Water he used to cleanse his hair and body returned to the streams and passed along a sense of his health to the earth and thus to the trees. Likewise wind and rain might bring even more ephemeral signs to the woods. All of this was as natural as breathing to Legolas.

A similar connection extended from the forests to the rest of the Sylvan folk, though in a reduced sense.

All the thriving life, flora and fauna, that comprised the extant woods of Middle Earth knew and loved the Wood Elves and celebrated their presence among them. Yet in the Third Age the elves had changed, abiding within them rather than belonging to them, residing in the woods but no longer vitally integral to the organic structure. Once they had been the voice for the heart and soul of Tawar, singing as no others could, praising the glorious majesty of the trees' essence and the rich diversity of life sheltered within its protecting embrace.

Now few elves spent the long hours lost in reverie and communion with Tawar they once had and fewer created were the songs of growing and life while the dirges of sorrow and strife accrued. In increasingly greater numbers the Wood Elves abandoned Tawar, forsaking their only home to go beyond the Great Sea into the West. And none of the other entities of the woods could go with them, not even the trees that were almost as ageless and certainly as wise.

For this reason the woods grieved and felt their time of sentience fading with the Quendi, for when all of the First Born withdrew then none would ever again know the spirit of Tawar or hear the Music of the forest. The woods had begged for a champion to be raised up among the elves to take on their cause, entreating Yavanna to heed their desperate desire for one that would cleave to them and drive back the Darkness that sought to sever the Wood Elves from Tawar forever. The trees had pleaded for this boon from the Vala ever since the Maia Sauron rose to power, but the voices of the Quendi cried out for their own deliverance apart from the woods, and now even the Silvan Elves accepted their fate of diminishing departure.

Still, Yavanna had great love for her creations, and had wrought them upon Middle Earth for all of the Children of Iluvatar, the First Born and the Second Born. Though she knew the mind of Tawar would be altered and only a variation of its voice would sing after the elves were but memories, she desired the woods to remain in the world during the Age of Men. The Vala answered the pleas of the trees and sent them one to be their own, a Tawarwaith true.

Tawar knew of him and exulted in his making even while Legolas was concealed in the body of his mother. With Manwë's breath sighing through their leafy limbs the forest whispered the thought of his name into Ningloriel's dreams until she believed it was her invention. As he grew, Legolas' intangible connection to bark and branch became more pronounced due to his parents' inability to draw him close to their hearts. With open animosity between them, what security could they offer to their child? The rest of his kind subtly held back from him wary of his royal status, the instability in his home-life, and the link developing with the most ancient life upon the lands. It was strange for an elf to be so set apart, as was Legolas. From his youngest years he belonged to the trees more than he would ever belong to the elves.

It never occurred to him that other Wood Elves did not share this deeper bond with the Greenwood until he was disgraced and banished. Utterly separated from his people, his sense of kinship to the trees had deepened and became a thoroughly conscious revelation.

As for the motives of other Elves, Men, or Dwarves, the forest could only judge these by Legolas' responses to them. Perhaps in Fangorn there were still trees that could be called to action and made to understand the complexities of strategy and manipulation on an individual by individual scale. In the Greenwood, no such entities existed. Tawar could not divulge what it could not comprehend, and plots and schemes of local political mien were too small to rise to its attention amid the overwhelming evil of Sauron.

Thus the Greenwood could sense the uneasiness within Legolas' heart regarding the Noldor interlopers, but perceived that he did not find any direct malice within them. As soon as it was clear they were under his protection, the trees assisted as best they could given the two elves' limited ability to respond to them.

When Legolas found comfort with them, then Greenwood delighted. When he recoiled from them in hurt and sorrow, the trees knew that the major part of these emotions derived from past injuries still unhealed in their champion's soul, and did not seek to hinder the Noldorin elves.

After leaving his companions upon the guard's old outpost, Legolas' wish for solitude was heeded; the trees did not extend a mental image to guide the Elf Lord to their Tawarwaith.

So, Legolas knew he could not be followed, for the Noldor were far too slow and unskilled among the branches to keep up with him and the trees would ensure he left no trail. His burst of anger and its accompanying adrenaline flux were short lived and did not carry him far, for the pain was too sharp both in his body and spirit. He merely doubled back after climbing higher into the canopy and returned to the narrow flet where the seneschal had spent the rain-scoured night.

Shaking in the aftermath of rage and exertion, Legolas removed his quiver and frantically searched through the compartments. He was beside himself to know that the elves had gone through his personal possessions. He had so few, and none could be of value to anyone save himself, yet they had rummaged through them anyway. He wondered darkly which one had been handling his things and then realised it did not matter since both had been present. Most likely each had satisfied their curiosity at the expense of his privacy. He breathed a relieved sigh as his fingers closed around the familiar texture of the parchment note and pulled it out.

Legolas settled with a rather uncomfortable shifting and bending of legs to a half-seated, half-reclining position supported by an elbow, and looked at the small square of paper in his hand. He had folded it such that it fit perfectly in the center of his palm and he could curl his fingers completely around it and hold it totally concealed. He did this now and tucked his fist snug against his chest as he rolled over onto his back and stared up into the foliage. He forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly for he was aching and light-headed, voraciously hungry and thirsty, yet felt nauseated at the same time. His thoughts whirled in a confusion of anger, guilt, and despair.

He should not have lain with Erestor of Imladris. How could he have let this happen? Legolas berated himself, cringing at the memory of his complete debasement. He had warned himself not to stoop to their carnal lust just two days ago. Had he not been prepared to mutilate that low-minded Berenaur last night for his unwelcome groping? How could he have cast aside what little dignity he still possessed to give himself over to a lying Noldo spy?

Legolas shuddered as he remembered the things he had done and allowed to be done to him. He had not been hurt so much since his last joining with Malthen; he had not been desired so completely since the seduction by Malthen, and, if he must be truthful to himself, he had so much desired to be hurt this way since Malthen's rejection.

But I love Malthen; we love each other.

Their love made their savage coupling different. It was not just a base and brutal mating, for they shared a deep trust and connection of the soul, no matter the pain.

A memory of Malthen's eyes gleaming with licentious fervour took shape in his mind. He recognised with a jarring stab of anguish that it was identical to the expression on the Noldo's features when he had taken Legolas just hours ago. He scrunched his eyes shut, trying to force the two images from his thoughts, and moaned, rocking his body in his distress as he lay upon the talan.

Malthen loved me; he loves me still.

Then why had he given him away?

Why had he left for Valinor instead of carrying out the pact they had made all those years ago on the night after the Judgement?

Malthen had left him and Legolas would soon be in the Halls of Waiting, alone. Malthen did not want them to be together beyond death; how could he when he had been so quick to part from Legolas in life? Legolas now wondered how he had ever believed differently.

Malthen wants me to die. He even told me so: 'You must promise me to take the first opportunity for a clean death if it finds you.'

A desperate cry of repudiation pooled in his soul and gushed from his lips as he shook his head against the wooden boards, rejecting the inevitable conclusion. But that phrase kept repeating through his brain until there was no other interpretation possible. Malthen wanted him dead, forever severed from him.

Malthen does not love me; he never loved me at all.

What Legolas had just given to the Noldo spy was all the corpsman had ever wanted, and even that had soon become a bore. Once he allowed the idea to march through his consciousness, Legolas realised he must have known this for a long time, for he could not summon any arguments with which to counter the concept. It had the distinct weight of truth anchoring it firmly into his awareness, and now that he acknowledged it he could never pretend again that he did not both know and believe it.

His next thought was to wonder how long it would take to die from a broken heart, and why it must be such a horribly long, drawn-out process. So many years had passed since their affair ended.

His adoration of Malthen was an absolute in his life, and he could not remember a time he had not felt that way. He had just assumed the feelings were the same for his personal guard, though no such words had ever been spoken by either of them. His heart must have broken the very moment Malthen announced their affair was just a means of 'instruction in sexual relations' carried out under orders from his mother.

Naneth; she wants me dead, as well. She told me so; the very last words she ever spoke: 'You are an utterly selfish child, caring more for those dead warriors than your own mother. Stay, then! You wish to die for them, then stay and die!'

He loved Malthen; he loved his mother. Legolas loved them right now and would do anything to have either of them here this instant, yet neither of them loved him at all. Both of them had easily turned away and left him without a second thought.

Why can I not just die, then? Why must it take so long?

But he knew he would not die until the Tasks were done, no matter the agony it cost him to live. It hurt so terribly much more now that he had to accept the truth: they all wanted him dead. Just as the Noldo had said.

The Noldo Lord flickering through Legolas' troubled thoughts was at that moment hesitantly shuffling along the limbs of beeches and oaks in search of the wild elf. He moved slowly away from the old guard's outpost in the general direction his new lover had gone, yet was completely in the dark as to the actual trail. Under the lush density of the summer verdure, it did not take long to lose sight of the talan and his friend upon it. Soon, every tree to which he sent his questing eyes looked identical, and he realised he might quickly become lost in the canopy. He wondered in amazement that Legolas could steer any coherent course through such a maze of branches and leaves.

With a frustrated sigh Elrond twisted around and climbed higher, hoping the increased altitude would give him a clue as to which way to go. Without the sun as a marker, he had no idea what direction he had even come from, much less the one he was currently facing. He paused, hoping to feel the tingling sensation on his skin that would signal a return of the internal connection to the woods, but no image filled his mind. He hesitated, unwilling to turn back and concede defeat.

The woods sought to hide his lover away, keeping Legolas for itself alone. Elrond knew a dare when it was issued, whether plainly spoken or couched in clandestine silence, and had never backed down from one in all his long years. He frowned as he considered the circumstances from the Wood Elf's point of view.

Legolas had not been leading them in this direction without cause; it was very unlikely he would turn back or leave them at this stage. He was also tired and hungry. The wild elf had yet to eat anything more than two small apples and two pieces of lembas in over seven days' passing, if the days he had followed them unseen were counted. These had been his most substantial meals in many a week, Elrond suspected. He would be suffering dehydration, having only drunk a few mouthfuls of water. Beyond all this, Legolas was also hurt and moving even a little had obviously been painful to him. He could not have gone very far in such condition, Elrond reasoned. Where, then, could he be hiding, so close and yet invisible?

Elrond smiled; it was almost too obvious and he wondered why he had not figured this out immediately. Hah! That was Erestor's fault, confusing him with all that nonsense about Tawar watching over Legolas and granting some sort of permission to bed its pet. The Elf Lord re-evaluated his location and moved back into the branches, heading for the guard's outpost again.

Erestor looked up in surprise to see Elrond returning to the talan and stood to meet him, reaching out a hand to pull him from the branches as he stepped near.

"What happened? Where is he? You have scarcely been gone two hours," he demanded almost instantly.

Elrond held up a hand and sent his seneschal a chilling glower that demanded silence. The Lord of Imladris briskly went to his pack, checking inside to make sure he had the remaining apples and a few packages of lembas. He hoisted this over his shoulder and picked up the water-skin, shaking it to hear the comforting slosh of a one-third-full portion remaining. He gave a small self-satisfied smirk to his old friend and set off from the talan again, heading in the opposite direction from which he had just arrived.

Erestor could only watch in bewilderment at this turn of events, surmising that his Lord knew where their feral companion was. He sat back down with a sigh of boredom to wait.

With care to be quiet, Elrond worked his way back to the narrow flet where his instincts told him Legolas must be. Thus, without the help or consent of the trees, he spied the wild elf stretched out upon the platform as though asleep.

A soft and bereft sounding exhalation halted him a moment; Legolas was not resting. He sharpened his gaze and watched, and could see the elf trembling as he intermittently rocked himself back and forth against the floor. This seemed to him an extreme reaction to such a simple slight, and his healing senses awoke instantly as the despair and grief flowed out into the canopy from Legolas' body.

Elrond no longer wished to remain unknown, for he did not want Legolas to feel greater distress in learning he had been tracked so easily. In fact, the Elf Lord began to hum a tune as he progressed forward, as though wandering about in treetops was an everyday practice, and was rewarded with the uplifting of the archer's head in response.

"Legolas, I have been searching for you. Please, do not leave; I wish to speak with you," he said, lifting his hand in both greeting and entreaty as he called out.

Legolas stayed where he was, leaning up on his elbows to watch his lover approach, curious in spite of his anger to learn how he had been found. He let himself drop onto his back again when Elrond reached the flet, watching silently as the healer removed the pack and seated himself by Legolas' side. He allowed his eyes to meet the Noldo's for only seconds, closing them quickly and turning away when he felt the healer's probing scrutiny assessing him.

Elrond let his cognisance sweep across the elf's entire being in that few second's worth of eye contact and settled down to digest the impressions he had gleaned. He lowered his lashes and concentrated on what he was feeling from Legolas and unconsciously stiffened as he encountered a surge of recognition within his own soul.

"I did not expect my careless words to be so detrimental. You must know there is no truth in them?" the Elf Lord began softly and his speech yielded a horrific scowl of incredulous outrage from the fallen archer's upturned face.

"I cannot believe . . .You are a healer, yet you use the knowledge this gives you like a sword!" Legolas' words twisted off in a choked swallow at the end of this exclamation and shutting his eyes turned away quickly.

The depth of desolation this response expressed startled Elrond. He thought back on his impressions of the fallen prince and understood there was a kernel of verity in the accusation. Legolas believed himself the object of such dire wishes, and for valid reasons, and Elrond had needlessly emphasised the point.

"Will you accept my apology, Legolas? I had not the intention to be so cruel. I did not mean to do you such injury," he said sincerely, and referred not only to his hasty comments. Elrond reached out and gently grazed his fingers along Legolas' shoulder and slowly caressed down his arm and up again.

"I do not care! Please go back to your friend now." Legolas had great difficulty forming the sounds needed to convey this request as he struggled to subdue the shriek clamouring for release from his lungs.

But Elrond scarcely heard the words as his sensitive physician's touch gathered information from his lover. His brows drew down in consternation. The sense of familiarity deepened and he sighed, absently smoothing his hand over the archer's golden head. Legolas did not pull back from the touch but merely lay still as though he did not even feel it.

"When I was younger, though still older than you are now, I had the only one I have ever loved ripped from me," Elrond's voice was low and deep with restrained sorrow as he spoke and Legolas quailed on hearing the raw agony in those words. "How long have you been enduring this pain, Legolas? How has this happened to you? Was it one of the warriors lost in the Battle of Erebor?"

"No," Legolas whispered and did not open his eyes as he spoke. "I have had no one taken from me that way. He has only gone to Valinor; he is well."

Elrond continued to frown, for this statement sounded like truth yet was filled with more lamentation than such a temporary parting should create. Something more was amiss in this tale than just a separation. When meeting Legolas and observing the level of stress he was under and the signs of grief he had noted, Elrond had at first assumed it was due to his mother's departure and the isolation from his own kind. But Legolas' despondency cut deeper even than Elrond's own despair in losing his heart's desire to Mandos so long ago.

"What is it, then? If he is well, why is your soul shattered?" he asked softly and let his hand stroke back across the feral elf's brow, trying to coax the eyes to open up.

Legolas completely ignored the inquiry and kept his eyes sealed and his head turned aside.

Why was he asking all these questions? Did he really expect answers to something so personal? How could he even answer when he had only just come to understand all this moments ago? He clutched the note hidden in his hand closer to his body, as though the contact with the paper might steady him somehow. It did not work, only serving to remind him why he could not let go and end this horrendous agony.

Elrond saw the movement and noted how tense Legolas' hand was, pressed down securely against his breast in a fist so tight the whole arm trembled slightly. He stilled himself and again let his healing insight observe what his eyes and ears could not.

What did he know about this elf; surely there must be some useful knowledge he had picked up over the years through Ningloriel. This thought gave Elrond a jolt, for he could not recall anything Ningloriel had ever said about Legolas. And he knew what Thranduil thought since he had encouraged this rumour to spread himself. With crystalline lucidity he discerned how empty the fallen prince's life must have been as he grew up.

Elrond discovered that he had never thought of Legolas as real. He had been a concept to manipulate, a method used to twist the emotions of his lover and his enemy, and apparently had been little more than that to his own parents.

"I lost both my parents when I was just an elfling," the Elven Lord softly mused, as though thinking to himself. But I knew they loved me and still do, watching over my family and me from afar. This last he did not speak aloud. It occurred to him that it must be more painful to have one's parents near yet be unwelcome in their lives than to have lost them to Mandos or the Undying Lands.

Still, he sensed that this was not the only source for the utter desolation of Legolas' spirit. His ruminations were interrupted when Legolas stirred, turning towards him and staring with a haunted yet somehow concerned expression.

"What happened to them? How did you grow up; who took care of you?" he asked. The archer had recognised the dolorous tones of an elfling's bewildered dismay in the Elven Lord's remark. Knowing this sense of loss himself, Legolas hated to hear it in another's voice.

"It was war; what else?" Elrond answered, caught off-guard by the genuine feeling contained in the questions. "Those were times when Morgoth was still at large upon Arda. My brother and I were fostered to the care of those who had once been enemies of my House. In time, I grew to love my foster-father almost as much as my true one," he responded as his memories made him smile. He watched as Legolas' countenance faintly mirrored his.

"I am fostered, also," he said, surprised that they shared this status.

"Oh?" Elrond's brows lifted inquisitively; this was news indeed. "When were you fostered and by whom? I had not heard any Mirkwood nobility believed in those Noldorin customs."

"No, they do not," Legolas almost sneered, imagining this idea. No one in the Woodland Realm was willing to part with their own offspring and there was no need to bolster alliances between families. Their lives were too imperilled by Darkness to do anything but rely upon each other completely.

"It is just recently this occurred, and is quite unprecedented," he continued. He lifted his hand from his chest, sliding the note into his fingers to look at it with a disturbing display of warm melancholy before sighing and returning it to its hidden domain. "I am fostered to Fearfaron as replacement for his son, Annaldír. He was one of the lost warriors, but I have earned his Release."

Elrond waited but Legolas offered no further information on this intriguing statement. He appeared less distraught, however, so the Elf Lord decided to try and prompt more revelations.

"That is a letter from your foster-father?" he asked, motioning with elegant fingers towards the clenched fist, but Legolas only nodded. "You are his son's replacement?" another brief and silent nod gave assent.

Mentally the Noldo sighed, thinking that getting Legolas to talk was rather like convincing dwarves to share mithril: little profit for much work.

"You must treasure it dearly to keep the note out here in this wilderness." Another nod and a slight smile followed this, and now Elrond sighed audibly. "Will you not tell me what it says?" he demanded irritably.

Legolas looked over, surprised and apologetic. He had assumed his lover had already read the note.

Thinking of Fearfaron made him relax a bit and he shifted the small square of paper in his palm. Legolas did not have to unfold it to see the words for he had all the lines committed to memory. He opened his hand and pressed the battered parchment down against the old scar, which was throbbing again, and took a steadying breath before reciting.

"'Legolas,  
I do not approve of this venture Mithrandir would have you undertake. You know the southern regions are rife with danger, and you have responsibilities. I forbid you to die. It is your duty to me as your foster-father to protect my wounded soul. It is too late to change this for I already love you. You can not go off into your Tawar and leave me here to grieve for another child. I expect you home every six months, in one piece.  
With love, Fearfaron.'"

In the silence that followed these simple sentences Elrond found himself terribly moved not only by the sentiments of the brief missive but also by Legolas' willingness to share so personal a communication with him. Beyond that, the words suggested more mysteries than answers, but before he could decide on his next question, Legolas took control of the conversation.

"What happened to your love? How did you survive the loss?" he asked tentatively and Elrond could hear the desperation there. He understood; Legolas' grief was new and he was struggling to hold on, hoping for some advice that would sustain him.

"He died fighting in the Last Alliance. I stay because of a promise I made to him as his spirit fled. Otherwise I would have gone West long years ago, or more likely joined him in Mandos' Halls," his words were heavy with bitter gloom and thousands of years of draining misery and loneliness.

Legolas could not suppress a shudder of commiseration as this response was uttered. He looked at Elrond and was agonised as though struck by a physical blow to see how diminished his noble lover seemed at that moment.

He thrust aside his own troubles and sat up, reaching over and gathering the Elf Lord close into his arms so that his head rested against Legolas' shoulder. The younger elf gently caressed his lover's glossy hair and stroked his back in a soothing rhythm.

"I am sorry. I did not know your heart was broken, too," Legolas said quietly.

Every muscle in Elrond's body had become rigid the instant he felt Legolas wrap his arms around his shoulders, but the next second he found himself dissolving into the embrace, allowing himself to be held. He was stupefied by his own reaction as he burrowed his head into his lover's neck and encircled Legolas' waist in a fierce grasp that pulled them closer together.

Elrond could not recall the last time anyone had taken a moment to try and comfort him. He was the Lord of Imladris and was expected to be strong and supply for the needs of others while keeping his own concerns carefully shut away from observation. It would not do for personal matters to interfere with the welfare of his family or his people. They required a leader untouched by cares and worries of the heart.

Even Celebrian had been unwilling to share this tragedy that had kept him from ever being more than her friend. She had demanded that Elrond behave as though none of it had happened, as though he was not dead inside.

Ningloriel had simply removed herself from his vicinity at the first indication that she might be expected to recognise his needs and feelings. Elrond doubted if even Gil-Galad would have sympathised with what he had suffered through all these years.

But Legolas understood. Legolas saw his very soul and knew what torment was there. He did not turn away from it or expect him to cover it up. And Elrond did not question this; he simply laid his head upon his lover's shoulder and wept.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	21. Thang Helch

Thang Helch [Cold Obsession]

Legolas' frame jounced under the shearing sobs that convulsed his lover's shoulders, and tensed against the fingers clutching his sides so tightly that there would be bruises.

Those fingers, their sensitivity refined by the Noldo's healing gift, intimately expressed every mood and emotion within the Elf Lord's being, when he so chose. Legolas had learned more of his new lover through them than from all the words spoken since their meeting. Passionate fingers, they had stroked him with a gently seductive caress one moment and penetrated him with brutal violence the next. Demanding, those ten digits had drawn truth from his soul wherever they made contact with his skin, imparting the strength and self-assurance of their owner in return. From them he had felt the prurient lust, the conceit and condescension of long-held power, the Noldo Lord's simultaneous senses of curiosity and superiority over the cultural divergence between them. All of this lay harboured in his lover's mind, yet Legolas also believed he sensed genuine concern and compassionate sympathy with each touch from them.

And now, a terrible anger and abysmal despair escaped from beneath the pressure of the biting fingertips, and Legolas knew the origin of these sensations, recognising the same determinant within himself this very day for the first time.

Legolas said nothing, for what words could he possibly offer to compensate for such overwhelming loss and grief? He could do no more than provide a solid purchase to cling to as the swells of sorrow buffeted his distraught companion in the gloomy ocean of loneliness where he had been adrift for over a thousand years.

The archer shivered at this visualisation and felt ashamed to be so upset for his own woe, borne so short a time in comparison. He could scarcely comprehend what it might mean to carry on living with such an unbearable burden, and wondered at the magnitude of the promise that had required such sacrifice. His admiration for his lover expanded while he contemplated the strength of character keeping this covenant demanded.

Legolas squeezed tighter, nuzzling the noble elf's hair with nose and cheek, and began to sing an old song Malthen used to render to him when he was an elfling, either fearful or sad. It was a litany for Tawar, of all things, but it was what came to his mind and the canticle was at once uplifting and serene.

When the hymn was finished Legolas found that he had begun rocking gently in time to the melody. He continued to do so, and hummed the psalm through again in its entirety for he did not want to relinquish the sense of peace that had filled his spirit as the song had left his body. He noticed that his lover was calm also and the tears had ceased to flow, and the claw-like grasp upon his body relented.

Legolas felt the healer's hands reach up and brush across his shoulder blades and then run down the groove where his vertebrae divided him, coming to rest in relaxed comfort in the dip at the small of his back. Each inhaled and released a cleansing breath, together, and then leaned into one another, heads to shoulders, in sublime harmony.

"I am so sorry," Legolas breathed again into the Elf Lord's ear and felt him pull away just slightly.

"Sorry?" his lover's voice held a strained quality the younger elf despaired to hear, filled with morose portent, and he only nodded his assent against the Noldo's shoulder.

The transcendent moment thus faded and was abruptly brought to a close by the healer's sensile fingertips tripping with the subtlest impact up Legolas' spine and down again. The tickling sensation made him jump and crowd himself up against the healer, and they both gasped at the heat in the contact, Elrond in desire and Legolas in discomfort.

A sharp stab of pain shot up through his pelvis, the result of the sudden shift after too long a time seated awkwardly, legs bent to his side in an effort to prevent too much weight residing upon his rear. The Wood Elf shifted a bit and worked one leg round to bend the other way, granting a little relief.

Elrond slipped his hand down inside the back of the leather breeches and tenderly squeezed the soft curve of one cheek. Legolas leaned up to let the palm cup his fleshy muscle.

So trusting, Elrond thought and drew his hand back out to run it through the golden tangles of the unruly mane. Why?

He could not help his reactions to this elf. The combination of his scent and the sound of his voice was overwhelming, and the sudden contact, chest to chest, was intoxicatingly erotic. Elrond was already nearly fully erect.

If only he had not spoken those words, all would be pleasing indeed. The healer dragged his fingernails against the marred skin, replaying the simple sentence in his mind, as Legolas wriggled under the stinging caress.

He is sorry? This elf feels sorry, for me? Aye, sorry for me, enough to say it twice!

He dug his fingers into the Wood Elf's sides and gritted his teeth, gratified when Legolas winced a little but did not pull away.

Singing to me, as if I were a child. As though I needed the comfort of such maudlin words. He pities me, as if I were weak and in need of his concern.

Elrond felt a swell of rage engulf him, acutely aware of his absolute degradation in having been reduced to a shaking mass of wailing and tears. He had not cried in centuries, and yet had succumbed to whatever sorcery this wild elf possessed. How easily he had been manipulated! So readily he let his lust drive him to lay bare his soul to this, this hecilo.

In mild surprise he felt his desire fuelled by his acrimony, and Elrond's lips quested along the younger elf's jaw line, dabbing the tip of a red tongue against the skin, discovering the uneven ridge that reported an old break there. If anything, his spurt of anger made his gluttony for the taste of the disgraced prince stronger.

He rebuked himself even as his heart leaped to feel the lithe body sigh into his urgent tonguing.

I need no charity from any elf, much less some young and nameless cast-off.

He could not believe it. He was the Lord of Imladris, descendent of nobles from three races, and the keeper of Vilya. His parents were the guardians of the last Silmaril. He had been Herald to the High King, and had witnessed the victory of the Last Alliance.

This primitive was but the bastard child of a backwoods Sylvan female and her house-servant. Not even spawned of noble blood, much less a son of kings, and he had the audacity to imagine he could present himself as equal and lend comfort through his pity.

The Noldo removed one hand from the Wood Elf's pliant back and snaked it up between their torsos, seeking the tender flesh of the nipple he could feel pressing against his own. His fingers closed on it tightly and he heard the exhaled cry and felt the feral elf fight the urge to pull back. Elrond pinched harder and twisted and this action resulted in a short cry of pain and an attempt to wrest the fingers away.

Oh, that is better. True suffering is infinitely more rewarding than cold commiseration, Elrond thought and smiled, catching the archer's hand as it sought to interfere with his. Let him demonstrate the depth of this lenity he feels compelled to express.

He raised the hand up and turned it over, guiding the wrist to his lips to lay there a soft kiss. The Elf Lord's eyes met his young lover's in ferocious voracity, and Legolas did not turn away.

It was not difficult to understand what the Noldo wanted, and Legolas obeyed, getting up on his knees and shifting to seat himself in his lover's lap. He controlled the ache accosting his insides, willing his pulse to slow and the constricting muscles to loosen, thoroughly kissing his love as he waited for the discomfort to subside.

He withdrew his hand from the healer's hold and wrapped his arms around the Elf Lord's neck, shoving away the lengthy black locks to claim a blushing ear tip with his lips. He sucked noisily and breathed gently on the inflamed cartilage. Responding to his partner's rapidly rising arousal, the feral elf blatantly flexed against the stiffening penis pressed against his groin.

Elrond groaned and pulled Legolas in closer, kissing down his neck to his shoulder where he paused and greedily bit the skin and made his lover blench.

"Ah, Legolas," the Elf Lord whispered and licked across the purpling spot. "So full of contradictions." A mocking lilt betrayed his mood, but the Wood Elf assigned the bitterness to the ancient hurt, never perceiving that the intent of his honest compassion had been so completely misconstrued.

So, Legolas did not bother to respond. He knew well what was expected and was happy to be able to drive the memory of the sorrow from his lover's heart, if only for a few moments. Such distractions he had often performed upon Malthen's body on his return from a trip to Lorien with Ningloriel.

That juxtaposition of past and present made his stomach squeeze for a second and he froze, but his Noldo lover smoothed sensual palms in seducing circles upon his back to counter the edgy twitch, and Legolas let the disturbing dj vu ease away.

Nimble fingers reached for the fastenings of Elrond's leggings and loosened them, while impatient, insatiable lips never ceased their persistent osculations of the Lord's flushed ear and slender neck. Legolas let his hand slip inside the opened flap of leather to discover the heat of the restrained flesh. He trailed his digits across the prominent vein and caressed the smooth softness of the skin where the cock was still bent over, confined at the thigh beneath the fabric. It was exhilarating to deny himself the sight of the swelling shaft and Legolas' heart rate doubled as he searched for the velvety point of the head. He was panting and only getting a few licks onto the ear near his mouth as his eyelids sunk low and he imagined what his fingers were seeking.

Elrond was blowing out a throaty growl with every searing breath, and grew even harder in anticipation of what his young lover would do. He let his teeth nibble around the shoulder bite; he wanted very much to tear into that spot again, but refrained. As the archer's hand teased him, he sent his own to investigate the abused nipple. He lightly stroked it with the back of his curved knuckles letting each ride over the damaged tissue.

Legolas gasped and rocked forward; his cock flexed in involuntary response to the stimulation. Resting his forehead against the Elf Lord's shoulder, he waited for the sharp needling discomfort to fade, relishing the flooding warmth filling his groin in a tingling track from his breast to his balls. His hand stopped exploring.

Elrond could feel the furrows of tension in the face pressed against him, could actually hear the racing pulse hammering through the slender torso under his hand, could feel the warmth of quickened breathing drifting into his ear, and smiled.

The young one was willing to suffer much to assuage his lover's grief, it seemed. In fact, the expanding fullness corresponding to his own testified to the wild elf's enjoyment. This was something Elrond had not personally encountered before, a partner who needed to endure physical distress in order to experience sexual ecstasy, and he felt himself reacting with heightened titillation.

Where, he wondered, is Legolas' limit? What would it take to change the pleasure of pain into pure torment?

He waited, just resting the back of his hand against the injured teat, until the younger elf relaxed again and resumed his attentions to the noble genitals still pinioned under the leggings. The Elf Lord hummed a satisfied response to the delicately massaging fingers pushing along his thigh, following the length of his imprisoned member. His lover tremulously touched the tapered tip, emitting a whispery exclamation of appreciation as he did.

This was the moment Elrond had anticipated, and he brought his desire to sample the creamy skin again to fruition, savagely sinking teeth into the reddened oval even as he overturned his hand and yanked mercilessly on the sore tit as though he would rip it off.

Legolas' cry of agony subsided into a compressed sob tinged with his awakened cupidity. He held his entire body so tautly that he trembled against his lover. Slowly his mind registered the sensation of a tongue languidly lapping and sucking up the beading blood where dull pangs emanated from his shoulder. He found that a palm had replaced the cruel pincers at his breast, covering his afflicted nipple so that only the very tip tapped against the warm healer's hand every time he exhaled. The pressure was just enough to send an exquisite twinge of terrible delight straight to his penis with every breath.

Legolas' next perception was of the wetness slowly coating his fingertips. He realised he was still fondling the slippery head and could no longer contain either his tremors of excitement or his need to see the unfamiliar contours of the shorn shaft again. With a swift movement he pulled free his hand and pushed the Elf Lord down. The Noldo's palm fell behind to cushion the descent, and he ceased imbibing of his young lover's wound as he leaned back. The fallen prince took advantage of the new position to slide himself off and the leggings down and Elrond lifted his hips from the floor to assist him.

With his legs stretched out, the Lord of Imladris watched as Legolas seated himself on his heels between them, shoving the thighs wider to sidle closer to the healer's inviting organ. Elrond made his weighty member twitch and thrilled to the sound of the archer's reactive sigh. He held his breath as Legolas reached for the proudly firm protrusion; not daring to move as the slender hand grabbed his cock and tested its impressive diameter approvingly.

Elrond's awareness tunnelled down to only the evocative fingers winding their way up and down his erection, his focus centred on the thumb dragging through the blunt and parted point, his interest locked on the Wood Elf's obvious fascination. He looked back sharply to his lover's face; Legolas had started to make a very soft cooing cry and his lips were practically dripping as his eyes remained fixed on his own hand slowly pumping down the healer's turgid shaft.

Elrond chuckled, eyes aglitter, and Legolas lifted up his gaze, dreamy and dazed in his longing.

"You like it, pen-rhovan?" Elrond's husky words inquired amusedly, and Legolas nodded, returning to his open admiration of what he was holding.

"None of my other lovers were like this," he said breathlessly. "How is it so, with no skin covering?" he could not help asking, and ringed the lip around the head with thumb and forefinger as he did.

Lovers, plural. How many, I wonder? What a wanton little hellion he is! Elrond pondered, but aloud he answered mundanely: "It is removed at birth, the custom of my House. The mark that proclaims our unique heritage, and sets us apart from the kinslayers in our past and the lesser clans of our kindred."

Legolas glanced a smile up into his lover's eyes before diving low to devour the naked head on the engorged cock. Alternately sucking and lapping, darting the tip of his tongue down into the leaking slit and slathering the resultant mix of saliva and milt under the ridged lip, Legolas pleasured his lover.

Gratification sounded from Elrond's chest in an extended and rumbling roar of approbation. He braced himself on one arm and let the other carry his hand to the back of his lover's head, shoving roughly down upon the crown to force his erection deeper.

Elrond cried out with malicious gusto as Legolas choked around the shaft, his throat constricting and pushing against the intrusion, his arm reaching round to tear the hand away. But he could not hold his balance and his palm slapped resoundingly back upon the wooden deck and Elrond retained control.

Determined to satiate his impassioned resentment, the Noldo repeatedly jammed his rigid penis up into Legolas' resisting mouth even as the wild elf tried to push away.

"Relax yourself," the Elven Lord grunted between pants of salacious wrath. "Breathe and swallow, hecilo!" he managed to shout between ruthless thrusts.

Legolas grew frantic upon hearing this slur uttered in his lover's voice. He struggled to extricate himself, squirming against the constant force of Elrond's grip at the back of his skull, but realised he could not do so without using his teeth to harm the healer. The unfortunate elf had no wish to cause hurt when his desire was to give comfort, and so desperately sought to do as he was ordered, knowing the invasion would be easier to endure if he could.

It was not a new technique to him, but the Noldo was not giving him enough time to adjust and he was sure he must pass out if he did not draw air soon. He had to exert a concerted effort to quell the strengthening impulse to retch against the grossly corpulent obstruction in his oesophagus.

Elrond was fully aware of the difficulty Legolas was under and pumped even harder against the resisting muscles and straining tongue. He delighted in the exquisite friction of the spit-slick orifice, the distress of the writhing body under his restraining hand; the suppressed and swallowed, gagging whimpers issuing from his lover. It was more erotic than he could bear and he came quickly, ejaculating into the convulsing gullet.

"Valar!" he shouted to the Powers as he saw his semen seeping from the corners of the misused, maroon mouth.

He gave a final and vicious heave of his hips, eyes sparkling with sadistic exultation, as Legolas desperately tried to accept the warm, viscous extrusion and thwart the compulsion to disgorge his stomach's contents. With a long sigh of contentment Elrond at last released his hold.

Legolas gulped and coughed and scrambled to the edge of the talan, vomiting forcefully as he tried to suck in enough oxygen to calm his body. He sagged against the floor and let his head hang over a bit, just his cheek resting on the rough wooden boundary, and simply, gratefully breathed. As his head began to clear, he heard his lover's smug chuckle behind him.

Legolas shook as though his soul had been sliced with a blast of frigid winter's wind and shut his eyes against the stabbing chill. He felt as though he was back in the supply room with Ailinyéro, or rather that the loathsome elf was somehow here and had at last completed his grotesque assault.

He could not face the healer; he was not in command of himself. With desperate panic Legolas feared he was going to cry and struggled to forestall at least this embarrassment from betraying him. He could hear his own belaboured and ragged breathing and the pounding vibration of his heart and concentrated on these, blocking out the soft and musically mocking laughter from the other elf. His throat burned and suddenly contracted as acidic bile flowed up to fill his mouth and he was driven to cough the vile liquid out to the ground below. His lover was speaking, but his own strident heaving made it impossible to understand the words, and Legolas had to just ride out the misery, an all-too familiar reaction to the realisation of having allowed himself to be used.

When the fit was over, Legolas tried to fold his body up, rolling to his side and curling his lanky limbs to protectively surround the aching in his thorax. He did not understand how things could go so wrong so quickly or what he had done to provoke such a cruel response from his lover. Lover, could he even use this word to describe the other's relation to him now? Surely there was no love here, but he had thought there was understanding and acceptance at least. This felt more like vengeful hatred.

Did the healer not feel the real sympathy Legolas harboured towards him? Why was this Noldo not able to appreciate his lover's desire to ease his anguish? How was it that only Legolas' suffering appeared to allay that pain? This was too much like the sickening delight his old tormentor had indulged and Legolas did not see what he did to inspire such venomous animalism. It was as though some intrinsic quality he could neither identify nor change brought it out in everyone who came to know him.

Too many questions that never receive answers, Legolas thought and fought to prevent a very small sob from giving away his troubled emotions.

The loudly reverberating thunk as the water-skin struck the wood at his back sent Legolas shying away in startled surprise. He pulled up and gazed from it to the healer, who was still speaking to him from within a grinning, self-satisfied smirk.

"No need to be so distraught, pen-rhovan," the Noldo was saying. "With more practice you will improve, I am certain. It was enjoyable nonetheless."

Legolas stared at him blankly. He felt hollow inside, and invisible. This elf could not see him, could not hear him, could not ever understand him. He quite suddenly wanted these Noldorin elves gone from his woods. And he wanted very much to go home.

Grasping the container with a burst of anger, Legolas rapidly swirled and spat a mouthful of water over the talan's side, wiping his chin with the back of his hand in disgust. With the sudden recognition of a tremendous thirst, he downed the remainder of the fluid and then threw the leather pouch back at Elrond, aiming for his face. But the Elf Lord's reflexes were swift and he snatched the empty bag out of the air easily, sniggering at Legolas' reaction.

"The day is nearly spent; we can safely travel only three hours now before the Orc patrols begin. We must hurry if we are to renew our supply of water before tinnu," Legolas said with grim determination and slowly rose to unsteady feet. He bent to pick up his quiver and reacted as the movement initiated a spasm of pain. Elrond noticed.

"You will not be able to travel for three hours without rest! We can wait to refill the water skins in the morning, let us return to the larger talan," he said the words as a command would be spoken and began gathering up his belongings.

"The nearest water is two hours from here; I will go there. Do as you wish," the wild elf replied coldly. Legolas returned the cherished letter, still concealed in his clenched fist, to its place in the quiver before strapping the implement down securely to him. He did not watch to see what the Noldo was doing as he moved into the branches.

"Ai, you are upset!" Elrond had to make haste to keep up. "If it is about the 'lack of experience' remark, I did not mean that unkindly; I was but joking with you, pen-rhovan." This dissembling was not rewarded with any discernible reaction from his retreating guide.

But Legolas' stomach lurched ominously upon registering this offhand dismissal of what had just happened. Surely, this healer knew his rage had nothing to do with the spiteful jeers, callous though they were. Legolas decided that he need not speak to this elf ever again.

He reached the old guard's talan and returned Erestor's inquiring expression with one of such glowering fury and turmoil that the seneschal recoiled a step. Legolas moved over to the pile of arrowheads left on the deck and, kneeling carefully, picked them up. He spoke softly as he did so, contradicting the meteoric demeanour of his countenance.

"Collect your possessions; we must go now."

"Why, what is wrong?" Erestor asked, looking form one to the other as Elrond stepped onto the flet. The Elf Lord shrugged and gave no further response, and seeing this Legolas scowled at the Noldor.

"What is wrong is that you are in a place you do not belong, ill-equipped to meet the dangers here," he snapped and strode over to heft one of the battle swords from its sheath. "These are useless in the trees, and I do not believe the two of you are enough to confront an Orc horde on foot." He was not about to speak of what had truly upset him.

"The two of us have faced worse, I assure you," Elrond's comrade-at-arms sniped back. This earned a sneering tilt of the Wood Elf's head accompanied by a dark laugh.

"Indeed? In that case get you down and go," he challenged with a wave of his arm towards the shut trap door. "The ladder is there in the box, help yourselves."

"Enough of this! We have no intention of leaving Mirkwood. Now, will you lead us to water or not?" Elrond's words exploded, an irritated eruption into the consolidating tension, and Legolas flashed him a brief gloat of victory over the matter of the water.

Legolas turned then and stared pointedly at the healer's companion until that elf became very red of face and worried for his fate. Erestor looked over to his Lord for guidance but he was glaring at the archer's back with derisive contempt. At last comprehension dawned; Legolas was not speaking to Elrond. The seneschal felt the urge to cry out the most vile oath he could summon up, but there was still the wild elf to contend with, standing there waiting for him to either concede or use the ladder, and so he bit back his choice reply.

"I am sure there is wisdom in your warnings, Legolas," Erestor began again in a more conciliatory timbre. "However, we must find a way to continue our mission regardless of the personal danger to ourselves. We are out of water; do you know which way to the nearest stream?" he concluded in the politest words he could muster.

Legolas listened in dismay. Of course the advisor would agree with his superior about remaining, even though he had argued against their scheme in private. However much they might disagree, they were friends and shared a common goal and similar views. With a sickened heart, he recalled the first conversation concerning him he had heard between the Noldorin elves. The advisor would soon know all the details of the experience the archer had just endured with the healer. A brief shadow of shamed horror passed through him as he glared at the lesser-ranked Noldo.

Erestor shifted in discomfort as Legolas continued to stare into his eyes, and wished he could not see the anguish there as the feral elf sought to determine the truth of the apology offered. He instinctively reached out but Legolas stepped back quickly beyond range and tore his gaze away.

"I will take you to refill your water supply, and to a safer region where there are several woodsmen's villages. Your mission here is at an end," he said with finality and did not wait for either of them to argue as he stepped out into the trees and moved off. He was travelling at less than his normal speed, but within minutes was gone and as usual no wake betrayed his passing.

"What have you done? You were supposed to calm him and apologise," Erestor scolded as he rounded on his friend. He had heard Elrond's clamourous shouts of satisfaction and had a fairly good idea of some of what had transpired. Why this would lead to such intense alienation of their feral companion was, however, unclear.

"He is overly sensitive. It is ridiculous; he does not recognise a capricious remark when it is spoken," said Elrond, defensive in response to the accusation. Many experiences of both despair and joy he had shared with his friend over the millennia, but his descent into blubbering weakness and the galling sourness left by the Wood Elf's pity he would never reveal. His retribution upon the banished prince, however, he was quite eager to divulge.

"Oh, I see. You have insulted him again," the seneschal eyed the Elven Lord in disbelief.

"It was not an insult. He tendered me fulfilment and I accepted. If he was a bit clumsy and could not accommodate all of me down his throat, how am I to blame for that? I merely told him his inexperience had not hindered my enjoyment too much," Elrond replied. He knew, of course, that fellatio was his comrade's preferred means of obtaining release and his most ardently held fantasy concerning the wild elf.

"He gave you oral sex and you," Erestor swallowed, hard, before he was able to continue, "and you, you mocked him?" The seneschal could scarcely breath as the mental image of Legolas' lips surrounding his friend's eagerly surging cock took control of his mind. "Did you," he took two breaths, "did you . . ."

"Oh yes, I did, deeply, forcefully. He almost lost consciousness," Elrond answered the unfinished question gleefully, seeing the difficulty his companion was having. Erestor's pallid countenance warned that he might himself faint, and the Elf Lord laughed complacently to see it. "Ah, Erestor, the look on your face! Do not be so disturbed. Why, I have simply returned the favour you extended to me; I have infuriated him so much that he may wish revenge upon me."

"And how is it beneficial to me for him to despise us both? Now the two of us will be the recipients of his disgust; it seems he was correct, the mission is in failure," Erestor countered. He felt betrayed to have gone through so much unpleasantness just so that Elrond could pursue a personal grudge.

"No, the main frame of our plan is not unhinged. In fact, it may be more likely to succeed now than previously. He will want to punish me, and you may indeed profit by his anger. Perhaps you can convince him that the best way to retaliate is to let you fill his wet, torrid, and overtly sensual mouth with your painfully deprived and long-neglected member."

For a moment the predatory wolf's gleam returned to Erestor's eyes as he gazed out into the trees with a thoughtfully calculating expression. The possibilities were certainly interesting. Then he shrewdly returned his regard to his friend. Elrond did not willingly share his lovers. In fact, as he remembered it, revealing their relationship to Thranduil had been a form of reprisal against Ningloriel for refusing to give up Maltahondo when Elrond demanded it.

"And what is it you expect in return for this boon, my Lord?" he asked cautiously. "While that is an appealing opportunity, I still do not see how it would stabilise out stratagem."

"What I want is nothing you should find too difficult. Simply talk to him afterwards; see if he will gossip with you a bit about Thranduil's treasure horde."

"Why should he talk to me? Being angry with you does not translate into confidence in me. He is unlikely to divulge anything of a personal nature now," the seneschal really saw no logic to this argument.

"He will talk if it seems to have no bearing on Thranduil's Kingdom, or this Tawar concept he worships," Elrond reasoned. "Everyone likes to talk about themselves; he does not appear to have had anyone in his life interested enough to allow it. Ask about the sort of things that you normally would when trying to get to know someone. You do want to get to know him, after all. Surely that is not too great a sacrifice for the pleasure you will experience."

"Oh, and Erestor, I assure you it will be beyond even your most graphic imaginings." Elrond smiled around these last, slippery words.

Erestor smiled back, yet uneasiness remained at the fringes of his thoughts. Somehow, none of this rang true. That one persistent fact was inescapable: the Lord of Imladris had never shared a lover that he could call to mind. The Elf Lord almost seemed to be challenging the feral elf, or testing the strength of his character, or trying to destroy him. Whichever was correct, he could not fathom what Elrond's real intentions might be.

Tbc

A/N: This is the song Legolas sang to Elrond. It is called "Morning Has Broken" and the lyrics were written by a woman named Eleanor Farjeon many years ago. The song became a popular folk ballad when set to music by Cat Stevens back in the late 70's. It is quite beautiful and worth the time to do a search on whatever music-sharing program you use to find it. I would share my own, but my computer just died.

The Sindarin translation is probably not very accurate; for that I apologise. A kind reader once offered to help me with such, but being rather an absent minded professor type I inadvertently deleted their email, and cannot remember who it was. So, the errors in it are just mine.

Aur breithiel, sui aur erui. [Morning has broken, like the first morning]

Mornaew pídiel, sui erui aew. [Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird]

Egleriad 'nin linnol, egleriad 'nin aur [Praise for the singing, praise for the morning]

Egleriad 'nin tuiol laeg uin Arda. [Praise for the springing fresh from the world]

Gli ryss eden danna, thann n'anor o menel [Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from heaven]

Sui erui mîdh-lant erin thâr erui. [Like the first dewfall, on the first grass]

Egleriad 'nin gli-pathred erin sant limp [Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden]

Tuiant vi pathred-pân ir dîn tail pada. [Sprung in completeness where his feet pass]

Nín nâ I glawar, nín nâ I aur [Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning]

Onnen erin erlim Cuiviénen cenn telio. [Born of the one light, Eden saw play]

Eglario ah gellam, eglario pain oer. [Praise with elation, praise every morning]

Ad cared o Eru erin arad eden [God's recreation of the new day]

Aur breithiel, sui aur erui [Morning has broken, like the first morning]

Mornaew pídiel, sui erui aew. [Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird]

Egleriad 'nin linnol, egleriad 'nin aur [Praise for the singing, praise for the morning]

Egleriad 'nin tuiol laeg uin Arda. [Praise for the springing fresh from the world]  
[lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon, all rights reserved]  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

Do we all hate Elrond now? It will be a very long time before he gets what he deserves for this.


	22. Cardh Del

Cardh Delu [Fell Deed]

There was a definite and palpable sensation of expectation in the atmosphere and a peculiar creeping feeling as though watchers were spying out every blink of an eye, each flutter of a stray strand of hair, every miniscule shift in posture. The sense that the attention was generated by something less than benevolent was similar to the recognition of an oily film clinging to one's hands: impossible to ignore and difficult to cleanse away.

The Noldorin Elves stared out into the formidably quiescent forest hoping for an indication of what the apprehensive silence portended, praying it was only Legolas observing them from some hidden high spot in the canopy, angry for their crude behaviour and conspiring secrecy.

Nothing moved.

With concentrated exactitude and frugal motions, the two elves collected up their goods and hefted their packs without further discussion. The noises generated by the simple exercise of making ready to depart sounded exaggerated and yet fell without echo, deadened by the close-aired weightiness of the wary woods.

Heeding the Wood Elf's advice, they strapped on their quivers and bows and belted daggers, securing the swords onto the rest of the baggage. This now included heavily overburdened rucksacks bulging with the clothing they had worn into Mirkwood, sans the leggings currently adorning them, boots tied onto the strapping, the extra changes of clothing, and what remained of the foodstuffs. Added to these cumbersome goods were the water skins, hanging limp and empty from their shoulders. So loaded down, they would never match Legolas' pace, even had they been skilled in tree-lore.

Both the Elven Lord and his advisor felt an intense anxiety connected with the prospect of leaving the relative safety of the wood and canvas shelter and resisted the opposing necessity to follow the wild elf. Was this some manifestation of Tawar or something decidedly more malignant? They shared their mutual consternation without speech, worried expressions passing between eyes that had witnessed too much evil to disregard such internal alarms. They hesitated at the edge of the platform, instinctively fearful to step into the trees.

Minutes passed; neither spoke. Each listened with strained intensity for the slightest vibrations in the air, their vision scouring the foliage scrupulously for any sign of agitation.

The nervously prescient air gradually refused to satisfy their lungs, subtly becoming permeated with a pungently vile stench of death and evil, decay and doom.

Erestor stepped away from the edge of the talan, dropping his pack automatically as his hand flew to his throat in dread. He heaved volubly, eyes wild and staring into Elrond's, as both fell to their knees in a panic of gagging coughs.

The air grew fouler. Fetid and dank, it swept over them like living umbra, becoming dark and slithery, more substantial and dangerous than a weapon of iron or a poison-tipped blade. Terror blossomed in their souls and they flopped onto the floor flat out, hugging the wooden deck as though the tree was about to uproot itself and cast them down to their destruction. Their thoughts distilled down to a single, repetitive rant of recognition and despair.

Nazgul, Ulairi, Ring-Wraiths.

It seemed as if eternity must have halted and their demise would be tortuously slow, but truly only seconds of reality elapsed during the Noldor's stuporous struggle to stay conscious. In a rushing gust of wind the trees about them erupted in a frenzy of thrashing branches and sparks seemed to be spawned by the cracking limbs. Surely, this was not possible. The confused elves watched the fleeting streaks of gleam darting through the air, and then one landed, rattling as it came to rest beside them. They were arrows, their points covered in a sticky solution that glinted in the shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy.

A terrible rumbling thunder reached their ears next, more visceral than any produced by rain storm or hail, and with it a tremendous disruption of the ground as the very earth rolled and billowed as a liquid on the boil. Petrified, the elves felt their shelter swaying and gripped the floorboards and each other in desperation.

In this instant, the tenuous shiver of electrically charged ozone marked the wrenching of their vision away from the contortion of the woodland. The image of their guide flashed across their minds, with the clear and insistent command: "Up! Higher!"

And then he was there, in the branches just above them. Reaching down, both his anger and his pain suppressed in reaction to the crisis, he grabbed for them, yelling for them to make haste. Erestor snatched his pack, rose, and grasped the outstretched arm. With a leap he was at Legolas' side. The archer leaned down again for Elrond and the healer took the beckoning hand, hoisting himself up with it straight from the floor to the branches. They wasted no time in ascending higher, the Wood Elf vehemently urging them to move faster.

"Leave the packs!" the wild elf shrieked as the earth convulsed again and they clung frenetically to the flailing treetops.

Legolas did not wait for the tremors to cease, but scrambled higher, shifting from the tree of the guard's talan. He slowed to arm his bow and loosed three arrows in a second's passing into the knot of morbidity that was the three emissaries of Mordor. A freakish scream as of some animal breathing its last rose in a thin whine and an obscene oath uttered in Westron found its way to the elves' hearing, and Legolas laughed.

Three Wraiths there were, mounted on mighty but brutish black steeds, and one of these horses had just been killed by the Tawarwaith's bow. The Greenwood's champion danced forward through the branches into the thickening rain of flickering arrows.

The Noldor had never gone so high, so nimbly or moved from branch to limb and tree to tree with such alacrity. They did not pause to consider where they were moving, but the brunt of the arrow assault herded them and seemed to be deriving from the direction Legolas had been leading them. They realised that they were being driven back towards Dol Guldur.

"Excrement of Melkor! Maggot-riddled carcasses of Trolls! Unliving, undead, uncrowned slaves!" Legolas' taunting insults rang out into the air as the cacophony of trampling feet, twanging bows, and shouting, garrulous voices raised in Black Speech swirled amid the suffocating breath of the Wraiths. And two of these now were astride a shared charger.

The Ulairi turned to answer their challenger.

The two Noldor, halted in their helter-skelter retreat by the scurrilous shouts, looked back and saw the feral elf engaging the host of Orcs, shooting with unerring aim into the loose formation of dark archers. He was pressing into the flow, striving to drive right through, and had dropped lower in the trees.

The enraged beasts funnelled towards him and he took off, dodging arrows and scurrying just high enough to use the foliage for cover. In a clever tactic, he had split the troop around the Wraiths. As Legolas pivoted and headed straight for the Masters of Dol Guldur, the fell demons suddenly found themselves caught in the crossfire of their own warriors, and a second tell-tale groan announced the loss of another of the tormented equines that bore them forth from their dark fortress.

Legolas' laughter was gleeful and light-hearted, as though he was enjoying a friendly shooting competition rather than battling what could not be defeated.

"What are you waiting for? Where are your rings, you witless cowards? Show me your sword hands and I will deliver you from your accursed non-existence!" Legolas' voice carried back to the Noldor elves and they were startled into action, comprehending that their wild companion intended to fight the Nazgul. Setting arrow to bow the Imladris nobles assailed the Orcish soldiers swarming around in the confused melee.

The Wraiths watched Legolas but did not advance, commanding instead for their army to return to order and surround him.

But Harthad-en-Taur was far too quick and his aim unsurpassed.

Had the earth not been writhing in jerking twitches like the body of a headless serpent, not a single Orc would have survived that foray and all three Wraiths would have walked the long leagues back to their dismal stronghold. That the peculiar disruption was of Sauron's evil making was evident. Yet, while the trembling substrate affected both parties in the conflict, the fear that confounded the enemy horde benefited the elves. Both the limited skill and tactical ability of the Orcs dramatically dwindled as their fright intensified.

The Noldor progressed steadily forward towards Legolas' position, pausing to aim and shoot then moving ahead before repeating the action. The connection between them and the archer through Tawar held and grew even clearer as the distance lessened. There was no need to speak to understand which branch the feral elf would leap to or where their Orc targets were shifting and moving next. The Noldor did not need to call out to let Legolas know where they were or how long it would take to reach him. All this, the three elves were aware of instantaneously, simultaneously.

Thus, Legolas knew when the seneschal was with him in the tree, directly behind and slightly above him. When the ground flexed itself again and the tree viciously bent under the combined weight of the two elves, the Wood Elf knew what would happen.

The snapping of the branch was almost after the fact, for Legolas was already moving into a new position, climbing lower even as Erestor plummeted down towards the throng of Sauron's skirmishing vermin. Before he could begin to fear impacting the ground, Legolas was under the seneschal's body and reaching to snatch him by his leggings. The Wood Elf's grip snagged an ankle and held despite the wrenching agony in his arm as he suspended the dive. It was enough to allow the Noldo's arms to grab onto another limb and halt his descent.

Elrond observed from one tree over, aiming and firing as best he could in the tumultuous twisting of trembling trees upon the quaking land. The Elf Lord watched as Legolas held onto his old friend a second more to be certain he was stable and had regained his footing. At a nod from the seneschal, the wild elf released his grasp and surged upwards. The healer saw the shimmering gleam of the haphazard missile that razed through the leaves and sliced a crimson ribbon across the elf's left shoulder.

The cry of pain that accompanied the wounding was more a shout of rage, and the Tawarwaith responded with a fury the Orcs knew well. Indeed, many screeched in tormented defeat. Unable to fight the Wood Elf, Arda, the trees, and the unknown elves all at once, some turned upon each other. Many more retreated in desperation, wanting only to gain the safety of their high-walled tower, despite the Wraiths ' silent command to hold. Most of these turn-tails were hewn down in minutes by their Masters of which two now were forced to walk among them upon the land.

The third Wraith sat upon his gruesome dark horse and gave his full attention to the fallen prince. The Tawarwaith was fully engaged in his task, killing Orcs in a hectic smear of deadly bolts until only one arrow remained. And then the elf turned his bow upon the Nazgul.

Legolas was not lost in a haze of blood lust, however, and stared with cold precision into the place where the unliving once-king had shadow-bound eyes beneath a hooded cloak. A grim smile curled the corners of the archer's lips as he adjusted his stance and took his mark: the center of the black mount's skull, that small whorl where the dulled fur in the broad equine forehead fanned out to insulate the beast's tortured body.

He drew back the bowstring and loosed his last missile, confident of his accuracy even with his blood streaming from the ugly gash across his shoulder.

At the last possible instant before the beast must die with Legolas' arrow in its brain, the Wraith uplifted its sword and in a sweeping arc of moving obfuscation the Morgul blade connected with the metal point. A shower of blinking scintillation and an excoriating squeal heralded the deflection of the dart and the poor horse lived.

But Legolas laughed, jubilant and victorious, pointing his bow with satisfaction into the emptiness of the obscured face, for he had forced the Nazgul into combat with him, and none of them had ever done this since his arrival in the southern regions. For a timeless second or two, the foul emanation of Melkor's ancient corruption had raised its sword hand in defence against the Tawarwaith and revealed the golden gleam of its empowering, enthralling ring.

"Get back to the safety of your black tower, filthy remnant of Numenor!" shouted the Tawarwaith in triumph. "When next we battle, it will not be as easy for you, for I will save two arrows and take your bloody ring!" This said, Legolas raced upward into the canopy out of arrow range and moved with great speed under the influence of the adrenaline and the euphoria of success. He knew the Noldor were following, still joined in the mental link with him, and so he did not hesitate.

He could not afford to, for there were still Orcs alive, though they were scattered and in chaotic retreat, and the torn flesh and muscle in his shoulder burned as only a poisoned wound would do. He had only a little time to counter the effects before succumbing to a horrifically painful death. Even worse, if he became disoriented and lost his place in the trees, he could fall into the beasts' disgusting claws and be taken for his last moments to the tortures of Dol Guldur.

Legolas fled through the highest limbs of the canopy seeking safety.

The Noldor were soon left behind to witness the end of the conflict. The Wraiths turned their wrath upon their own, slaughtering the remaining Orc warriors in retribution for failing to capture the feral elf. Then, in a grisly agglomeration of bloody blackness they departed, two upon the ground and the third mounted, in the direction the elves assumed would lead to their fortress.

Elrond and Erestor were amazed that their dread of the Ulairi had vanished as soon as the communication with Legolas had been established, and were grateful the terror no longer impeded them. They were so relieved to see the evil withdrawing that they halted their own retreat momentarily, exchanging huge grins of giddy delight.

"That was phenomenal! I have never known anything like it," Erestor remarked.

"Nor I!" Elrond admitted. "He is either completely mad or knows something about the Nazgul we do not," the Elven Lord shook his head in grudging admiration for the lowly outcast that had just saved their lives again, Erestor's life twice in less than a sun's round.

"Aye, I think perhaps he is demented, for he has run off in sore need of a healer's care, and you are the only healer for hundreds of leagues in any direction," the seneschal said mournfully. "I would have you save him, Elrond; he went to great trouble to ensure my continued existence."

"I would wish the same, but we have left the packs far back and I know not the way to the guard's talan from here. Can you tell the track we left?" Elrond asked.

Both elves scanned the forest all around them, but were dismayed to see that a great havoc of snapped branches and even wholly upturned trees littered the entire area they could perceive with elven sight. The tremors of the earth had done tremendous damage to the woods, and effectively erased their own small disturbances in the process.

"Nay; this is hopeless. We need to catch up with him and do whatever we can, and quickly. Mayhap you will find some healing plants as we go," Erestor spoke hopefully, but Elrond frowned and shook his head.

"In this place of dark evil, anything wholesome must long ago have perished," he said woefully.

With these sobering thoughts, they continued through the branches, counting on the mental guidance of the Wood Elf to lead them to him. They had not gone far before Erestor called a halt.

"My Lord, it is this way, surely," he said.

"Lead on, then," Elrond replied and looked over his shoulder at him, annoyed. He had suddenly lost the link with the trees and no longer knew the path they should take. "It seems I am not in the good graces of Tawar any longer."

"Or perhaps pen-rhovan is too weak to maintain the connection with both of us. We must hurry!" the seneschal warned as he moved forward more rapidly.

Erestor took the lead, and would have felt smug to be on Legolas' good side for a change had the circumstances not been as worrisome. They travelled in silence for nearly two hours and then Erestor called back in fear; he had lost the mental image as well.

"I can no longer tell his path. Elrond, has he re-established the image with you?" the seneschal did not care to hide the panic in his words or his dismay upon the Elf Lord's solemn denial.

The Noldo progressed hesitantly in the same direction for a while more. No sign of the feral elf was discernible. Presently, however, the sound of gently flowing water met their ears and they followed this until they reached a small clearing where a merry brook was playing.

The glen was formed by the loss of a mighty beech that must have been centuries old when it met its death. No fewer than four elves holding each other arm to arm would have been required to encircle its living girth. That its end was unnatural was attested to by the remains of the massive trunk rising from the earth; a grave marker for the old tree's untimely demise. The stump was the last reminder of the biting saws and axes of the foul creatures that had hacked away the noble creation's life.

The hollow was well tended, as a garden would be, for no new tree growth had sprung up by the water's edge there. Soft grass with wild flowers, trembling in the gentle wind of hummingbird's wings, covered the ground. A thick clustering of water lilies crowded a little shallow cove against the stream's lea side bank and thick mossy ferns grew all around the feet of the encircling trees. On the far side of the creek, the clearing gave way into a huge tangle of blackberry brambles that was laden with succulent fruit.

The Noldor shared appreciative glances and hurriedly descended into this picturesque scene, confident this was the correct end to their journey. They had no doubt this place was under the care of elvish hands, and the only elf in the vicinity was Legolas. A sound they both recognised brought them up sharp just in time as a dagger sliced through the wood of Elrond's bow, nicking it badly, embedding itself in the bark of a tree just behind him.

"I find it hard to believe you are any kind of warriors at all, for neither of you have the sense to examine your surroundings before leaping from cover," their feral friend's weary yet scornful words found their ears while disallowing their eyes to find his position. In vain they searched the branches above and around them. No lightly lilting laughter followed the warning, and the Noldor remained still where they stood.

Even as they watched, Legolas seemed to materialise before them, disengaging himself from his camouflaged location in the blackberry thicket. He went around, a bit unsteady in his step, and retrieved his dagger from the tree and on returning seated himself ungracefully upon the ancient stump.

His quiver and bow were gone and he held the dagger loosely in the fingers of his right hand. Streaked in a finely dendritic pattern of his own gory blood, so pale that the faint blue veins around his eyes and wrists stood out clearly, Legolas presented a cadaverous spectacle. He was attempting to slip the dagger into the leather cording that bound up his breeches and kept missing. The blade made a peculiar scraping noise as it dragged across the old leather. At first Legolas found it funny and was silently laughing as he repeatedly tried to secure the blade, but then he became frustrated and gave up. He sighed dramatically.

"Wrong hand, it is the right one, you see," he said. A small guffaw escaped through his nose and he held up the hand with the dagger as though this was all the explanation required.

"What?" Erestor said, alarmed by the loss of co-ordination and this muddled incoherent statement.

"Fill your water skins and take as many berries as you like, quickly now," Legolas said with imperious magnanimity and gestured towards the stream with the dirk. Suddenly his head drooped and he began to slide from his seat, catching himself in confusion before he completely lost his balance.

The two Noldor exchanged concerned glances and Erestor hurried over to the feral elf, taking hold of his uninjured arm carefully.

"You must let us take a look at this wound, Legolas. It may be poisoned," he said cautiously, watching to see if the dagger would be raised again.

"Of course it is poisoned! Stupid Noldo!" Legolas ridiculed his companion and laughed a little in his appealing, light-hearted way, smiling a lopsided sort of grin. "I have already taken care of it, silly elf," he added with just a hint of slurring to the ends of his words.

Now Erestor became fearful. What was the poison doing to the Wood Elf?

The dagger slipped from Legolas' fingers and landed with a muffled thump in the grass. He looked fixedly at it, as though trying to determine what it was doing there. "Oh, that is mine," he mumbled in slightly surprised tones, tugging feebly against Erestor's hold that he might retrieve the weapon.

The seneschal propped him back against the remnant trunk and waited to see if he could stay upright. He met the baffled blue eyes and smiled back reassuringly.

"I will get it, just stay still, " he said and stooped to take up the blade. Legolas was listing over again and Erestor caught him round the waist as he straightened up, slipping the dagger under his own belt. He resettled the younger elf and rested one hand on the whole shoulder to support him against the stump. "My Lord, will you see to it?" Erestor pleaded with Elrond. "There is some sort of, well, I do not know what it is spread over the injury."

Elrond strode over and visually inspected the wound. He could see that the long straight laceration had been cleaned, and was packed with a strange orange tinted spongy substance. He sniffed at it and his brows rose in surprise; it seemed to be a species of fungus commonly found growing on fallen trees and other dead and decaying wood.

"Can you not be quicker?" Legolas' voice was plaintively imploring. "We cannot stay on the ground, even here. Never have those bloody demons come this close to Aewendil's abode." He tried to rise and promptly toppled over against Erestor, who held him up easily.

"What should we do? I do not think he can stay conscious much longer," he said.

"Get up in the trees," Legolas replied and giggled as though drunk. "Silly Noldor," his words were scarcely intelligible, and both Imladrians scowled.

"Do as he says; can you climb and hold onto him at the same time? I will fill the water skins and follow you," said Elrond.

"I think so, if he does not struggle too much," replied Erestor, but as he was speaking the Wood Elf slumped in his arms, insensible.

Hefting Legolas up over one shoulder, the seneschal let his Lord give him a boost up to the first branches, and climbed cautiously upwards from there. Once he was higher in the tree he began looking for a talan or a flet, for certainly Legolas would not have led them to a place devoid of one. His efforts were rewarded, but the perch was very high and he had to take care in reaching it. Requiring three transfers into adjacent trees and a good deal of petulant cursing, the feat was finally accomplished. Once there he laid the sick elf down gently and waited as Elrond climbed up.

While Legolas was unconscious, the healer examined the injury closely and confirmed his identification of the fungus. With none of his own healing supplies at hand, he feared to remove the poultice and settled for cleaning away the remaining dry blood on the archer's body. No comfort could he give to Erestor, for he did not know what the poison was or whether the unusual treatment would have any healing effect. All he could be certain of was the regular heartbeat and the calm inhalations that usually indicated a healing repose.

While Elrond had been trying to ascertain the seriousness of Legolas' condition, Erestor had the foresight to gather up a large amount of berries before the sunlight completely faded, using his quiver as a basket. With the containers of cool, clear water from the brook and the delectable fruit, the Noldor satisfied their bodies' hunger. Ithil rose and the eventful day ended.

For that night and two days and another night in between them, Legolas was feverish and ill and seldom woke. When he did, he demanded water and drank copiously but partook of nothing more, complaining of heat and of pains in his back. He could not find a comfortable way to rest during these times and shifted uneasily. He propounded irrational allegations, in less than endearing language, that his companions had stolen his blankets. When he needed to relieve himself he accused the Noldor of trying to 'look' at him, and insisted they go all the way down to the ground before he would even try. The Noldor found all this aggravating, but did their best to appease him.

On the third rising of Ithil since the skirmish, Legolas awoke quietly and stretched his injured shoulder and arm, rotating it completely to alleviate the remaining stiffness. The two spies were sleeping and he did not wake them when he left the tree, climbing down into the glade to bathe. Shucking off the old breeches, he waded into the bracing water of the brook and delighted in getting thoroughly clean, for he had not been able to do so for many weeks. He washed away the desiccated, crumbling fungus from the wound and noted with satisfaction that it was closed and healing cleanly.

That done, Legolas climbed from the water on the opposite bank and headed for the blackberries. He had eaten so little recently that he was sure he would not leave anything for the woodland animals to enjoy. He ate at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sounds of the Greenwood's night voices he knew and loved, adding his own in a soft, contented trilling hum.

It did not take long to fill up, however, for Legolas' stomach had shrunk somewhat over the weeks, and he knew to over eat would only make him queasy. Instead, he went into the brambles and retrieved his bow and quiver. He did as Erestor had, quickly filling the implement with the plump berries, and then slipped the strap loosely over his good shoulder. He waded back across the stream, donned his breeches and climbed back to the flet.

Legolas set down his bow and crouched on his heals, carefully dumping out the berries from his quiver, making sure the loose arrow points did not fall and waken his companions with loud clattering. The archer looked over at the seneschal and then lifting his bow unceremoniously jabbed him with it in the stomach.

"Why did you do that?" The Noldo balked at the contact and sat up, edging away. "Do not tell me you have to 'go' and expect me to leave the talan," he squawked irritably.

"I already 'went' when I was down in the glen. And you were watching me bathe, and then you watched me eat berries. If I had not been behind the brambles, I am sure you would have watched me 'go', too," Legolas snarled.

"How did you know that?" Erestor demanded before thinking. It was just as well, for there was no use denying the truth; it would only serve to make the situation worse. He had fully enjoyed the vision of Legolas standing naked in the glade, illuminated by the moonlight, daintily plucking blackberries and popping them into his mouth.

By way of answer, Legolas leaned back and patted the trunk of the tree supporting their shelter. "Tawar," was all he said. It was not true, of course. He had simply noticed the change in the Noldo's breathing pattern and guessed the rest. Let him think Tawar is watching his every move. He thought, grinning complacently.

At this juncture Elrond, who had awakened as soon as the conversation had begun, propped himself up on his elbows to see what the commotion was about. He observed Legolas carefully before speaking.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked simply, but Legolas only glanced at him with disdain and refused to respond. The Elf Lord rolled his eyes and then rolled himself over to go back to sleep. "Let me know when you start behaving like an adult," he sneered. It was the wrong thing to say.

The feral elf stood and kicked the Noldo Lord, soundly, in the middle of his back. The Elf Lord exclaimed in surprise and pain at the unexpected assault and he found himself struggling to catch his breath. While Elrond was trying to recover, Legolas knelt, unsheathed the Elf Lord's own dagger, and calmly slipped it under the healer's chin.

"Oh, you still doubt what realm you are in and whom it is you treat with, I see," Legolas said quietly and nodded as though to himself, smiling slightly. "You are only alive now because I will it."

"I thought our protection was from Tawar, Wood Elf," Elrond rejoined, but as before his bold tone did not seem to irk his feral combatant, and drew from him that most pleasing laughter.

"It is all the same, is it not?" he said softly. "I am Tawar's champion, and to you an emissary from the Greenwood. Do you wish to change this relationship?" And it happened again, the uncanny deadening of all sound and motion within elven earshot upon Legolas' spoken words.

"Nay, Legolas; I am grateful for your guidance and protection," Erestor spoke up quickly. "I owe you a life debt twice over, at least, and it is more than I can ever repay. It was improper for me to spy on you, but it is extremely hard to resist such temptation," he said with what he hoped was sincerity and comedic emphasis on the sexual innuendo. He got up and laid his hand calmly on the fingers gripping the dagger, drawing it back a little. "Come, you are still recovering. Will you lie down and let this matter go for now?" He gave Legolas his best and most results-producing 'endearing scoundrel' expression.

This made Legolas smile and his warm laughter overwhelmed the seneschal so that he could not help smiling back. He tugged on the fingers and thus pulled Legolas and the dagger away from the Lord of Imladris.

Legolas turned to the Elf Lord. His glowing smile, divested of any hint of kindness, became coldly rebuking. In actuality he was angrier with himself for breaking his resolve not to engage in any further discourse with the healer.  
They stared bitterly at one another for some minutes, but it was never a contest; Elrond had to admit, to himself at least, that he truly was at this elf's mercy, whether the knife was against his throat or not.

With a sour grimace the Noldo looked away, shifting around as though trying to find a comfortable spot rather than squirming under the scrutiny of the angry Tawarwaith still in possession of a dagger.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	23. Iaun a Dambeth Um

Iaun a Dambeth Um [Sanctuary and Sanction]

Stretched out in complete relaxation, carefree and without the need for heightened senses to constantly rifle the air for sounds and smells that would signal alert, Legolas welcomed sanctuary. His ears could lend themselves to the jovial joking of the meandering brook and gentle Song of Living sung throughout Tawar. His nose could busy itself in the joy of identifying flowers and plants of tremendous variation, cataloguing the diversity in olfactory images. His bare skin could luxuriate in the sensation of pillowing mosses and tickling flower petals pressed under him where he reclined in the sheltered environs of the hallowed glen.

Sanctuary.

The concept encompassed the glade as a physical locality, a condition of favour within Tawar's expansive soul, and his present state of cogency. The feeling of security granted complete unconcern for any physical want; he could wallow in unadulterated mellow truancy, thinking not of Tasks, Orcs, Dol Guldur, or his ill-fate. Indeed, he let his mind revolve on nothing, watching only the illusory visions of pretty dreams flitting past his closed lids. The need for an arm to shelter the shuttered eyes because his face ached from squinching up under the strength of the glaring rays from a cloudless sky; this was sanctuary, too.

These were such anomalous sensations that Legolas would happily remain reclining in the glen for days on end just to come to know them better. He wanted to mark every reaction of his body: feel every curling blade of grass under his back, acknowledge every insect and bird that moved near him through the breeze. Three days after the battle, cleansed of the black poison, he blissfully pushed the memories away, content to allow Tawar to lull his senses into insouciant serenity, harking only to the pleasurably entrancing codas of the Song, rejoicing in the simplest of delights: sensuous summer air, sonorous water, and dulcet life. The Tawarwaith knew solace and succour.

He could remember well the last time he had known something similar, and it was fitting that it was in the same spot under virtually identical circumstances.

That day had been over two years ago and he had been sick from an injury, a black arrow piercing his calf. The flet had not been built yet and the gracious clearing was only a wild tangle of rotting wood covered in fungus and ferns, coarse underbrush, and scrubby young saplings. He had crawled into the brambles to hide while he tried to tend the wound, believing that he would die from the poison for he had been unable to remove the dart. He had lost consciousness fairly quickly and was thus unaware of the wizard's arrival.

Aiwendil never told the Wood Elf how he knew where he was. When and how the wizard had discovered that the properties of the fungus would counter the noxious venom on the orc arrow likewise remained a mystery. None of that had seemed important after he had recovered his senses and met the kindly Istar.

Radagast the Brown, not one of the more influential of the wizards, was unconcerned with the political subterfuge practised among the free peoples. He was dedicated to counteracting the injures and corruption of Melkor, and found little in the current Age that differed from the other two, when the various races were considered, and none seemed very helpful to his purpose. From his standpoint, all of them were still caught in the misconception, the same skewed impression of power that the vainglorious Vala had propounded. Few of them truly recognised what they were fighting about or against, and seldom made the distinction between power and control.

It saddened the mild tempered wizard, for he saw how the distorted thinking made them lowly dupes in a fruitless struggle to master what was in reality unmasterable. The three elven Rings of Power were his favourite example of this misguided interpretation. The rings held no magic of their own, and barely controlled even the smallest bit of the magnificent energy of the Making with which all of Middle Earth was infused. So scant was this control that the keepers of the rings had to keep them hidden, and the Realms they purported to protect were miniscule in comparison to the Elven Kingdoms of Doriath or Nargothrond, or of the Greenwood for that matter.

It amazed him that among the free peoples, especially the elves, there were so few that could comprehend this simple concept. Within the Music of the Ainur, a voice might choose to sing a different note and alter the melody slightly, but the Song itself was not disrupted and never silenced. In fact, each time such disturbances were introduced, a new melody was begun and the Music swelled again in even greater glory. It was a paradox that what was considered good and that which was deemed evil had as origin the same source and as such both were within the design of that one Omniscience. Then again, even most of the Ainur did not seem to understand this part of Iluvatar's Making.

Aiwendil's insights were aligned more with those of Legolas, centred on the greater connection between all the life of Arda and Eru, and thus the two were almost instantly friends. There was no need to explain what was important or what must be done; each knew instinctively that the other understood, and they worked in a closer harmony than Legolas, and possibly Radagast also, had ever known before. It had been difficult for Legolas to leave when he had healed and needed to get back to the Tasks.

Now, he lay beside the brook basking in the bright beams within the sanctuary he and the brown wizard had made together, awaiting his arrival. Aiwendil always knew when he was near, and Legolas fully expected him to appear at any moment.

The Wood Elf was alone, for the first time in a ten-day, and never would he have imagined that such an event would be a welcome one, given the long periods of isolation he had to endure. But the Noldor tried the limits of his lenience and their incessant bickering and unreasonable manners were more than even the most temperate of personalities could bear for any period longer than a few days. Perhaps in a larger community, where he would not have had to engage them on a nearly constant basis, Legolas would have found their company at least tolerable. Here, though he was in his own lands, he could not get free of them.

Legolas had argued with them all morning about the next course to take. He was determined for them to go while they were as adamant to remain. They had demanded to be taken back to retrieve their goods from the old guard's talan. Legolas had no intention of backtracking. They had objected to his remark that they had plenty of possessions in Imladris and could bear to leave the packs behind.

The healer had insisted he required his supply of medicinal plants and powders. The warrior had been appalled at the very notion of abandoning the valourous weapon that had served him in the Battle of Gondolin. Both Noldor thought it an indication of Legolas' obviously deficient breeding and upbringing for him to have pointed out that the worth of said blade had not availed the lost Kingdom of Turgon. At last he had had all he could stomach and sent them off, with guidance through Tawar, to get their precious things, and he revelled in the quiet peace their departure had granted.

"Tirno! How good to find you here," the soft words were so gently spoken that just to hear them felt like being drawn into the welcoming embrace of safe and loving arms. Legolas leapt to his feet and did squeeze the Istar warmly. His sorrows betrayed him and he held tighter than he had intended to the cushiony softness of the plump wizard's ample and comforting pecan-coloured robes. The strength of the outcast's distress was easily picked up by the sympathetic Maia, and he soothed Legolas within his protecting aura until he felt the elf's close grip relax.

"Aiwendil! I have been waiting, whatever delayed you so many days?" Legolas chided in good humour and the brown wizard chuckled, his happy countenance creasing at the eye's corners in deltaic fans of wrinkled skin. He stepped back, holding Legolas at arm's length to study him over, and did not like what he saw, though his smile only dimmed a little in revealing this.

"My friend, had I imagined you were in this state I would have come straight away. You are getting too expert at hiding your woes, Legolas," he replied and traced his finger along the bright pink of the new scar spanning the elf's left shoulder.

"That was not so bad, since I knew what to do," Legolas said and shrugged nonchalantly. "I was not in too much danger, only sick a couple of days."

Aiwendil gave a melancholic twist to his ever-present smile as he shook his head and let his hand travel down across ribs that were too sharply defined.

"You have been away too long. Cornered, I suppose? I have become aware of the Orcs' new pattern of patrols and determined you were the cause," he spoke with calm concern as his hazel eyes sought the depths of the deep blue elven pair. The new pain he found there disturbed him, fresh wounds on an unsalved soul that spoke of more than physical danger and deprivation.

Legolas willingly tolerated the wizard's scrutiny. For him, for Fearfaron, and at times for Mithrandir also Legolas would not look away, allowing his inner mind to be known. From these three, and only these three, he had always known compassion and friendship, and he trusted them. "Aye, they have cut off the main trail out of that tortured country. I have been trying to break through for nearly three months, and was only just successful, as you have noted," the Wood Elf confirmed, and sighed an exasperated breath before continuing. "And you will scarcely believe what I tell you now. I have found spies in the Greenwood, of elf-kind! They are from Imladris, and say they are seeking information on the Wraiths' activity in Dol Guldur."

"Manw's wind! Imladris, you say?" the old wizard's perplexity was well expressed in his wide-eyed visage, and the sight of the ancient countenance transformed by a childlike amazement almost made Legolas laugh. However, at that moment he sensed the Noldor returning and motioned with his hand towards the trees.

Radagast turned to see and his eyes fairly popped upon witnessing the emergence of the Lord of Imladris and his trusted seneschal from the branches. He whipped his startled face back to Legolas, lips agape, and beheld the wild elf's irritated yet unsuspicious expression. The Istar finally found the means to speak.

"Legolas, do you know who those elves are?" he asked, still in shock to find them there at all.

"Oh yes, though they lied at first, Erestor eventually told me and even admitted they were trying to recruit me to spy upon my own people," Legolas responded in equal amazement as the Noldor approached them. "So you have met them before?"

"Many times, but never in such unexpected circumstances," the wizard was actually scowling at the Noldor.

Legolas' response unwittingly played the Elf Lord's farce against the Istar's understanding; he believed the Wood Elf knew the true identities. Elrond and Erestor were well acquainted with Radagast as he was a member of the White Council and worked closely with Gandalf in the regions near the Gladden Fields. Indeed, his birds usually served as the most reliable messengers in troubled times.

The Imladrians halted a step or two back from the wizard and the Wood Elf and found each other's eyes. An exceptionally profound silence descended over the glade as the four of them stood, an awkward stand-off of sorts in progress as each weighed the situation.

The Elf Lord was quite dismayed to find the wizard there, though Legolas' remark about their nearness to the Istar's home had at least given him pause to consider this encounter highly probable. He remained resolutely undeterred, regretting that his little scheme would be ruined, but fully prepared to absorb the shock to Legolas when the truth was revealed. He almost smiled, but found the necessary muscles resisted being forced.

He and Erestor had argued about Legolas nearly the entire journey to retrieve the supplies, and some of his old friend's remarks were more than just. Perhaps Elrond's assumptions were incorrect. Was there not something uniquely appealing about the archer that he should appreciate rather than scorn? Mayhap he had been avenging his tarnished pride, both from Ningloriel's selfish abandonment and the Wood Elf's misplaced solicitude. Was he reacting to deeper feelings for the Danwaith Queen than he cared to acknowledge? Legolas did not deserve to be used.

The meagre attempt to present a pleasing demeanour failed utterly and Elrond met Radagast with an equivalently disgruntled frown.

Erestor was horrified at the predicament and could think of nothing about the next few moments that he would find congenial. Indeed, having witnessed both the fury and skill of the wild elf in battle, the seneschal was extremely relieved to have his sword at his side again. His hand found its way to the blade's hilt of its own accord as he earnestly hoped matters would not come to violence.

"What are you doing so far from Imladris?" the wizard asked almost the same question that Legolas had put before the Noldor. Radagast moved his eyes from Elrond to Erestor's hand upon the sword to Legolas and back, resting finally on the Elf Lord.

"It is as he has told you; I will not deny it," Elrond spoke with his naturally authoritative manner for he held the brown wizard in low regard, considering his usefulness minimal to the cause of Imladris. The Elf Lord did not answer to Mithrandir; he certainly owed no explanations to this lesser Istar.

"That is ridiculous! How would you come to think Legolas would aid you against his own?" Aiwendil spoke with amused condescension rather than anger, and neither Legolas nor the Noldor missed the derisive reprimand.

"We realise that now," the seneschal spoke up quickly, sharing a wary glance that encompassed his Lord, the Maia, and the Wood Elf. "However, we did not know him then. At the time we only knew he was outcast and banished from his people. It seemed he might be open to the affiliation," he posited feebly. "For my part, I regret the whole idea; all of it," the Noldo glared at his Lord. "Legolas has saved my life three times since I have been in Mirkwood, and has shown his character to be exemplary. I truly regret any deception I have been involved in here," he re-emphasised his apology, speaking directly to Legolas.

The Noldo sincerely meant his words and was not simply trying to alleviate the detriment to himself the revelation of their ruse would create. He had come to the conclusion that his actions were not redeemable even under the guise of defeating the power of Sauron. During the trek, his discussion with Elrond had yielded a compromise: he would remain silent about the lies if Elrond would agree for them to leave. His part in the little drama had already done a great deal of damage to the fallen archer and the injury that was about to be manifested upon the unsuspecting woodland warrior made the seneschal feel ill. Erestor found that he was ashamed of himself, and could not help thinking that Orophin and Dambethnn would feel the same.

"You would do well to recall where your allegiance lies." The Lord of Imladris sent his old friend a bitterly cold stare as he spoke this harsh rebuke. He would not have believed Erestor would betray him had he not just heard the words himself. Elrond seethed; the outcast had caused a serious rift between him and one of his dearest and oldest friends. He rescinded his decision to spare Legolas further torment.

Radagast allowed his inner senses to evaluate this exchange as he studied the Imladrians. Erestor's admissions were more than sufficient to convince the Istar that these two elves were responsible for whatever had befallen Legolas. He sensed a dark deception, but could not pick it out. Elrond was skilled in shielding his thoughts and the seneschal was only a bundle of rueful apprehensions. He immediately wished his order did not forbid using his powers upon any of the free peoples directly. They had hurt the Wood Elf, the malice clear but the manner of the injury and its reason obscure. The wizard had almost decided to defy the rule and force the truth from the Noldo Lord when Legolas' hand upon his arm calmed him.

"It does not matter now, Aiwendil," the disinherited prince sought to diffuse his friend's sudden anger. Unclear as to what the undertone of rage was about, he considered the emotion to be out of proportion to his own understanding of events. The wizard must be reading his reactions to the Noldor presence and was agitated by them for his sake.

For that matter, they were also over reacting, especially the advisor. He had expressed remorse before, yet this seemed more urgent, more intense. As far as Legolas was concerned, the seneschal was forgiven; his lecherous predisposition had not really done the archer any harm. He decided the Noldo must be worried about what his Lord might do to punish him for his disloyalty in the face of the wizard's mild challenge. "They are leaving, returning to their lands today."

"Nay, we are not going from here until we have learned what we came to learn," retorted Elrond hotly, his fiery eyes defying his compatriot to speak out again. Erestor uplifted hands and vision skyward in wearied defeat, murmuring several unwholesome expletives as he walked away.

"Aye, you shall go this day! The woodsmen's village I spoke of is only a few leagues Northeast of here; there I shall lead you and leave you." Legolas was so vexed by this endless contention that he was already shouting at the healer and advanced a pace towards him.

Radagast sensed the two elves had been trading similar words for many hours, and so intervened, literally putting his body between them. He would not grant the Noldo Lord further opportunity to manipulate his friend's emotions.

"I am glad you speak of the village, for that is the reason I was delayed. They have suffered from the heaving madness of the earth wrought by Sauron two days ago. No doubt you were caught in it as well, and that is a story you might wish to tell me later," he said as he drew the younger elf away from his antagonists. As he had anticipated, Legolas' thoughts were instantly diverted.

"What has happened? Are there many hurt?" the Wood Elf was distressed to hear of it for he took the well-being of the forest dwellers personally, feeling that Thranduil had abandoned them unjustly. He was fond of the humans there, and they helped pass messages to and from Fearfaron.

"Yes, sadly, there were many injuries. It was not the shaking so much as the damage from falling limbs and trees. Two cabins were crushed and four lives were lost that way. The worst of the harm came from the fire, though. The most severely burned have already expired but there are some still struggling to live. Two are children, Legolas," the old wizard was overcome with sorrow as he spoke these words, the image of these unfortunate souls stirring his heart.

Legolas was beside himself. The idea of children suffering was unbearable and he shuddered as the colour drained away from his cheeks. Wanting to ask but terrified to know, he recalled each of the little ones he knew. It could be any of them and he could not bear to learn which of these innocents endured such horrible torture. He pulled free from the wizard, clasping and twisting his hands together, paced two strides out, then returned and abruptly faced Elrond.

"You are a healer. Please, you must help them," his pleading voice was audibly afflicted, and the Elf Lord was taken aback.

"Of course I will help them," he reassured. As soon as he had heard of the humans' plight he had begun checking in his pack for the herbs he would need. Healing was his true calling; it surprised him that Legolas thought he had to beg for such assistance.

Legolas' relief was palpable and he even reached out and clasped the Elf Lord by the shoulder in gratitude, giving him a look filled with such appreciation that the Noldo became even more disturbed. What sort of character did this elf think he possessed?

Legolas turned back to Aiwendil and stated his intent to retrieve his weapons as he hurried up to the talan. It no longer mattered to him what the Noldo had done to him three days ago as long as he would try to save the lives of the children and their kin. Legolas could fend for himself; he was an elf. The humans were helpless against the Shadow of Sauron.

Erestor filled up the water skins, wondering at fate's hand in this. The Lord of Imladris was still secure in his false identity; Aiwendil, for whatever reason, did not seem to care to reveal the deception. But that did not matter to the seneschal. His conscience demanded that as soon as the immediate exigency was alleviated, he would explain it all to Legolas.

Within the passing of mere moments the four were prepared and left the dale to bring aid to the suffering Woodsmen and their families.

The evil's wretched doom was apparent long before the company of four reached the Woodsmen's homes. So great was the loss within the forest that the wild elf had to go to ground two leagues from the glade, unable to find a consistent path among the branches. The full light of the sun highlighted the grisly scene of overturned beeches, oaks, maples, firs, and all species of wooded life. A large part of the Greenwood in the surrounding area was nothing more than a mass of wasted wood, soon to succumb to rot and decay. But for the present, among the uprooted and blasted trees some were still alive, crying out their last songs of expiring existence, sundered from even the ability to share these final moments with Tawar.

Only Legolas could hear them now.

He walked in silence as he listened and his anger and sorrow radiated from him in surging swells of restless yet helpless energy and a steady flow of tears. Safe in the sanctuary by the blackberries and the brook, beyond the range of the worst tremors, he had been able to block from conscious thought the injury the Greenwood had endured. While he had enjoyed his peaceful contentment, the trees had been in their death throes. Reason told him there was nothing he could have done to prevent the destruction, but his heart was guilt-ridden nonetheless. He deliberately goaded the Shadow to reveal itself, and now the forest received sanction in his stead.

Impeded by the devastation, their journey took longer than a normal excursion of such a small distance should. The five leagues seemed like fifty, and the hours required to cross the paltry expanse chafed against the concerned travellers' desire to help the unfortunates.

It was nearly annn before the pathway outpost was reached. Beyond this marker, a great perimeter of stripped ground they crossed, twenty paces deep, devoid of any small trees and undergrowth. The Men had constructed a firebreak to prevent the spread of their disaster to the forest at large. The elves and the wizard stepped into the zone of tearful stoicism that the hamlet had become and simply stopped, overcome with the impact of the catastrophe.

The village was destroyed.

Many of the smaller huts had been shaken loose from their moorings, their bark shingled roofs askew and door-frames queerly bent. Two cabins had been completely crushed under the weight of fallen forest giants while three more stood with one side down or the roof partially collapsed from the burden of fallen limbs and younger trees. Six had burned; four reduced to nothing but ashes and blackened, stark stone chimney stacks. The rest were partially intact, and still in use by the beleaguered population. Of the original thirty or so dwellings, only twelve stood unaffected, and one of these had been commandeered to house the maimed and burned.

The humble abodes were built right into the forest proper without any of the elder trees having been cleared away first. The only alterations the humans had made involved removal of the underbrush and scrubby saplings, and occasionally trimming out dead wood before it could fall and harm anyone below. This careful husbandry had spared the bulk of the woods from the blaze, and only two trees would never recover from the scorching, these growing up against the remnants of the completely incinerated dwellings. The height of the scorched, blackened bark on the standing trees marked the dire fury of the conflagration.

Everywhere the litter of broken branches, huge logs, and discarded, charred furnishings blocked the narrow cobble-lined pathways. A bonfire was aflame under careful tending. The putrid odour issuing from it told of the loss of small domestic fowl and hunting hounds, no doubt penned up during the horrendous calamity and either suffocated or crushed. A second fire heated heavy cauldrons of water for use in cleansing the smoke and ash from clothes and possessions, bathing, and providing clean bandaging for the burn victims.

All the adults were engaged in the work of sawing up the fallen trees and stabilising the wobbly buildings. Children of all ages collected and hauled the lumber into piles, sorting it by size and type for later use. Many homes needed to be rebuilt, and basic furnishings replaced; none of the lost trees would go to waste. If it seemed macabre to use the very wood that had killed a loved one to rebuild the survivors' new homes, the inhabitants would never discuss it. So engrossed were the villagers in their salvage activities that they did not at first notice the silent entrance of the wizard and the elves.

Legolas recovered from his shock first, for he was desperately dreading to learn whom among his friends was dead. He stepped forward purposefully towards the makeshift house of healing, easily identified by the horrendous cries of torment issuing from its open doors.

Elrond moved forth after him, but Radagast placed a restraining hand upon his shoulder and held him back.

"No, we will wait," the wizard said and turned his attention back to the scene before him, keeping a hand on the Elf Lord's arm.

The Lord of Imladris graced the Istar with a bewildered expression and looked over to Erestor to share this silent perplexity. The seneschal, however, was watching Legolas.

Before the Wood Elf could reach the doorway, he was spotted by a young child who cried out and raced right for him.

"Tirno!" the little one piped in gleeful joy. Legolas was just as excited, dropping to his knees to catch the youngster that flung her small body into his embrace.

"Chloe! You are unharmed. Where is Amethyst?" he was saying as a second and identical little girl careened into his arms and smothered his face in kisses. Soon a small knot of little ones had nearly buried the archer and he was carefully counting heads and checking over each one. At last he stood up, sorrowfully meeting the eyes of the older children and adults that had joined the small huddle. "Where are Carnil and Cemendur?" he asked fearfully.

A tall young maiden with soot-stained auburn hair, her green eyes misted with despair, sobbed as she stepped forward, her hand clamped hard over her lips as she shook her head. Legolas reached out for her and soon she was crying raggedly as she tried to explain what had happened through her tears.

She was Llannadh, the oldest of the five siblings, and her broken story confirmed that both her baby brothers and her mother were among the burn victims still alive, but her father was not. The tale of this one family seemed to summarise the grim entirety of the devastation the humans had endured, and everyone fell silent as the elf and the girl wept quietly.

Gradually Llannadh gathered her composure and her sisters, loosening the little fingers that were entwined together, ensnaring Legolas around his waist with their arms, one twin on either side.

There was a shifting in the crowd and the people stood aside to allow the Village Elder to approach the Wood Elf. She was a wizened old matriarch, and no one knew exactly how many years she had lived.

Legolas remembered her from her childhood days, when he had come through once with Talagan's patrol. It had been a rare trip to the south for him, when a particularly massive influx of Orcs had threatened the border, then much further to the south, and extra patrols had been mustered.

He recalled a frightened pair of shining brown eyes staring at him from an ivory skinned cherubic face, a mass of curly brown locks, and a hound puppy whimpering in her arms because it was held too tightly. It had been a shock to him when first he met her again and had recognised those same brown eyes watching from the care-lined ivory visage of an old woman. He had wondered then if she would be able to remember him, for he had changed dramatically, too.

He stood before her and bowed with respect and then pressed his forehead to hers, each hand upon a fragile shoulder, as was the human custom in greeting the Elder, before straightening up again.

She tried to smile through her distress but could not speak. He need not have wondered if she recalled that day of her young years when the Wood Elves came to drive away the demons and make safe the land. She would never forget it and had recounted the story to her children and her grandchildren and even great-grandchildren time and again.

How terrified she had been of the fearsome elven warriors! She had frozen like a troll at dawn when she discovered one of them staring right at her through piercing blue eyes. He had gotten down from his horse and come straight to her, kneeling down in the dirt and looking from her to the whining puppy and back with such distress that she had abruptly held the dog out to him. The smile that had lit his eyes as he caught up the little hound had illuminated her soul as well, and she secretly believed she had lived beyond her years because of a blessing that smile had bestowed. He had not kept the pup, though, merely calmed it down and handed it back, admonishing her to always be gentle with the lesser creatures of Yavanna.

He had returned to them five years ago, and though she had been surprised to see an elf so poorly kept, she recognised Legolas as he did her, from the eyes. No questions did she ask for she knew he had reappeared to drive back the demons and make safe the land.

"I am sorry I was not here to help," he was apologising and she immediately pressed her gnarled fingers over his lips and fixed him with a look of gentle displeasure.

"You will not speak those words. You are here now, and if you could have been here before what could you have done?" she said sternly. It amazed her that although he far outnumbered her years she had surpassed him in experience and wisdom in many ways. She could tell he was blaming himself, like all youth that believed their simple presence would somehow avert disaster, and she patted his cheek affectionately, wiping away the tears from his eyes. "Who are these you have brought with you?" she asked.

"Aiwendil you know; the others are elves from Imladris. One is a healer," Legolas answered and looked back over towards Radagast and the Noldor. Only then did the wizard come forward, releasing his hold upon Elrond. They greeted the Elder, following Legolas' example, and she gratefully guided the healer into the dreadful gloom of the sick house. Legolas made to follow, but Erestor and Aiwendil held him back, forbidding him entry.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	24. Sanwe-mitya

Sanwe-mitya [Introspection]

(A/N: This chapter contains a tribute to my beta, Sarah AK. She is NOT a Mary Sue! Also mentioned are many of the faithful reviewers who have kept me going with their considerate feedback. No one is being Mary-Sue'd.)

It was not the interview Erestor had hoped for, this meeting with the brown wizard. What he wanted was the chance to speak privately with Legolas but the three elves and the Maia had only been with the humans a day and no opportunity had arisen. Instead he was waiting for the normally kindly Istar to join him at the village center. It had not been a suggestion or an invitation, Radagast had demanded the conference in uncharacteristically stringent words and Elrond had left the handling of it to his trusted advisor. The Elven Lord would not be at the little causerie; he was consumed with his duties as a healer. Legolas would likewise be absent, working somewhere in the village or perhaps rebuilding the traps that formed the primary defence against Orc raids, Erestor was uncertain which.

He supposed it was for the best. Had he managed to secure a private assignation with the wild elf, Erestor would have had a serious dilemma with which to contend; the temptation to initiate a coupling with Legolas was too great to overcome in spite of his honest intentions not to harm the fallen archer. He was certain he could win him; Legolas had seemed to respond favourably to him since arriving in the enchanted glade. Erestor chose to believe that it was his personal charm that had enabled him to diffuse the Wood Elf's hostility towards Elrond, rather than the effects of the poison and the fungus working through his body.

A few kind words and a soft touch, that is what Legolas needs, he thought, and wondered if the wild elf had ever known either from a lover. He would gladly give them both to reap the harvest of pleasure from pen-rhovan's ripe, latent desires and to give Legolas an experience devoid of pain. He imagined what it would be like to touch that cock again, to taste the nectar at its tip, to explore that wondrous mouth with his, and then bury his shaft within it, wrapped in that exquisitely mobile tongue. In return for the realisation of these recurring fantasies, Erestor had decided to submit to Legolas, to be filled by him, a favour thus far reserved for Orophin alone.

"Erestor!" the strident voice shattered the Noldo's erotic imagery in tones of irritation suggesting it was not the first time Radagast had called out. The seneschal was alarmed to hear his own name so loudly spoken and looked about anxiously for any sign of Legolas' presence.

"He is not here," the brown wizard frowned around the words. "He is at the sick house visiting the children with their sister and cousin. The girl insisted on seeing her little brothers and Legolas refused to let her do so alone. I would speak with you regarding this game you and Elrond are playing. First, why does the sound of your name daunt you? Answer!" the mild tempered Istar suddenly seemed almost as menacing as Mithrandir and Erestor cowered back a bit under his scrutiny.

"Perhaps we could talk somewhere less exposed, Aiwendil. These are not matters for the general population to know," he stalled for time, undecided on how much he should reveal without first consulting Elrond.

Aiwendil did not bother to reply and merely strode off across the scorched and barren pathway towards the outermost edge of the compound where stood a small cottage with a newly thatched roof and a rebuilt lintel over the entrance. Inside was a single large room with a hard packed dirt floor and a huge central fireplace wide enough to accommodate three tree-sized logs gleaned from the debris of the catastrophe. There was no need for a fire this day, yet the wizard still led his guest to a small wooden bench next to the hearth and motioned for him to be seated. Radagast remained on his feet and glared silently down at the uneasy Noldo. Erestor squirmed in apprehensive discomfort and took a deep breath.

"I realise you have concerns, but what we are doing is necessary. Elrond needs to know the extent of Thranduil's involvement with the activities in Dol Guldur. He is certain Legolas may have knowledge of a way into the vaults unknown to anyone else," he said with less than confident intonation.

"Mithrandir is seeing to that. You know that he sent Legolas here, and for good reasons. Whatever is going on in Thranduil's plotting mind Legolas is not party to it and does not need to be caught up in such intrigues."

"I agree with you there. What I said before holds; I regret the deceits we have enacted against him."

"Then speak! What are these lies?"

"We have not given our true identities. Legolas believes Elrond to be me, and I am known to him as Berenaur, a lesser advisor."

"Why?" the Istar's single word held the kindling menace of a white-hot brand poised to sear into unprotected flesh.

"Given the situation between Elrond and his mother, it seemed unlikely he would have anything to do with us if he knew. We felt the need; that is, Elrond felt the need to establish an emotional bond with Legolas. Personally, I thought we might have used the whole paternity issue to our favour, but Elrond was against that."

This was not going well for Erestor. The plot sounded completely contrived when spoken aloud in the presence of an objective pair of ears. Or rather, when heard by a listener with the Wood Elf's care at heart. The advisor tried to bring his explanation back in concert with the need for information on Thranduil's plans.

"If he felt some kind of link to Elrond, then Legolas would be more likely to give us the knowledge we sought."

The Istar's eyes were nearly undetectable behind lowered brows and lash-lined slitted lids. He tried to digest what these words truly meant and did not like what his intuition warned. "Did you or Elrond tell him what you suspect?"

"No! That would not do at all. If he were to refuse to help us, then he would carry that notion back to Thranduil. This is what we must prevent at all costs!" Erestor exclaimed.

"That is a pity. You could simply have asked him and you would have gotten a straightforward reply. Legolas does not lie," the wizard said with no small amount of proud admiration. "Either he knows how to get in or not.

"And he would be right to tell Thranduil what Imladris has alleged before the White Council. Mithrandir has steadfastly argued to do so; the Woodland King has a right to know why his resources are so sorely pressed in defending his Realm. Just to state my own opinion again, I believe this conjecture of Elrond's most definitely represents a threat to Greenwood's population."

He continued.

"Exactly what is the nature of this emotional bond that Elrond felt so necessary to incur. And tell me, Erestor, exactly what sort of trust does one build from deceit?"

This remark caused the Noldo to cringe as he looked away from Radagast. Erestor simply could not keep it up any longer; the ruse was just too terribly selfish and had so little to do with the security of Imladris. He needed to cleanse himself of it if he ever wanted to meet the eyes of his mated lovers again.

The seneschal no longer remembered why he had thought this was such an appealing escapade, nor could he recall when he had allowed Elrond's personal feud with Thranduil to over rule his own convictions. Surely he had not always been so cold of heart. With an unpleasant sense of distaste Erestor realised he had never thought of the harm they might inflict upon Legolas as an important consideration.

"Aye, it is as you suggest. No true bond has been made on our part. We have been manipulating him. Emotionally. Sexually."

The room took on unnatural warmth that spread from the Istar in waves of increasing incalescence. The logs in the grate ignited and the thatch roof shrivelled in the shimmering air, leaving gaps in the coverage as the drying straw contracted. The earthen floor felt hot beneath the seneschal's bare feet and he unconsciously shifted them one against the other, his eyes never straying from the wizard's furious countenance. Erestor hoped the Maia would remember the oaths of his order and confine his wrath to inanimate objects.

It was a near thing, but Radagast held true to the vows he had taken before Manw and Varda. With a blistering, withering gaze at the Noldo before him and a sweep of his long robes upon the floor as he turned Aiwendil departed the cabin and headed out of the village, too angry to trust himself to face Elrond yet.

It was more than infuriating to find his friend being used in such a manner. Aiwendil was fairly sure that the seneschal was not intimately involved with Legolas, or the story would not have been so quickly told. No, it was only Elrond who had bedded the fallen prince. Aiwendil fumed in exasperatedly silent outrage. That the Elf Lord would choose this means to manoeuvre for supremacy in the power struggle with Thranduil went far beyond any of his previous behaviours. To think that Elrond, Lord of Imladris, would take as his lover not only his old antagonist's deposed heir, but also his former mistress' only child, and possibly his own offspring.

For where Elrond is concerned, Legolas is all these things at once, and when he learns the truth he will be utterly shattered, the Istar thought.

And as Erestor nervously awaited the confrontation, Radagast deliberated the best course to take through the unpleasant mess the Elf Lord had created.

The welfare of the humans over rode the wizard's desire to confront the Noldo Lord. Elrond's skills were needed, and his strength as a restorer need not be curtailed as long as Legolas was kept from further carnal contact with the healer.

Aiwendil dreaded to reveal the truth to his young friend; somehow Legolas would have to be told, but Radagast did not want to be the bearer of the tidings. The Wood Elf was obviously already distressed over the encounter and now had the burden of the village's destruction on his shoulders and the unspeakable suffering of the little ones to bear. He hesitated, deciding to wait until the fate of the two boys was better understood.

The cries of the dying children filled the forest for a fourth of a league's circumference by humans' hearing and two leagues out according to elves' acuity. Save for the continuous echoes of the biting of axe on wood little else was audible in the cinder scented air. Day and night the poor souls screamed their terror and torment from their weakening bodies, interrupted by deadly tranquility when their consciousness mercifully fled.

The mother lying in the bed next to them begged for an end to their misery. She pleaded with the Elf Lord to kill them, for they were suffering and even should they recover, their lives would be spent in disfigured pain and disabled dependency. This doom she could not abide her sons to fulfil.

Elrond steadfastly refused to accede to the woman's demands, and she soon succumbed to her sorrow and her own painful injuries, perishing in the early light of daybreak on the fourth day. The family mourned anew and the Elder spoke words at the graveside, enjoining all to rally round the bereft children, now orphaned. They were but the latest added to this caste. In all, seven families lost one or both parents, leaving anywhere from only one babe to five young ones to fend for themselves. Llannadh and her siblings were fortunate to have an aunt in the village who adopted them at once.

The twin boys endured.

Elrond laboured to cure them, spending all his hours within the sick house, refusing to allow any other to tend the little ones' sickening wounds. Sharing the babes' status as a twin and his sons being Gemini also, he felt driven to return them to the embrace of the grieving sisters, hale if not whole. His empathy for these orphans surprised him; he refused to consider the possibility of their demise and fought this battle against death with greater vigour than any since the vile desecration of Celebrian.

He had succeeded then, due more to her own will and the natural resiliency of elf-kind, but even so she had been unable to bear the disfigurement of her soul. His determination to prevail with the little humans was bolstered by the aunt's and the oldest sister's attendance at the bedside whenever he allowed it. These little ones were closely knit within the hearts and souls of their family. Elrond simply refused to acknowledge that Celebrian, with three devoted children and adoring parents, had been as equally loved, as were these small boys.

They were scarcely two years old, and remarkable in their tenacious capacity to live. Llannadh had informed Elrond that they were special, born the very day that Legolas had initiated the first traps at the borders of the village, and as such represented the zeal of the people to hold fast to their lands and homes. In honour of the killing of twelve Orcs that had been terrorising the area, the father had asked for the Wood Elf to give the babes elvish names. The Elf Lord had wondered to learn of this, for Legolas had rendered their human names into the High Tongue.

Yet the little ones' injuries were horrendous, and infections were insuppressible. As soon as the healer had one under control, another wound festered and grew gangrenous. From Cemendur, an arm was taken; from Carnil, the right hand and left leg from the knee down. The fire was still eating them, consuming their flesh by inches, en echelon.

Outside the hut, Legolas hovered at the doorway the first few days. Neither Aiwendil nor Elrond felt it a good idea for him to see the invalids too often, for his attachment to the children was intense and his anguish over their pain and sickness proportionate. The Elder noted his overwrought manner also and bade the villagers attempt to keep him involved in the rebuilding activities. With the boys' despairing shrieks, even this was insufficient to distract him, and Aiwendil was forced to drastic means.

The Istar created a barrier of protection around the village and enlisted the wild elf's connection with Tawar to stabilise and enhance the magic. This required Legolas' surveillance of the boundary and regular physical contact with the trees through which the strength and energy for the barrier derived. With the destruction of so much of the Greenwood, the connection was as tenuous as mist in the morning and would never prevent an attack from the Wraiths. It was something akin to the Girdle of Melian, yet lesser in measure and potency, for Melian had drawn upon the essence of the elves themselves to construct her wall of obscurity while Aiwendil had but one elf and a handful of oaks and beeches. Still, its primary purpose was to supply a diversion, and for this it was ample.

A blur of days sped past until four week's worth had elapsed and were gone from all but memory, and Carnil expired in the darkness of Ithil's hours.

For the first time in his existence Erestor felt the fleeting hours of all mortals' brevity keenly. Without pausing to consider the futility of their actions the village folk rebuilt their lives from the devastation of the trembling earth, determined to do more than exist only to perish. What this actually meant to them escaped the elf's understanding.

They flow like water, these humans, determined to push through what ever obstacle might appear, only to empty out into the ocean of Ea, the individual character of each life absorbed and lost in the anonymity of being. No matter what they do, it is always the same, and when they die there are others that take up the task, continuing the unending monotony. To what purpose?

It required so much toil, so much effort, and yet when it was done there was only this small collection of people, nothing more. It was the same wherever Men were found; the size of the group varied, the grandeur of the structures and wealth of the culture changed but it was really all the same, iteration upon redundancy. Erestor could not hear the contribution these humans made to the Music and wondered if he was missing something important, something that darted away as quickly as the glimmering streak of a shooting star faded from view in the endless black of Ithil's night.

Perhaps the mortals are not the musicians; perhaps they are the instruments. A harp, no matter whether lovely and finely wrought or simple and unadorned, was silent until the harpist plucked the strings and drew forth music from the voiceless shape. Any harp could be made to produce the songs by a skilled musician, and if damaged, a new one made to take its place.

Yet strangely it was also not exactly so. These humans had desperately hoped the burned children and mother would survive their terrible injuries and rejoin the community. The twins were not old enough to have made any contribution to the village yet, and her sister and the oldest child had already assumed the mother's responsibilities. Why should the whole town be praying so for the recovery of these few members, when survival could only mean spending the remainder of their lives in pain and disfigurement?

They were loved and held unexpected uniqueness hidden within their human uniformity; this much Erestor registered.

He sighed. Trying to discuss this with Aiwendil had been useless; the wizard had not been able to comprehend his dilemma. The humans simply were a part of the Making; no further explanation did the Istar require. The individual was to be prized, but in the end the singularity of each personal drama diminished within the greater task of perpetuating the collective body as an entity. Should one human's fate be to die sooner than late, the rest of the village would carry on with the endless drudgery of existence.

"It is the way of things," the old wizard had said calmly, as though this was the most understandable concept within all of Arda.

And though Erestor made two attempts to draw him out, Aiwendil refused to further discuss his plans for Elrond and Legolas. Erestor was not eager to press harder, being too grateful to see the Istar's anger abate somewhat, replaced by worried concern. The death of the child fell hard upon the archer, and the kindly wizard spent his time trying to ease Legolas' guilt rather than adding new hardships.

The seneschal shook his head, observing the people stir from slumber and begin the illimitable travail yet again. They woke with the sun and slept through Ithil's reign. The silent and motionless nights were most difficult for Erestor to bear, for no singing or even conversing among the people took place. No hunting parties were organised and no watches were set, for Legolas and Aiwendil patrolled the outskirts until the coming of dawn. This left Erestor with only the sick house as a destination. Often he took a turn monitoring the patients to allow Elrond a chance to leave the gruesome place and rest.

The two of them had made their peace. The long centuries of their friendship would not allow a permanent break in the relationship. Too much had they depended on one another and at times trusted their lives and the welfare of loved ones to the other's care. They shared a common goal of defending their homeland and people against the rising power of Darkness, and a quick discussion had been all that was required to return to their previous understanding.

Elrond knew of the wizard's awareness of his scheming, and did not hold Erestor to account for it anymore. The loss of Carnil weighed heavily on his heart, and his vision for this mission had become defunct, irrevocably dissipated by the renewal of sound judgement the sobering defeat initiated. He learned of the barrier and its diversionary purpose and felt a resurgence of conscience to have caused the Istar to separate the feral elf from him as much as from the bone-rattling screams of the injured.

His observation of Legolas' tireless efforts to repair all that had been destroyed turned his mind to the character of the Wood Elf, and he came to see that he was neither like Ningloriel nor Thranduil in his guileless compassion. The younger elf's evident sorrow over the death of the child was unnerving, for Elrond remembered that Legolas was already grieving. Even within his own shell of despair, the Wood Elf reached out to comfort the other siblings, and had three times brought food and drink to the healer when Elrond refused to leave the remaining child's bedside for even long enough to eat.

Elrond realised now the genuine depth of feeling Legolas had shared with him the day of the heaving earth, and the comfort he had sought to give while seeking none for his own unhappy emptiness. The heinousness of the Elf Lord's abuse of that sympathy and generosity was bitter to the palate, yet Elrond could not deny his culpability. In truth, he was now as much concerned with how to spare Legolas further harm, as was the Istar.

The Lord of Imladris began to regret that he could never reveal who he was without losing Legolas totally. Here indeed was an elf with rare qualities such as he had not found in millennia, characteristics worthy of respect and a nature deserving to be loved. In his spiteful desire to punish those who had hurt him, Elrond had lost the chance to determine if a true soul-bond was possible and had condemned to failure a relationship with someone who actually understood him.

But there was no way to repair this wrong. He and Erestor would leave as soon as the last patient's fate was accomplished and the seneschal would keep further disclosures unspoken. This was the plan as long as Aiwendil continued to withhold his counsel from the Wood Elf. That was a circumstance neither Noldo could predict, and while it was worrisome, they agreed to wait for him to approach Elrond concerning the situation, for the Elf Lord had not the energy to promote the debate.

Erestor had intended to keep his resolve to be honest with Legolas, despite his agreement with his Lord, but never could he find a moment when the Wood Elf was alone. Either he was working alongside the villagers cutting and clearing or building and mending, off somewhere with Radagast, hanging about the sick house waiting for Elrond to come out and give news, or entertaining the little children with stories and games. Most of the time he was flanked by the two young maidens, Llannadh and her cousin Sarah, who linked their arms through his and refused to let go. This day was no different from the last thirty or so the elves had thus far spent in the village.

The seneschal watched as the maidens dragged Legolas toward one of the small dwellings, each one using both her hands to trap one of his securely, laughing conspiratorially at his half-hearted protestations and lagging gait. They seemed to be expending extra effort to deflect both his and their own thoughts from the death of Carnil, just two days ago. However, since arriving in the village, Erestor had observed that virtually all Legolas' spare time was commandeered either by Radagast or these two.

The maids were drawn to him, and Legolas allowed their touch whenever they wished; however they wished, for as long as they wished. Their hands investigated the ropy locks of his hair, plaiting and unplaiting the dense, felted strands, combing them between their fingers, pulling them back from his face, fastening them with their own ties to be kept out of the way when he worked. They plied their fingertips to gently trace old scars and new, to artfully massage sore muscles at the end of the day.

Such clever digits to entwine themselves intricately with his, leading him away to one spot or another where they would sit and talk for as long as he would listen. Erestor sighed, envious of this exquisite opportunity neither girl seemed to appreciate for its more salacious enjoyments.

Despite their great liberty of access, it was precisely because they had nothing whatever to fear from him that the young ladies felt so comfortable. Legolas was like their brother; there was absolutely nothing sexual in the constant contact. Or rather, there was an essential sensuality to it that yet remained devoid of any somatic attraction between them. The young ladies were curious and Legolas enjoyed it, even seemed to need it. They could fully explore his masculinity without worry that he would want to do likewise concerning their femininity, while he could absorb the attention without arousal and without the expectation of relieving anyone else's hungers.

Still, there was more to this than inquisitive poking and prodding. Legolas was their protector; Sarah, especially, was pestered by an unwelcome suitor who did not understand when to quit. An undoubtedly painful arrow-grazed welt across the Man's backside made it clear that no harassment would be tolerated and that the maiden had the wild elf's particular favour.

Erestor smiled, picking up the females' voices uttering something about 'atrocious leggings' and 'intolerable dishabille', as the girls herded the Wood Elf inside the hut against Legolas' defence of at least two years good use left in the shabby much-mended garment.

In some ways their treatment was very motherly. If he was their brother, he was often their younger brother and they watched over him. Unless he was engrossed in wood-working, a skill the feral elf possessed that surprised Erestor, the other adults would find it just as difficult to be near the archer as did he. And, except for Aiwendil and the Elder, it was rare for any to be alone with him.

Especially males.

Now that he considered it, perhaps these unlikely chaperones were working their maternal magic on him and that was why he could not get closer than two arm lengths from the wild warrior. Erestor grimaced; these young maids were incredibly astute for Legolas would not have told them of the things that had happened over the last few weeks. Perhaps the wizard had recruited their aid in keeping the Wood Elf separate from the healer and his advisor.

The Noldo decided to test his new insight, and followed the path along which the girls had led their pet. He knew Legolas would hear his approach and did not attempt any stealth; it was part of his new policy of forthright honesty towards the Tawarwaith. He could hear them talking quietly together, apparently discussing a means to join leather such that no irritating raised ridge of material would rub against sensitive skin while racing through treetops fighting Ring-wraiths.

"Berenaur approaches; give me those breeches back," the wild elf's frantic voice was edged in just enough panic to make the girls go silent. But for that, Erestor would have been thrilled to walk in and catch the elf struggling back into his clothes. Instead, the seneschal felt saddened to have elicited such an unnerved response. He stopped outside the open door way and lifted his hand to knock on the wood frame politely.

"I will send him on his way; do not worry," a loud whisper, voluble enough even for a human to overhear, halted Erestor's hand before it reached the post. The Noldo's knuckles landed two tentative taps and Sarah appeared in the darkened opening, hands on hips and eyes sternly disapproving. She stared at him as though he was a wayward elfling interrupting his elders in an important conference of some sort.

"Yes?" she asked tersely.

Erestor observed this door warden closely. She was slight of build and tall, with dark hair thick and luxurious in its sheen and length, reaching halfway down her back even though it was braided ornately in a single, heavy filigree of woven tresses. He had trouble telling for certain what color her eyes were, for they changed depending on the circumstances. Sometimes they were lively and the warm green irises bore bright flecks of light. Other times they were serious and forbidding, as they were now, and seemed to be almost golden.

Erestor was not sure how this mortally fragile female could present such a formidable presence, but he felt himself reduced to that wayward elfling under her questioning gaze. He tried a smile, the rogue-ish one that even worked on Legolas, but her demeanour did not alter.

"I wish to speak to Legolas," he finally said and she twisted her already set lips into an even more unwelcoming expression.

"Legolas is busy," she said without compunction and went back inside the hut.

Left on the stoop, Erestor heard the girls' impertinent giggles at his expense, but noted that Legolas had not joined in, so he did not retreat. He knocked again. More rudely expressive whispering from the females ensued and several irritated sighs issued from the building before both girls suddenly stepped into view.

"What do you want?" Llannadh asked crossly.

"I have told you we are occupied," added Sarah.

Erestor looked from one to the other, perplexed. There had to be a way to convince them to let him in, but he had no idea what that might be. They were intent on keeping Legolas to themselves, protecting him. He needed to over ride their authority and engage the feral elf directly.

"Please ask Legolas if he will speak to me. It does not have to be right now, and you can stay while we talk. It is important that I speak to him. Tell him it has to do with Erestor," the seneschal said, knowing Legolas could clearly hear him, hoping to pique his curiosity enough to grant an audience.

The archer stepped into the light, worry and distrust filling his open gaze.

"What is wrong, is there a change in Cemendur's condition? Are we allowed to see him yet?" he asked. Erestor noted that the girls protectively linked their arms around his waist.

"No, it has nothing to do with the child. His status is unchanged as far as I know."

"Then what is it about? Surely Erestor can speak for himself if he wishes," this terse retort from Sarah, who glared to add emphasis to her suspicion.

"It concerns the purpose of our mission here, young one, and that is something not to be discussed with children," the seneschal irritably replied. "I would speak with you, Legolas," he continued calmly. "Perhaps tomorrow during the midday break you would share the meal with me."

"I will do so, provided Aiwendil agrees. He has need of my help in maintaining the barrier and I may be away most of the day tomorrow. I have only stayed this long to have news of how Cemendur fares," the wild archer replied.

Erestor frowned as he exhaled a loud breath through his nose, noting the triumphant expression on Sarah's face and the seriously concerned one on Llannadh's. It was true, then. The wizard was determined to keep the truth from reaching Legolas through the Noldor's telling.

Very well, I shall abide by the Maia's decision and reveal only the part concerning Thranduil and Sauron's Ring, Erestor thought. "Tomorrow at noon, then, the wizard allowing," he agreed to the conditions with a brief nod. "Will your two friends be there as well?"

The girls said yes but Legolas said no, all together, and then looked at each other in confusion for a moment. The wild elf shook his head.

"No," he repeated much to the girls' chagrin. "Berenaur is correct; such issues need not trouble you."

Sarah cast a narrow and searching glare in the Noldo's direction and Llannadh walked Legolas back inside without a word.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	25. Caro Nad Tir

Caro Nad Tir [Do the Right Thing] (apologies to Spike Lee)

Elrond paced, relentlessly retracing a short track in the blighted earth before the sick house doorway. Erestor stood just to the left of the resultant path, regarding him with restive caution. He had decided to let Elrond know of his plans and the Lord of Imladris was not pleased with this spur of the moment resolve to inform Legolas of their real beliefs regarding the Wraiths' interest in Mirkwood.

The Elf Lord stopped abruptly in front of his old friend. He still could not believe the elf had arranged this little meeting with the intent to divulge such sensitive information.

"You are doing this for the purpose of garnering the Wood Elf's good graces? Erestor, this is foolish. We cannot risk having our conjectures find their way back to the Thranduil's ears. What madness is upon you? Whatever our wrongs here, the fate of all our lands and peoples is jeopardized and this is paramount compared to your contrition," the Noldo was red-faced in his fury and thudded his finger against his advisor's chest rather sharply.

"It has nothing to do with salvaging my character; we have both gone quite beyond the limits of forgiveness. It is the right thing to do; that is all and that should be enough. This is his home; he deserves to know. Should we not have trusted him from the start, as Aiwendil has said? Your own instincts were to reveal all to him the night you had such brutal coition; or so I was told in justification of being defamed as a loose-tongued quisling," the seneschal countered and stood fast to his principles.

The Lord of Imladris raised his brows in surprise at Erestor's apparent retention of ill feeling over that conversation between them and resumed his circuitous march without comment. He glanced up at the cloud shrouded white sky, dully lit by the obfuscated sun, to gauge how long before the noon meal was announced. As though in answer, a robust clanging called the midday halt to work and all the humans left their labors and retreated to their respective huts and cabins.

Elrond scowled at Erestor and stalked back inside the sick house briefly to issue final orders for the child's care to the aunt keeping vigil over the unconscious babe. Only recently had he allowed the doting woman to take part in the tending, and with a last cursory check of the pitiful creature's bandaged body, the Elf Lord returned to his friend and together they made their way to Aiwendil's cottage.

He could see Legolas already there, waiting, but there was no sign of the wizard. Elrond shook his head partly in admiration and partly in discontent; the wild elf looked a shambles. He kept himself clean, of course, but the hair was a mass of thick, densely felted strands and the breeches had seen too many years. The heavy locks were caught back from his face, tied with a leather string, and there was evidence of recent mending on the garment where a brighter, less worn patch of hide had been sewn on.

The humans girls' work, undoubtedly. I must remember to give Legolas the clothing I brought, he thought.

Never had Elrond seen an elf this disheveled retain so compelling a manner and bearing. There was never any doubt, no matter the rough edges exposed to view, that here was an elf of presence. A discernable sense of authority enveloped him and added to the allure of his physical form, battered though it was. Even the marring was less noticeable than the lean and wiry compactness of his musculature wrought by the constant physical extremes to which he was subjected. The hardships gifted the Wood Elf neither weakness nor coldness; rather the severe predicament had brought to the fore an intensity of inner strength that was rare to behold, particularly in one who had not witnessed the atrocities of First and Second Ages.

Without his quiver and bow and removed from his primal environment, the Elf Lord observed, the austerity of his long deprivation is more evident, the old scars more visible, and the new one still stands out across his clavicle. An elf this young in relatively peaceful times should not have such marks upon him nor present the haunted look common to the surviving battle-weary warriors of the Last Alliance; indeed, the very look I have seen in my own eyes many a time.

"Erestor! I did not expect you to be here, how is Cemendur? Who is watching over him? What if you are needed there?" Legolas' words spilled out as he stepped forward to meet the Noldo Lord, who lifted his hands to halt the interrogation.

"Do not worry. The child is in the care of his aunt; she is skilled in what must be done and will send for me if she cannot manage," Elrond paused and reached out spontaneously to clasp the younger elf's shoulder. "How do you fare, Legolas?"

"I am well enough," the feral elf's bewildered look was edged in skepticism. After his last encounter with this Noldo Legolas was less inclined to believe him capable of any genuine feeling for his health and welfare. Still, there was that penetrating sensation of care within the grasp upon his arm, as real as the ground below his feet.

Elrond felt the muscles tense as the archer's body stiffened under his grip, and sadly dropped his arm to his side. The silence following their brief exchange was unpleasantly rich in unspoken regrets and withheld trust. All three turned with something akin to relief as Aiwendil approached from the general direction of the Elder's home.

"Well," the Istar surveyed them, "we are all here it seems. Berenaur," he spoke the name with careful emphasis, "this was your idea so perhaps you should begin this discussion."

All eyes fell upon the seneschal as he wormed a mite under the combined inspection. He had rather hoped Elrond would take over and do the explaining. Now that he had everyone's full attention, Erestor found himself reluctant to speak.

"I wished to ask for your assistance more directly, Legolas, by telling you what we believe to be the danger in Mirkwood," he began, and no one made a sound. "We have tried to understand the reason for the continued presence of the Wraiths in Dol Guldur. As you know, we drove away the Darkness that had harbored there before and "

"Thranduil's warriors drove the Necromancer out," Legolas cut in harshly. "Imladris had nothing to do with it."

"That is not entirely true. There was help from Lothlorien, and many of those that fought were from Imladris," the Elf Lord interjected.

"Be that as it may, the Greenwood bore the brunt of the assault and received the greatest numbers of casualties. The sum lot of external forces was minute in comparison," the Woodland denizen defended his peoples' contribution and sacrifice.

"Yes, yes; I did not mean to insinuate any failing or diminution of the efforts made by the Woodland Realm," Erestor hastened to regain control to prevent these two from escalating the disagreement and venting their more deeply held antagonisms. "The point is that the Wraiths have returned and continue to attack Thranduil's lands. Has anyone in the Kingdom ever addressed with you the possible reasons for this?" he asked the fallen prince.

"I have discussed it with Mithrandir. As I told him then I still believe, that the Wraiths carry out their Lord's desire to destroy elf-kind, and focus upon the Wood Elves because there is no Elven Ring to offer a magical resistance," Legolas replied. "The Ulairi mistakenly believe we present an easier target, yet they persist to no avail."

At this statement the Elf Lord laughed. "Nay, not to no avail! Look how far back Thranduil has withdrawn his borders. He has been run to ground and is desperate."

A crimson flush bloomed across the archer's countenance as he registered this insulting judgment.

"You are unwise to speak so, for you stand within the very Realm you denigrate. At a word, these humans would hand you over to Thranduil's patrols and you would be telling this tale to him instead of me. Too easily do you forget to whom your life belongs within these lands."

"We are subject to no one here. The Woodland King has abandoned the southern forest; thus, it is a free land for anyone strong enough to take and hold it."

"No one has that right! The Laiquendi have been here since before the First Age," Aiwendil countered before Legolas could retort. This was just the sort of petty squabbling the wizard despised.

"What good is that? The Masters of Dol Guldur do not recognize that claim and Thranduil is incapable of defending it," Elrond retorted.

"Then perhaps the other Realms should offer aide rather than threatening to invade," Radagast's calm words held a disquieting anger, which pleased Legolas.

"Thranduil is too proud to accept aid. He would rather sacrifice thousands of lives than admit he is insufficient to the task at hand." The Lord of Imladris ground out these words in tones reminiscent of chewing stones, all his old hurts and grudges coming to the surface.

"That is not true; he has struggled ceaselessly against the Shadow," in spite of his personal misgivings, Legolas felt compelled to back the Woodland King as a matter of personal honor. "Aid he might refuse, but an alliance he would entertain, and has done before."

"Oh, you cannot be serious," Elrond's mocking snort was brutally cold. "He did not honor the terms of the Last Alliance; he obeyed his father instead. Nor is that the only instance. Why did he not share his knowledge of the Orc host that had taken the Redhorn Pass? How many died in ambush there before Imladris drove the beasts out? How many were lost at Erebor? What was he there for? He sacrificed you, Legolas, for a share of a dragon's horde."

These charges were dreadful to hear and Legolas actually stepped back on unsure footing as the allegations assailed him, for he knew not what to answer. In the scandalized aphonia that followed the Elf Lord's outburst, he tried to collect his thoughts and formulate some response.

The difficulty lay in that he did not entirely disagree with his combatant's assessment of Thranduil's avaricious rule. Yet much of this was beyond his sphere of understanding, never having cared to engage in the affairs of state, and he felt ill equipped to explain the Woodland King's actions. The reference to his own disgrace was most troubling and caused an uneasy sinking in the pit of his gut, as if the weight of this denouncement bore the gravity of truth. At last he met the Noldo's eyes squarely.

"Of these matters, I know little," he began, "In the Last Alliance there was fault on both sides and Oropher did indeed refuse the High King's commands, but not for unjust reasons. Yet even if they were so, how can Thranduil be faulted for obeying his King and Father?

"At the time of the troubles in the Misty Mountains, I was stationed to the northern regions of the Greenwood and do not know if Thranduil was cognizant of the infestation of the divide. I have no knowledge of the Wood Elves using the High Pass except for messengers, and do not recall hearing of losses from among these. I only learned of the Orc hordes there after the news of the assault on Celebrian made its way to the north, months later. To this charge against the King I cannot answer, but I say to you that I will seek out the truth of it.

"As for Erebor, I have not considered my own circumstances in exactly this manner before, and am forbidden to discuss the situation even among my own people. Yet this will I say. However much you may ridicule the cause for being there, the reason for fighting was just. The free peoples of all Realms have benefited by the sacrifices made on that day. Not since the First Age has the destruction of so many foul and fiendish works of Melkor been achieved." Legolas completed his statement and waited for the Noldo to reply, but the Elven Lord only stared at the wild elf, speechless.

For these were well spoken words and the elf that uttered them stood before him nobly and accepted the responsibility for the grievances voiced. Instead of justifications and rationalizations, the Wood Elf had responded honorably and with appropriate respect for his people. Somehow, this ragged and outcast member of Thranduil's Realm had managed to convey a sense of dignity and decorum the best-trained diplomat in the court at Imladris would envy. Commensurate with this exemplary statesmanship was his desire to hold his people to high standards of integrity and learn what culpability their regent owned. It was not what Elrond had expected, and all his anger drained away as he continued to meet the steady gaze of the fallen prince.

"Well-said, Legolas," Aiwendil broke the silent regard between them, reaching out to physically turn the Wood Elf to face him. "Yet, these are not the concerns that confront us now. I believe the elves of Imladris suspect a more sinister reason for the Dark Lord's interest in Thranduil's Kingdom."

"That is so," Erestor rejoined the conversation before his Lord could reply. "We have come to suspect that the Ring of Sauron is hidden in Thranduil's vaults."

Legolas' jaw dropped. "What?" he could barely speak the word. "What are you saying? Aiwendil, what does he mean?" the archer turned to his friend in confusion, and then spun back to challenge Elrond. "Are you accusing Thranduil of, of, just what are you implying here?" he was shocked at the very idea that such a horrendous doom could be harbored within his own country, and feared what this portended.

"Peace, Legolas! No one is incriminating anyone," the seneschal began.

"We think that the Ring is there, but that Thranduil is unaware of it," Elrond said calmly and observed the mixture of relief and terror that swept through the wild elf's eyes. "The King has accumulated much wealth over the centuries, and all the lore we have concerning the One Ring indicates it was lost somewhere close at hand, near the River Gladden. It may easily have passed into his treasure horde unremarked, for it is simple in appearance and unadorned."

Legolas felt as if caught in some whirlwind with no sense of what direction he was being taken. This idea was too raw to assimilate fully; he kept repeating the seneschal's phrase over and over through his thoughts:

Sauron's Ring is hidden in Thranduil's vaults?

As his mind began to slowly recover from the numbing dread this concept encapsulated, Legolas began to see the reasoning behind the thesis. Thranduil did indeed have artifacts of numerous cultures from all over Middle Earth.

The Elf King was quite proud of his possessions and had an incredible propensity for unearthing the stories behind each antiquity. Thranduil could recite the histories of various battle swords, daggers, long bows and scimitars, explaining who had forged them and who had owned them, what wars they had been used in, how they had been passed from hand to hand and at last ended up in the vast caverns that housed his priceless collections.

As an elfling, Legolas had always been overjoyed when noble guests or foreign emissaries came to visit, for then he would listen as Thranduil regaled his visitors with exciting recounts of the deeds surrounding his treasures, spinning out the stories in elegant webs that ensnared the imagination and bound all attention to them until their completion. These were the only good memories the disgraced prince had of time spent with his Sire.

Countless were the jeweled ornaments of all diverse manufacture and purpose from distant Kingdoms, long since fallen ere the Second Age had ended, from Beleriand, Numenor, and even from Aman. Thranduil could trace each one through time and reveal the tale in exacting detail and vivid imagery. He had also riches from far lands to the south in Harad and to the northeast beyond the Sea of Rhun. Rings, amulets, coronas, circlets, chaplets and pendants were stored in excess, all bejeweled and wrought in the finest of precious metals from gold and silver to mithril.

And some of the items were minimal in design and spare of decoration, even as the Noldo Lord had described; Legolas had seen many such simple yet sumptuous things: chains, bracelets, and rings formed from mithril, silver, gold, and even cut from individual crystals of precious gemstones.

It was possible that the Ring of Sauron might have found its way into the huge keep, there to lie concealed for centuries within the vastness of the vault. If the ominous talisman was among the horde, then this did indeed explain the persistence of the Wraith's occupation of Dol Guldur and their unending harassment of the Wood Elves.

Even if the Ring was not in Thranduil's stronghold, the Dark Lord might suspect it to be even as did the Noldor. In order to verify his assertion, he would have to drive out or destroy the Wood Elves. Once emptied, the fortress could be readily plundered for whatever evil relicts might reside within it.

Legolas shuddered to imagine his people exiled, Tawar laid waste, and the creeping blackness of the Nazgûl rummaging through the emptied passageways and chambers of the great halls in the mountainside.

Elrond saw the ripple of horror and dread rifle through the feral elf's body and was moved. He reached out and ran his hand down Legolas' back in that long slow caress that the elf had responded to before. The archer did not pull back; instead he leaned into the touch as the Noldo repeated the gesture, leaving his palm at the base of Legolas' spine.

The Istar's brows crinkled inward as he watched this but he made no move to separate the two. He sensed no distress from his friend due to the contact; instead, the Wood Elf's fears seemed to subside as Elrond maintained the gentle lambency. Radagast glanced over to Erestor who was also watching with wary disapprobation.

The seneschal felt the wizard's eyes and met them, transmitting his belief that the inevitable joining of these two would lead to no good. He turned away, wrapping his arms about him as though caught in a sudden draft.

The two lovers did not remark these reactions, too engrossed in their own tactile communication to perceive their companions' body language. Elrond was thrilled to feel his young lover return some measure of the former trust he had previously granted, and Legolas was wrapped up in deciphering the message conveyed through those emotive fingers.

As before, his senses discerned the true compassion he had seen the healer display in caring for the injured humans, and he welcomed it.

A barely audible exhalation signaled the archer's dismay in incorporating the Noldor's disturbing concerns within his mind, this unwelcome complication of his convoluted existence, and he sent a small and rueful smile to the healer before turning his attention to the Istar.

"I assume that Mithrandir is aware of this theory as well?" he asked and Aiwendil nodded assent. "Right," the wild elf said crisply, not too pleased to have been left in the dark over such a serious matter. He had thought Gandalf trusted him and now felt somewhat befooled. "Then you are all wrong."

"Legolas, how can you dismiss this so summarily? There is good evidence to suggest we are correct," this from the Elf Lord as he removed his hand from its comforting emplacement.

"I do not dismiss it. It is an understandable assumption; the Wraith's continued attacks are well explained if the Ring is lost within Thranduil's treasures. I am simply saying it is an erroneous conclusion to make. Surely you can understand, this is not even the importunate point," he responded and all three of his companions looked at him in embrangled consternation. The fallen archer's sigh was louder this time. "Do you not see; it does not matter that the Ring is not there. As long as the Dark Lord suspects that it may be, my people are in grave peril."

"Yes, I understand this," the seneschal spoke up, "but how can you say for certain that this talisman is not in Thranduil's possession?"

"You would only ask this because you know so little of the Woodland King," Legolas sneered, not so much at the Noldo's ignorance, but at his own memories of the King's covetous nature. "He knows what is in his vaults and keeps, to the least Numenorean coin and the smallest sapphire gem. He can tell you every detail of the making and the uses for each item housed there. He comprehends more about those inanimate baubles than he does about any living being in his Realm." The bitterness of these words and the harshness of the tones in which they were spoken startled them all, and the healer again reached out and soothed his hand against the wild elf's spine.

"If the Ring of Sauron was in his possession, Thranduil would have been aware of it long ago," Legolas concluded.

And he would have used it, he added to himself alone.

But his sorrow and shame were conveyed to his lover's understanding where their skin met, and the Elf Lord reacted, pulling the younger elf closer to him.

"Then, what can be done? The Woodland Realm cannot resist these incursions indefinitely," Aiwendil queried, as much to remove attention from Legolas as to invite discussion, for he immediately comprehended the archer's unspoken proof for the inaccuracy of the Noldor's conjectures.

"I do not know. We have believed the Ring to be here because the Ulairi are here, and because the Dark Lord abided in Dol Guldur so long, personally overseeing the invasion of Mirkwood," spoke the seneschal.

The next instant he, the Wood Elf, and the wizard received the surprise of their lives in the reply from the Lord of Imladris.

"Thranduil must be told."

Before any rejoinders could be made the three elves suddenly became alert turning simultaneously towards the path, and the healer disengaged himself from his lover's side. Elrond was already running back towards the sick house before Sarah even came into sight, crying out for him to hurry for the child had awakened and taken a turn for the worse.

Legolas at once set off after them, but as on the first day Aiwendil and Erestor stopped him, knowing Elrond would not approve for he would only become more upset and prove a distraction to the healer's concentration. The archer did not force the issue but stood stock-still staring in the direction his lover had gone.

"Tirno," the wizard said to get his attention. "Return to the glade; I will follow after I have seen to some matters with the Elder. Berenaur, accompany him to see that he goes. And try to get him to eat something," the Istar did not wait for any rebuttals or refusals, leaving them before the little hut as he walked back to the village center.

"I have no wish to leave until I know if Cemendur is alright," Legolas protested to the Noldo, who merely shrugged.

"Best not to argue overly much with wizards. My Lord will let us know the fate of the child, and remaining here will not change it one way or another. Lead the way, Legolas, for I could never find that glen again," he said.

Legolas moved forward, but not toward the perimeter of the town. He headed down the path to the sick house and Erestor quickly caught up with him and gently took hold of his arm to halt him. The archer stopped, and stood with arms crossed defiantly as the Noldo shook his head. "Nay," Erestor said quietly. "Aiwendil knows you well; would he ask this if he did not think it best? Obey, Pen-rhovan; it is for your own good and that of Cemendur."

The wild elf stared at the seneschal irritably a few moments, but reluctantly nodded acquiescence.

The Noldo visibly relaxed and smiled. "Come along; the wizard enjoined me to provide you with food, for we have talked past the noonday break. Let us retrieve my pack and then we may be off," and so saying he tugged Legolas down the walkway.

The preparations took little time and straightaway the two elves left the village, carrying not only the pack but Legolas' quiver and bow also.

The hike was arduous, as it had been when first they walked it, yet for Legolas at least there was no added strife from the death dirges of the ancient trees, for all the fallen had at last drained their departing energy into the earth from which it was initially drawn. Still, he did not wish to converse, for the memory of the terror and sorrow in the trees' final isolation was a burden he would carry all his days; one that few save Fearfaron and Aiwendil would understand.

The hazy half-light of tinnu filled the glade with its subtle glow as the elves entered and a soft rumbling preamble foretold the arrival of the storm that had weighted the skies all day while it advanced upon the forest. The moisture in the air was eagerly circulating around the lower atmosphere and the clouds seemed to be bulging as the droplets grew to fullness like ripening apples on an over-laden branch.

Every tree and shrub surrounding the glen seemed to host an entire flock of one sort of bird or another, all apparently awaiting the rain, and the rushes and lily pads on the banks and in the eddies of the brook were ringing with the cheery vocalizations of anxious amphibians. Exposed beneath the broiling heat of the season's sun, the sanctuary and its inhabitants welcomed the promise of the summer shower.

Legolas inhaled a delighted lung's worth of the cooler, watery air, threw back his head, and stretched up onto his toes with his arms reaching out to the heavens, feeling the effects of the protected glade at once and rejoicing to again be in its embrace. Almost instantly he allowed the cares and worries, the guilt and sorrow to be flushed from his body by the soft invasion of the gentle magic of the sanctuary. He smiled as he dropped back into a normal stance and looked over at the Noldo and then laughed merrily, for the seneschal had a woebegone expression plastered over his features as he surveyed the lowering clouds.

"Do not worry. This will not be a long drenching, only a fast swallow of liquid life; much needed by the forest dwellers here! You will not become water-logged tonight, this I promise," the Wood Elf said, but Erestor had his doubts and his looks revealed them.

"I think our ideas of what represents a quick cloudburst are probably vastly opposed," he muttered, but it was hard to be very disgruntled when Legolas was smiling at him that way, and he soon returned to more pleasant thoughts. "Is there perhaps a nice canvas awning for the flet, as you so generously provided for my colleague?" he inquired. "And warm woolen blankets to chase away the damp and chill?" And a heated orifice in which to spend my passions?, he added inaudibly.

"Nay, none of those things are here, but they will not be missed. There is adequate shelter for so small a storm there, within the brambles," the Wood Elf indicated the thorny blackberry tangle on the opposite side of the stream, and the seneschal's hopes sank.

"What, in those prickles? You cannot be serious, Pen-rhovan!" he exclaimed amid the feral elf's sparkling laughter.

"Yes, there. Here, it is not so bad; follow me," he said and waded into the brook.

Erestor had no choice but to follow as another round of thunder rolled through the air and a few fat droplets struck his head. Once on the other side, he realized his lower body was now thoroughly wet anyway and made an irritated tsking noise against the back of his teeth. Legolas seemed to have vanished, and the Noldo looked about in bewilderment.

He wandered around the edges of the brambles searching for something that remotely resembled an entrance without success. The rain began to fall faster and his head was soon as well-soaked as was his good temper. Soft laughter reached him from nearby, but where he could not determine.

"Down here, Berenaur," the archer's words drew his attention to the stream's bank, where a cleverly concealed archway had been woven among the thorny stalks from which Legolas' head was visible leaning out. Erestor dropped to his knees immediately to crawl through but the wild elf barred the way. "Pass me the pack first, for you will not fit through with it over your shoulders," he said. Erestor complied and at last he squeezed in through the narrow passageway to find himself inside a very cozy sort of burrow inside the shrubs.

It was not very high; sufficient to be able to comfortably sit upright if one was not too long in the torso, but the ceiling was tightly woven from the dead stems of the berry bushes themselves. The feral elf had removed all the previous season's growth and pruned and trimmed back the living woody vines to provide a fair sized room of sorts. The floor was covered in soft mosses, and was probably lovely to rest upon, Erestor imagined. Over and around this, the living thicket grew and the natural leaf cover provided an added layer of insulation. The little den was quite dry, effectively invisible from the outside, and in addition all the thorns had been carefully removed from the in-facing sides of the stems to prevent any accidental snags or scratches.

Legolas was seated cross-legged watching him with curious scrutiny to see what his reaction would be, and so the seneschal smiled to show his approval.

"You are right, this is a very tight little shelter and probably better than a canvas cover, for no water can blow in from the sides," he praised the clever, hidden home and settled himself with his knees drawn under him as he reached for the pack. The Noldo shifted a little in discomfort, however, as his wet clothing started to make him chill. "It would be better to have a way to get in dry, though," he said wistfully, and Legolas just shrugged.

"I do not have to worry about keeping wet things on when I am alone, or if Aiwendil is here. Take yours off if you would be more comfortable," he said nonchalantly, and the Noldo stared to see if this was some sort of trick or ruse.

Yes, there is definitely a malicious gleam in those eyes; he means to repay me for that night on the flet. The advisor's eyes widened as he recalled how angry Legolas had been and his intentions with the dagger. "Nay, that is alright; I am sure I will be warm enough," he murmured in what he hoped were conciliatory tones.

Legolas sniggered quietly as he reached for his quiver and fished around a moment until he had found his dagger. With a great flourish he drew it forth and set it on the floor next to him, smiling sweetly all the while.

Then he looked down at his own saturated garment and frowned as he cocked his head to one side, thoughtfully pondering his options. It was with great difficulty that he maintained a straight face as he suddenly wriggled out of the offending breeches and tossed them aside, returning to his cross-legged position. The wild elf caressed the blade of the knife as he did so and the seneschal gawked in shocked amazement, his eyes traveling from the dagger to Legolas' completely exposed nakedness and back, before finally meeting the sparkling blue gaze.

"I really see no reason for me to be uncomfortable in my own home," the Wood Elf said calmly and smiled.

"Oh," was all Erestor could manage, his eyes wandering over the wild elf's body before being drawn to the movement of the hand that complacently patted the dirk's haft.

Legolas had no intentions of harming his guest, but he honestly felt he was entitled to some satisfaction at the seneschal's expense. The Noldo would spend this night watching Legolas' intently, observing his every movement and shift in position, studying each nuance of his changing expressions, relishing every glimpse of his lithe body, but with an intensely unpleasant mixture of lubricity and trepidation.

"What did you bring to eat?" Legolas asked.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	26. Chapter 26

Gwain Gonathras [New Entanglements]

The sound of the soft summer shower was smoothly mellow and provided a dreamy, comforting blanket of toneless resonance. There was a quality of constancy to it that damped harsh and jarring noises, drove out fears, and coaxed stillness into the spirit of all beneath the falling water.

The normal nocturnal music of the Greenwood was transformed by the distinctly textured voice of the rain. Over and above the spattering of the droplets on the leaf-and-branch-thatched thicket the quiet shirring as the brook swallowed the drizzling liquid added a soothing drawl to the chorus of the frogs and the harmony of the songbirds. Occasionally a low and rolling rumble of tympanous thunder accented the more temperate percussion of the light, steady dowsing. The resulting sensation was a thoroughly relaxing and calming caress of nature upon the psyche; the type of fluid cadence that would render the two elves camped in the shelter into an easy state of complacent leisure.

Thus it should have been, yet the consequent mood was radically opposed to such peaceful serenity.

Erestor sat propped against the woven wall nearest the stream where its gurgling voice was loudest and his distance from Legolas greatest. As the clarity of the light decreased, at last giving way to storm burdened darkness, he had hoped for relief from the visual stimulus of the pale and naked flesh of the cross-legged elf.

Legolas had few comforts, but apparently enjoyed the glow of lamplight and had a small oil-filled lantern in the haven, which he lit and hung upon a natural hook formed by the nub of a broken stem at the ceiling. The small silver lamp dispensed ample luster within the snug enclosure and its light seemed drawn to coalesce about him, combining with his natural glow. The single flame flickered and flitted about in the draft as if it, too, was moved to excitement in his presence.

Eru's arse! This is the most tantalizingly ridiculous situation I have ever been in! The Noldo complained internally as his eyes traveled again down to the hollow between the feral elf's folded knees where his relaxed genitals lay draped against the soft golden pubic curls. I should like very much to arouse that lovely organ to fullness and tease it mercilessly until he is frenzied with desire! I should like to hear him beg for my touch and plead for release!

A slight movement edged in bright sheen drew his eyes to the small and lethal blade under the Wood Elf's hand. Erestor transferred his gaze back to the elegant countenance and found Legolas' amused expression upon him. The wild archer's bright blue eyes shimmered in pleased self-satisfaction as he fought the laughter threatening to burst free from lips bent into a droll and merrily impudent smirk.

Erestor scowled and quickly looked away, but not before once more taking in the firmly muscled chest set with identical gems in garnet-hued points of seductive flesh that beckoned for the attentions of his tongue and teeth.

In an attempt to distract himself from the maddening proximity of the unclothed elf, the seneschal tried to concentrate fully on the cloudburst soaked sounds in the hallowed glen. He forced himself to count the seconds between thunderclaps and bright sheets of lightening, to identify the various species of frogs at the streamside by their songs, to catalog the birds' calls, and even estimated the weight of the individual droplets striking the leafy roof based upon the quality of the sound each contact emitted. It was not a very successful venture, for his eyes were persistently drawn back to make their perpetual scrutiny of his companion: groin to chest to dagger to eyes.

Legolas merely sat contentedly crunching the crisp apples he had brought along, occasionally stroking the blade with a decidedly seductive touch.

He eats, and my hunger for him increases apace with every swallow! Erestor thought and shifted as though to pull back even further, only to meet the obstruction of the gnarled, twisted-stem walls. His actions drew a slight, constrained giggle from the archer, who scooted a degree closer in response to the retreat.

The advisor was beyond resistance to such an assault upon his defenses, never very strong in this area of self-control to begin with. Best motivations aside, he had desired to add an encounter with Legolas to his repertoire of erotic experiences even before he had seen him, and this bit of coquetry was clearly a challenge. He would play Pen-rhovan's game out and see if centuries of practice in the arts of seduction could earn him a change in the status quo.

Careful to conceal his new determination, Erestor resettled himself, relaxing his legs so his knees slipped apart and allowed access to the uncomfortable fullness between them. He grimaced awkwardly for the disgraced prince's benefit.

A delighted shiver gave vent to the gleeful enjoyment Legolas could no longer suppress as he registered the Noldo's escalating discomfort. Noting the increasing distension of his companion's leggings, he wondered how long it would be before Berenaur's hand stole down and tried to ease the tightening pressure.

The exiled archer absent-mindedly turned his dagger end over end against the ground, slipping it from blade to hilt silently through his fingers and sending out brief flashes of luminance as the lamplight reflected from the highly polished mithril edge. He watched with heightened anticipation and subconscious craving to see if his naked nearness could drive the seneschal to masturbation.

The rhythmic motion of the weapon made Erestor shudder involuntarily, thinking of the damage he might sustain if he was outmatched in this contention. A surge of fiery adrenaline raced through his body, fueling his desire to a more potent level, and instantly he recognized the connection between his magnified salacity and the very real danger his situation embodied. Another ripple of delicious yearning traveled down to his cock as he tried to imagine what his orgasm would be like this night.

It was suddenly clear that this sensation could be pushed even further by the threat of pain, and he began to understand how Legolas might have been trained to seek pleasure thus. Erestor surreptitiously scanned his antagonist and perceived the early indications of arousal: dilation of his pupils, the slowly rising rosiness in the ears, an oh-so-slight increase in suspiration through the fractionally opened mouth, and the first slight stirring in his quickening penis.

He is completely attuned to my responses! The Noldo noted silently. Power is his aphrodisiac and control drives his libido! I wonder if he is even aware of his own desire?

The Imladrian mused upon this essential element to Legolas' nature: he coveted the excitement of being the cause for his partners' total surrender of all restraint, initiating their release with his latent sensuality and extravagant attentions. The fact that his attempts at control resulted in submitting his body to anguished acquisition was a prime example of the contradictions that defined his character.

Now that the advisor understood the emotional firestorm loosed in his adversary, he felt confident of success. It would not be the first time the seneschal had allowed his chosen quarry to be undermined by their need to feel the thrill of ascendancy during a sexual encounter.

The titillated advisor's fingers slipped down and tugged against damp and clinging leggings, pulling at the crotch in an attempt to adjust the material to a more comfortable orientation.

Legolas drew a sharp breath, held it a second, and when he exhaled found that his heart was beating a bit faster while corresponding warmth flooded his body. He lifted his eyes and found Berenaur intently peering at him with an expression both troubled and conflicted. The elder eldar was openly attracted yet also presented a deep sense of worry shaded in fear as his glance retraced its path over the wild elf's erotic form and rested on the shining weapon.

The recognition of the seneschal's apprehension spurred another increase in Legolas' pulse rate, and the heat suffusing his flesh became a concentrated burning growing between his thighs as his cock rapidly hardened in response. He sucked in and retained an audible lung-full of the cool rain-sweetened air as Berenaur slowly untied his leggings and slipped a hand inside to languidly caress the organ hidden beneath the confining fabric.

With practiced drama Erestor withdrew his stiffened penis and Legolas released a lengthy, whispery, breathy "Ohhhh" as his own rigid shaft saluted in anticipatory eagerness.

Erestor watched, dazzled and excited, as Legolas shifted around onto his knees, uncrossing and spreading his thighs as he tucked his heels up under his buttocks to display his overt arousal. A slow smile unfurling over his puckered scowl, the seneschal wrapped his hand around his own cock and began an unhurried, rhythmic stroking that seemed to mesmerize the fallen archer.

Legolas' fingers tightened their grip upon the dagger until his digits were colorless in their effort. His eyes followed the lazy stimulation the Noldo gave the swelled and glistening organ protruding from his opened garment. He saw that the advisor was also shorn of foreskin, the bulbous head beckoning to be tasted, and ran his soft pink tongue over dry lips.

Erestor caught his breath; Legolas was practically salivating.

The Imladrian's engorged penis was richly colored and darkly sanguine as he coaxed an obscenely large drop of creamy dew from the tip, catching it with the blunt heel of his thumb, smearing the unctuous substance over and around the prominent rim before it could slide down the length of his shaft unhindered.

A thrilled exclamation escaped the feral elf's open mouth and Legolas grasped his equally incarnadine and seeping extremity, holding the slender organ out from his body, and began a steady self-stimulation in accord with the Noldo's rhythm.

A sudden brilliant flash caught his attention, halting his fist in mid-pulse as his eyes lit upon the mithril weapon casting forth lamplight. With perfect clarity the images and sensations of all he had endured the last time the dagger had played its part in such a contest illuminated his mind. The similarity between this event and his experience during the chastisement shocked his senses and he released a disgusted shout, throwing the dirk away into the entwining stems of the shelter's walls.

Now it was Legolas who sought to put as much distance between the two of them as possible and would have fled save that the Imladrian was barring the exit. With a demoralized groan he turned his bare back to the seneschal and wrapped both arms around his body, drawing up his knees to make himself as compactly closed to view and touch as possible. To his dismay, he realized his erection was not abating, and he was trembling with a needy desire that made his viscera constrict in protest.

It was unthinkable that he had sought to recreate that horrific episode. And how was it he had cast himself in the role of provocateur? Could he be so corrupted that he needed the element of danger to become excited?

"No!" The archer did not even realize he voiced this shouted denial.

There was something degenerate in even the idea of arousing Berenaur under knifepoint, inciting him to pleasure himself while Legolas watched. With an inner writhing of repudiation, he recognized the same exhilaration he had known in bringing Ailinyéro to climax. Yes, and it was not just that; it was the glimpse of the fear and discomfort in the other's gaze that had initially stirred his lust. Legolas dismally ground his teeth against this truth; he felt he had become what he despised most.

This dramatic metamorphosis from lusty languishing to forlorn withdrawal perplexed and alarmed Erestor. He had been so pleased to see Legolas begin reciprocating his lascivious appetite, and now he knew not what to think. He could not understand what he had done to cause the abrupt transformation, nor what he should do to correct the situation and return it to its former path. The archer was profoundly distressed, and he feared to make matters worse by inadvertently taking the wrong reparative action. With grim stoicism the seneschal eased his resisting member back into his clothes and adjusted the ties loosely before cautiously inching forward toward his companion.

"Legolas? What is it? Have I done something more to upset you? I did not mean it, truly!" he began in the gentlest voice he could produce. In reply the golden mane shook violently and briefly as the wild elf signaled his negation.

Erestor frowned. His instinct told him to reach out but his experience with Legolas warned against the possibility of a resultant assault on his person should Pen-rhovan misread his intent. He glanced over toward the discarded dagger to judge whether Legolas could reach and use it. The weapon seemed beyond easy retrieval, yet he hesitated.

Something about that blade triggered this, and I know next to nothing of his past to unravel the knot, his intuition warned.

Little experience had he with the sort of anguish which ruled Legolas' life, but the sound of a choked-back wail won him to instinct's side as he realized the fallen prince was weeping while trying hard to conceal it. The Noldo extended his arm, allowing his fingertips to smooth a short path across the marked shoulders as he tried to turn Legolas to him. The feral elf flinched away from the contact.

"Please, Legolas, tell me what is wrong. I swear I will not touch you in any improper way! I only sought to share pleasure with you; never again will I force my desires upon you!" This entreaty yielded an even more sorrowful sough from the grieving elf and as it faded from the shelter's close air all attempts to conceal the tears and swallowed hiccups became abruptly obsolete.

For Legolas froze completely still and soundless, even his jarring shudders ceased.

Erestor observed with dread as Legolas suddenly slumped over and curled up on his side on the soft mossy floor; the quiet remaining in the absence of his subdued and plaintive crying was more terrible to accept in its unknown significance. Legolas lay with eyes sealed so tightly shut that they were merely grooves against the contours of his face. He remained thus until Erestor, overcome with concern, reached over and shook him roughly.

"Legolas! You must believe me; there is nothing to fear from me!" the Noldo almost shouted so great was his agitation, and the action brought results for the archer opened his repentant and tear-bright orbs upon his guest.

"No! I am the one at fault; I should beg pardon of you!" the low, clear words fell like glassy shards, sharp and jagged, from the supple lips. And then the guilty gaze wavered and fell as the last of the salty droplets brimmed, flowing after their forerunners down his dampened cheeks.

The Noldo slid closer, gently gripped the outcast's rigidly protecting arm, and jostled him lightly. Legolas was unresponsive, neither resisting nor assisting the attempt to rally him, and so Erestor took matters further. He dragged Legolas into the center of the shelter where the space was ample and wordlessly laid down beside him, curling himself protectively around his back, encircling him with his arms, and throwing a leg over his knees to hold him tight. He pressed his lips against the silken shoulder and softly shushed into the elegant crimson tipped ear near his lips.

"You speak of the dagger?" he half-whispered and the mop of ropy strands jerked up and down for an instant in agreement. "I know you would not use the knife unless you felt yourself in peril. Indeed, I felt this was all a charade of sorts." Erestor pleadingly murmured this outright lie, for he had really worried whether the feral elf might be driven by his extreme experiences to wield the weapon against him.

With acute awareness of the body pressed so close, Legolas held himself stiff and unmoving as he attempted to regain control of his emotions and his scandalous carnal craving. He despised the fact that he welcomed the sensation of the Noldo's leggings, burgeoning with the full erection, hot against his rear. He was mortified for relishing the strength of the arms surrounding him and the warmth in the hands lightly rubbing across his crossed limbs. He was terribly ashamed to have succumbed to such a revolting sexual game and hated himself for enjoying it. It occurred to him that such depravity warranted punishment.

A brief image of the bloodstained scourge flashed through his mind accompanied by the simultaneous realization that it was here, in the glade, concealed in his quiver.

Legolas shook in revulsion and screwed up his eyes to ward away the vision and its inherent impressions of humiliating torment. Even worse, he thought, Berenaur believes himself the cause of my grotesque display.

More terribly unbearable still, an edgy strain of dread audibly tinged the Noldo's words and raised the fallen archer's debased urge higher. But there was no denying the comfort in the contact between them. Legolas found he did not want to end it, and feared he had lost the ability to moderate his desires. With another small shiver he pressed closer into the seneschal's encircling embrace. He longed to start over from the moment they had entered the sanctuary and erase the unsavory motives for his lascivious hunger.

Powerless to decipher the wordless signals from the suffering elf's innermost consciousness, Erestor sighed in his frustration and growing sense of ineptitude.

"Nay, Pen-rhovan, you are not at fault. From long before arriving here I have sought a means to have you; your response is nothing to feel guilty over for I have avidly worked to bring it about," Erestor consoled. It was not the best rationale but he hoped it would distract the distraught elf from his woes, even if it meant inciting the archer's anger yet again. The seneschal honestly did not feel he was prepared to hear the true story behind Legolas' collapse and hoped he would choose not to explain.

Gratefully Legolas accepted this attempt to deflect embarrassment over the breakdown, for he could not bear to give the details of his sentence and have this Noldo know his shame and degradation. In less compromising circumstances he might have been angered by the revelation that he was a predetermined sexual target for both the healer and his advisor. His current state of inflamed lechery, however, lent this concept a thrilling edge that quickly compounded his urgent yearning.

Perhaps, if we both are willing to pretend the outburst never happened, then it can be as though the tainted dagger never entered the enchanted glade, he thought. The solid erection in caudal proximity, as persistently dense as his own, was certainly evidence that the seneschal did not wish their encounter to end, either.

Gradually Legolas' tension eased and his quiet stillness became less ominous while he listened to the calming syllables of Berenaur's reassurances whispered against his neck, and the seneschal rejoiced.

The subtle softening of the Wood Elf's posture was a tremendous relief, for he had come to fear the exiled warrior would give in to his terrible sorrow and simply withdraw into oblivion. Whatever this wound in his soul was, its severity was greater than Elrond's assessment had allowed, and Legolas' encounters with the Elf Lord and his advisor had managed to tear at the injury. While Erestor could not fully appreciate how the night's events had enhanced the damage, he understood it was all related to Legolas' unsatisfied lubricity. With the archer behaving more normally, Erestor hoped he would heed his cajoling coaxing, and relent to his seduction.

"Legolas, hearken to me. I know I have not treated you well since meeting you; this I wish to remedy. I would share pleasure with you, for you have known it too seldom and I am far from my bonded lovers," the seneschal accented his words with a slight push of his hips, insinuating his restrained cock tightly against the cleft of the compactly inviting arse.

Feeling the pressure of the Noldo's member so near his opening, Legolas' jolted out a startled gasp.

"You need it; you need my cock to fill you," Erestor's voice slipped into ripe and throaty tones as he continued to rub his covered, rigid length over the firm, naked muscles.

It was scarcely believable; he was completely wrapped around the slender frame, every part of him connected to the glorious nudity of the delectable elf, luxuriating in the sensation of his bare chest flush upon Legolas' complete nakedness. They were so close he could feel the wild elf's heart thumping hard as tremors ran like sinuous shoals across his skin. Legolas' body felt of suppressed power and overt vulnerability, a bizarre juxtaposition. Erestor inhaled the distinct marriage of the steamy, redolent forest and Legolas' musky pheromones. A headier and more intoxicatingly evocative aroma the Imladrian had never known before.

"I can see your ardent desire and the scent of your seed is already evident," he whispered and reached down to trace his fingers over Legolas' jutting shaft. The soft desperation of the sound this wrung from the wild elf was sordidly luscious.

The seneschal watched, enchanted, as the archer's penis seemed to follow his fingers, twitching in response to the ended erotic caress, and the pointed pink tip peeked out just beyond the foreskin's protection.

"Do we not both deserve this expression of our bodies and the comfort of an understanding soul to help us bear the burden of loneliness?" he asked and sucked in the tapered ear exposed for his delight. Legolas' entire body shimmied under the contact and he emitted a wavering sigh as Erestor added his own lusty grunt to their duet.

"I realize it is not the same, for I can leave here and return to them whenever I wish," he continued breathlessly between lengthy licks around the outer edge of the sensitized cartilage while superimposing his fist over Legolas' ruddy organ and squeezing gently.

"Berenaur!" the breathy whisper of the assumed name accompanied a healthy thrust of the fallen archer's hips and the Noldo exulted.

"Yet, I do not live in Lorien, where my loves reside, and too few are the opportunities I have to share passion with them. And the giver of that auburn token you wear about your ankle is not here, Legolas. Still, you need not endure this cruel sentence alone."

Legolas tensed up at this reference to his bitter heartache, but the hurt quickly dissolved under the intensity of the sensation created by Berenaur skillfully pumping his burning member in time to the persistent friction of the leather leggings as the Noldo's cock pushed against his rear.

"Mayhap for a short time we can both forget the pain of these separations and feel only the fire of our joining. Legolas, I want you and I can see you appreciate my attentions. What say you; shall we enjoy one another?" Erestor finished his whispered pleas with what was a foregone conclusion, for they were already reveling in the vital experience.

Legolas shifted, unfurling his rigidly contracted muscles and dropping his arms away from their protective envelopment around his chest. He was reassured by the seneschal's open and candid assessment of their mutual concupiscence. This attitude removed the burden of guilt from his desire and legitimized his needs. There was nothing to conceal for the worst of his nature had already been revealed and still the Noldo did not reject him. Instead, Berenaur had declared the very sentiments Legolas had felt for the healer and had hoped would be returned by him. Now the elf he had thought to be a sexual predator offered the comfort denied him by his chosen lover.

Legolas reached back over his shoulder to caress the glossy hair and massage the nape of the advisor's neck. He turned his head and sought the marvelously mobile mouth that had been stimulating his throat and ear, and the seneschal willing allowed his tongue access, sucking it in and eliciting a smothered peal of ecstasy in return.

As soon as the pectorals were uncovered Erestor's fingers found the tender ruby skin of a nipple and resolutely teased it, circling it in muted movement before gently pulling up on the hardening tit and then repeating the motions. Legolas' long low-pitched sigh of pleasure was released into Erestor's lungs and the seneschal smiled to receive it, breaking the kiss to watch the archer's ardent response to this fondling. Rolling slightly back, Erestor turned Legolas half over with him and gazed down upon the deeply tinted cinnabar nodes riding the cresting motion of the wild elf's rapid respiration.

"You are so soft there, Pen-rhovan, just there around the aureole!" the fingertip made its leisurely circuit and Legolas shuddered. "The only skin softer is here," he whispered as his other hand wormed its way under Legolas' ribs and down to the foreskin, gently pushing it back from the eagerly protruding penis.

Legolas' reaction was gratifying to see. He bent back against the older elf, pressing into the tickling touches as he tried to induce more substantial contact, panting heavily through lips minimally apart, eyes shut tight under wrinkled brow.

Erestor withdrew his fingers and a quietly disappointed wail followed as the eyelids flashed open and lust-hazed eyes locked with his own.

"Please!" Legolas sighed his entreaty across the miniscule space between their lips.

The Noldo claimed the accommodating orifice, sliding his tongue into the deepest recesses, thrusting into the back of the throat to gauge how the wild one might treat a larger intrusion. Erestor was delighted to feel the Wood Elf draw the slippery, eloquent muscle far down into his mouth, and his heart surged in anticipation of realizing his exquisite fantasy soon.

Legolas did not want to end the kiss, for the seneschal met his urgency with a commanding fervor that allowed him to melt into the embrace and simply respond. He was used to concentrating on bringing his partners to dizzying heights of delight and while he enjoyed that it also required a certain level of detachment from his own pleasure. Now he was the one lost, he realized vaguely, spiraling upward as Berenaur skillfully reduced him to solely somatic awareness until there was no energy left for worrying over old hurts or new consequences.

It was unbearably delicious, the feeling of the finger slowly circling his hardened nipples, first one and then the other. When the inevitable pressure on the fully sensitized tips came it was fast and free of any sharpness, and left him hungering for more when the digit returned to its track around the delicate skin at the base of the protruding buds. Each brush against the inflamed teats was accompanied by a swift soft flash of delight dancing through the pinnacle of his penis as the seneschal used the foreskin to massage the throbbing head, slipping it back and forth just once or twice and no more.

The kiss and the stimulation ended together, and Legolas opened disappointed eyes to find the Noldo staring at him with an expression of wonder. Erestor's fingertips soothed across his cheek and the thumb gently traced the curve of his lower lip. Legolas smiled warmly as he darted out a wet lick and extracted a gasp from the seneschal.

He moved, turning Legolas fully on his back. The seneschal braced himself above the slender body and sidled his hips against the archer, half covering his legs and lower body with his own. He lowered himself and took one impetuous nipple into his mouth, lapping his tongue across it as he sealed his lips around it. Legolas moaned, a low and fractious sound, and the Noldo felt fingers stroke his hair and apply light pressure to the back of his head as the feral elf silently asked for more. Erestor moved to the other nipple and another jolt of his subject's muscles attested to the barely restrained passion building in the younger elf.

The sucking stimulation ceased as the seneschal pulled back, and Legolas' fingers trailed away down his shoulders, coming to rest in a light grip upon his forearms. They stared silently at each other, and Erestor was now grateful for the playful light of the silver lamp that let him appreciate the vision of Legolas aroused, his twin erections glistening with saliva, labored breathing enticingly presenting then rescinding the exquisite flesh.

"Why do you stop?"

"What is the hurry?"

Erestor let his gaze travel over the result of his efforts and dipped his lips to savor the little fold of skin at the navel. He felt Legolas' contracted breath and allowed his tongue a short excursion across the rippling abdominals. His hand found its way to the tight sack below the neglected cock and cradled it carefully as Legolas exhaled another desperately lurid murmur of wanton need and tightened his grip on the Noldo's arms. The seneschal stopped again to gape at the golden prize he had finally won and breathed softly across the arcing erection as Legolas pumped his hips up into the empty air.

"Please!" the hoarse rasp was frantic with desire and the archer's hips shifted against the cushioned ground, yet Erestor would not give satisfaction. Legolas reached to provide his burning erection the encasing relief demanded but the Noldo grabbed his hand and refused to allow the contact.

"Allow me to direct the pace of our pleasure, Legolas, and I promise you will not regret the decision. There is not enough time in all eternity to properly savor the gift of this experience we share. Do you not agree?"

"Nay! Too much speech! Let me demonstrate the depth of my dissent," Legolas complained and tugged Berenaur's arms, drawing him back up his body to demand a thoroughly carnal kiss.

The teasingly tantalizing touch of their tongues, tip to tip, was enough to plunge Erestor into unbearably erogenous assent; words were a complete waste of effort in this particular endeavor.

TBC


	27. Onnad Pannen-bant

Onnad Pannen-bant [Fantasy Fulfilled]

Erestor needed air but resisted breaking the seal between their lips as the feral elf deftly and sensationally plumbed the bathyal reaches of his throat and drew forth a tumultuous surge of elevated passion from the abyss of his soul.

With the Noldo's ability to retort cut off, Legolas reached impatiently for the leggings, tugging them down as the seneschal's lightly amused laugh vibrated across his palate. Pen-rhovan withdrew his amorous lips and met the smiling gaze, gracing Berenaur with one of his own dazzling ones, feeling his heart leap to hear the soft intake of breath that accompanied his finger's grasp on the other's willing organ.

The seneschal eased over to lie beside Legolas, propping his head up on his elbow as he watched the slow stroking of his cock. He groaned raggedly as the fallen prince captured the effluence welling from the slit and used it to lubricate his hold while the force and pace of the pumping increased. Abruptly Erestor seized the arm and halted the movement, for he did not want to spend his essence so quickly when there was such sensual luxuriance to explore. Legolas raised questioning eyes to his and received a reassuring smile as the Noldo rolled atop him, burying his hand into the mass of heavy locks.

"Not yet," he whispered shakily. "Let the flame burn but a bit lower and our desires will warm us longer," his voice was gravelly with pent passion and of their own accord his fingers reached for and lingered upon the uplifted peaks of crimson adorning Pen-rhovan's pectoral muscles. Yet amid his amorous thralldom he still laughed softly at Legolas' disgruntled utterance when the touch released him. "Just like Penbara! Always so impatient to achieve fulfillment! And Penraeg is not much more disciplined. I have had hard work to retrain them in the ways of love!"

Legolas heard the depth of enamoration in these words and could see the longing and sorrow in the seneschal's eyes over his separation from these elves. He was eager to remove that sadness and wondered if he could provide satisfaction to someone accustomed to sex with two lovers at once. It was an incredibly exciting mental image, two elves working over the Noldo's body in a concerted effort to bring him to orgasm, and Legolas shivered.

"Who are you bound to, and what is it like with more than one elf?" he asked, for he really was intrigued, having never known anyone involved thus before.

Erestor smiled to hear the barely audible interrogative and shifted slightly, pulling Legolas close so they were more or less facing one another. "I do have a somewhat unusual arrangement, though it is not unheard of or unique by any means. Do none in Mirkwood share their soul with more than one elf?" he asked. Legolas shrugged in the loose embrace and rubbed his fingers across Erestor's arm as the seneschal slowly stroked his hands over the archer's torso.

"If so, I am not aware of it. And you must stop calling my home that; it is not appreciated by Tawar," he scolded mildly and smiled as he felt the Noldo tense up a bit for a second in frustration. "Tell me about this 'arrangement' of yours." He quivered as a casually massaging hand briefly contacted his nipples and then departed to smooth down his side and across his buttocks.

"I love and need them both, yet they were already bonded to each other when I met them. Fortunately, they feel the same way for me and have added me into their union. I miss them," Erestor sighed as he said it and pulled closer to the compliant elf in his arms, rocking his erection against Legolas' eager penis. The friction caused them both to cry out and they encouraged the heated connection, moving against one another, finding each other's mouths to indulge in an extended embrace of muffled moans and snatched breaths.

Once more Erestor broke the passionate entanglement and eased away just slightly to bank the coals of their simmering desire, aware of Legolas trying to force the sensation again. He held him back firmly, refusing to allow their erections to touch and Legolas hissed in frustration.

"What I miss most," the Noldo elaborated, "is the dual sensation of penetrating Penbara while Penraeg fills me. We have perfected our technique over time, and all reach our release simultaneously. There is no other experience like it, Legolas," he continued his explanation and slowly reached down to sample again the silken smoothness of the foreskin shielding the sensitive head of the archer's cock.

"Berenaur!" Legolas called the false name and pushed his hardness further into the seneschal's fingers.

"Have you ever done that?" Erestor whispered against a brightly reddened ear upturned towards him, and licked it for added measure as he squeezed lightly around the ardent column of firm flesh within his palm.

Legolas was not paying much attention to the seneschal's question and wriggled against both the erection shoved against his hip and the tightening grip encircling his cock.

"Have you, Legolas? Have you ever spent yourself deep inside another, filling him with your essence? Have you ever come within your lover's body?"

These words claimed Legolas' full attention as he ceased all movement and stared into the Noldo's eyes. Slowly he shook his head, his breath catching as he waited in silent and unbelieving expectation for what would happen next. Erestor, releasing the hold on his cock, framed the wild elf's face with his hands and kissed him gently, tasting his apple-sweetened lips. Ending the oral embrace he leaned his forehead against Legolas' brow.

"That is what I thought," he said and smiled. He loved being the first experience an elf had and to be the one to take Legolas' innocence in this aspect of sex was incredibly erotic. {Legolas has never fucked anyone,} he thought and his cock swelled all the more.

"I want you to penetrate me, Legolas! I need to feel you from inside, to know your release and retain your essence in my core!" he whispered into the trembling elf's ear and pulled him tight against his chest. He felt Legolas' urgently grind against him and responded with a forceful push of his own, claiming his mouth in another searing kiss as his hands roamed over the suppleness of Pen-rhovan's body.

But Legolas was worried and his tension was transmitted to his partner, who stopped and looked searchingly into his eyes.

"What is it? Do you not want this?" he asked softly, pulling back a little to better see his reaction.

"I do. It is just," Legolas faltered and looked away in confusion. "I have no wish to cause you pain," he said awkwardly and was surprised by the laughter that greeted this disclosure.

"Oh Legolas!" Erestor said, testing the girth of the wild elf's slim member, for he had misunderstood. "I assure you, you can do nothing that will give me anything but the most exalted ecstasy!"

But Legolas did not relax, as Erestor had assumed he would upon such reassurance, and he returned his searching gaze to the elf's face. Quite suddenly the seneschal recalled how all this had started and realized that for Legolas, penetration and pain and pleasure were all linked, one and the same. And he wished to spare the Imladrian that excruciation. Erestor was disturbed to comprehend the depth of this reprehensibly revolting conditioning; Legolas believed the tearing agony he experienced was the normal sensation accompanying the bliss of sexual intercourse.

"Nay, Legolas! It does not have to hurt, trust me!" Again cupping the younger elf's face in his hands he stroked a thumb against a florid cheekbone. "I do not understand about the pain you have known, but I can promise you will cause me no such suffering, only a slight discomfort at first. There will be no injuries to heal afterwards, alright?" he insisted.

Legolas wanted to believe this.

"What should I do?" he whispered self-consciously, expecting to hear more laughter.

But the seneschal was well acquainted with such instruction and found nothing jocular in the admission of ignorance. And the archer was not really asking what to do; he wanted to know what to do differently, to avoid causing any harm.

It was rare for an elf Legolas' age with a penchant for same sex coupling not to have known this experience before. This observation led Erestor to the conclusion that the fallen prince had been with no more than one or two lovers in all his life, and they had been not only selfish but also brutal, in his opinion.

"Do not worry, I will guide you. There is no need to fear." So saying Erestor held Legolas close and began again his slow stimulation of the sensitive ear tip. "All that is needed is appropriate preparation," he whispered and slid his tongue down the inviting skin of Legolas' neck, and the wild one reached up and brushed back the heavy ebony locks of his companion to mimic the action.

They became lost again in the casual unhurried adorations of lips and tongues, their hands roving in delighted abandon over succulent planes of willing flesh that responded in pleasing sensations of fiery impulses. Their cocks, pressed tightly up against each other, stirred in the brief movements of their lightly rocking bodies.

Erestor crammed his hand between them to grasp the hot and tumid organ poking him and Legolas followed suit, and each rolled back enough to enjoy the more direct manipulation. They were silent in this mutual excitation, except for the jagged rasping of their disrupted breaths, and stared into each other's eyes in sex-glazed wonder.

The seneschal had the advantage of longer years and greater experience and his fingers and palm seemed to know the exact pressure to use, the perfect pace to assume, the specific moment when Legolas' gut yearned for a direct sweep over the most sensitive tip. The Noldo used the added friction the foreskin provided to drive the sensations coursing through the feral elf to unbearable proportions of provocation until all he was aware of was his fevered organ sliding forcefully through the talented digits in a relentless rhythm building to ruin.

But Erestor watched carefully, maintaining his focus despite the incessant intensity of the sensations flowing from the point of his erection up through every inch of his body.

Legolas' eyes abruptly fluttered shut and he arched his back, sending an agonized groan of supplication into the night as his head tilted up and his hand tightened around the seneschal's member. In an instant the Noldo pressed hard upon the filling ducts and squeezed tight to halt the impending consummation of the younger elf's ejaculation, and Legolas shuddered, calling out the assumed name in desperate entreaty.

Legolas was ready.

Erestor held him until his tension subsided and he could breathe again, and then eased his hand slowly off the darkened organ. Legolas was panting loudly and met his eyes with blatant desire and questioning concern, and Erestor smoothed a hand over the disarrayed golden hair and smiled.

"Behind you, there, in my pack. You will find what we need now," he said and Legolas hurriedly turned over and grabbed for the rucksack, burrowing around ineffectively as he offered the seneschal an impressive view of his rear. Erestor could not help caressing a palm over the inviting mounds of firm muscle, and the archer pushed back against the supplication. Yet the distraction was enough that he rather forgot what he was doing and the Noldo chuckled softly.

"Give me that, Pen-rhovan, I know where to look," he said and took the heavy bag from his pupil as Legolas returned to the closeness that allowed his aching penis the intoxicating rub of the other's cock. Now it was the seneschal who became lost in sensation and had to physically remove himself from the contact lest he lose his tenuous command upon his body's responses.

"Patience!" he cried in wavering syllables, almost as though instructing himself, as he delved into the pack for the necessary lubricant. At last he felt the cool, smooth contours of the container he was seeking and drew forth the tall, slender rectangular glass three-quarters full of clear liquid.

Legolas looked at him expectantly, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, and held out his hand to receive the vial, but Erestor only smiled.

"Allow me to prepare you," he whispered lustily and opened the bottle to pour out a liberal palm-full that spilled out a little to drip with slippery chill upon Legolas' naked flank. The oil had a pleasing scent almost like sandalwood. The Noldo reached for the wild one's cock, overturning his palm and slathering the rich slickness all over the sensitized extremity.

"Berenaur!" Legolas whispered and leaned back to watch, shaking in his effort to hold still and not thrust forward into release. "That feels so good!"

Erestor took his time, slowly coating every centimeter of the rigid organ and raising Legolas to fiery frenzy in the process. His fingers pushed against the hooded head and palpated the velvety skin eagerly. Penraeg was thus. That small protective flap made for an indescribably intense sensation when it scraped across his prostate. He found his own breathing becoming too rapid and removed his hand from its enjoyable ministrations and met Legolas' avid expression.

"Now, Legolas!" he urged in throaty tones and rolled over, drawing his knees under him while cradling his chin in his crossed arms. The seneschal slid his thighs wider and wiggled a beckoning invitation to the stunned archer, who remained as he was, frozen for a second in open-mouthed enthrallment.

The tightly drawn orifice was clearly visible, pink and creased between the parted cheeks and compact musculature of the seasoned eldar. Legolas roused himself and scooted on his knees behind the elf, smoothing his hands over the broad back and down around the taut curves awaiting his mounting. He pushed aside the long fall of ebony tresses and carefully traced his fingers around a lengthy scar curving down from the elf's left shoulder, a trophy from the Fall of Gondolin or perhaps the Last Alliance. Legolas had never had this perspective before and found it overwhelmingly thrilling. He experimentally positioned his penis against the small ingress and gasped at the sensation pulsing through him at even this limited contact.

"Yes!" coaxed Erestor and bumped his awaiting anus against the stiff shaft, flexing the muscles in the ringed opening against the willing, virgin organ. Legolas' strangled cry was gratifying and he repeated the movement. "Just push, Pen-rhovan, and you will be inside. Do not worry, you are so slender and slippery I will feel not even the slightest discomfort," he encouraged impatiently.

Legolas' heart was pounding wildly. What if he did hurt Berenaur? What if he could not push inside without ripping the delicate skin he felt so close against him, invitingly expanding open over the slit in his distended cock?

It was unbearable, the desire to shove hard and fast. Instinct overwhelmed his concerns and he drove forcefully against the slight resistance with a low moan, watching fascinated as the blunt head slipped from sight.

The seneschal gave an answering grunt and returned the thrust, pushing more of the svelte shaft into his waiting cavity. "More, Legolas! Push harder; it is not deep enough!" he pleaded and this incited the wild elf to a rough shove as his hands grabbed onto his partner, one at the hip and the other on the shoulder. Abruptly Legolas felt his penis being drawn inexorably deeper and the sensation of complete contact over every bit of his flesh buried now in the depths of the Noldo raised him to unfamiliar exultation as he was swamped with the compelling need to pump against the hot, squeezing body. It felt as if he was the one possessed, immersed in the dizzying sensation of the omnipresent heat surrounding, entrapping, and engulfing him.

Legolas pulled back and was almost rendered insensible with bliss to see this part of his body moving so, and forced his full weight into his next lunge, garnering an ecstatic shout of pleasure from the seneschal. This startled and exhilarated him into another try, certain he had struck the right nook within the older elf's body, and he was rewarded with an eager cry and a backward rocking of the seneschal's arse that registered against his balls. A surge of sultry aphrodesia flooded him as he realized he was completed sheathed in the other's channel, and the disinherited prince stopped a moment, draping himself prone across Erestor's back as he peppered the shoulder blades below him with adoring kisses.

"Berenaur," he whispered the name he had been given to use almost reverently, and the sound of it combined with the gentle sensation of the moist lips went straight to the jaded advisor's heart and melted it completely.

In all his long years and his numerous conquests, he had never had such a response of impassioned gratitude. Erestor had never been taken so sweetly.

Legolas began moving again, bracing himself with his renewed hold on the experienced elda's shoulders as he pushed in and out within the cincture of delicious resistance. He increased his speed and groaned as the seneschal met his motion thrust for thrust and they established a steady pattern of withdrawal and reentry that propelled their impassioned desires into near madness.

Each penetration of the wild one's cock struck the Noldo's prostate, who worked to increase the contact of the furled foreskin that stroked this most sensitive center of his being mercilessly. Having found the right angle, Legolas never missed his target, accomplished archer that he was, and Erestor reveled in the inexperienced elf's raw technique. He could not contain either his shouts of ecstatic joy or his delirious bucking against the slim appendage claiming him.

"Oh!" Legolas cried as his motions quickened and his grip on the seneschal tightened. He could feel his cock swelling inside the wanton body he rode, increasing the friction with every slippery, pounding beat as their flesh connected. He could feel his semen coursing toward its outlet, carrying a burning tide of cataclysmic delight from every atom of his being to confluence at the inflamed tip, and he could scarcely contain his excitation.

"Berenaur!" each breath was now wistfully anguished under the strain of the impending release. "I am going to come!" the words sounded desperate in his disbelieving inability to comprehend that this was, in fact, happening.

Erestor felt the lithe body go completely tense and still for a split second before a final mighty heave and a glorious shout preceded the spurting infiltration of the wild elf's essence deeply within him.

Legolas gave two more exhausted and half-hearted pushes as his partner's contracting muscles milked the remaining fluid from his spent member, and he collapsed with a satisfied whimper against the strong back supporting him.

Erestor smiled to feel the limp body prostrate against him, the wild heart beating frantically fast and the sweat-dewed chest struggling to regain the necessary oxygen for normal activity. He felt the gentle caress of the lips again upon his back accompanied by a very soft cooing from the younger elf's throat and fairly glowed with the joy this simple combination of touch and voice stirred within him. The Noldo was torn between relishing the sensation of Legolas, still within him, plastering him with kisses and the desire to turn over and wrap this gentle soul up in his embrace. His protective instincts won and he eased himself from around the archer's relaxed penis, rolling to his back under the boneless elf.

Legolas at first grumbled disappointedly to have lost the intimate connection, but inhaled a gratified breath as strong arms closed around him and drew his head down to pillow against the advisor's chest. He shifted to lie more fully over the older elf and instantly became aware of the persistent hardness of Berenaur's turgid cock under his thigh. He pushed himself up to stare down in confused surprise.

"You have not " he began, but the pressure of the seneschal's fingertips covering his lips cut off his words.

"As I said before, what is the hurry? Allow me to savor this, Legolas, for it is the most engaging experience I have known in many a long year," he whispered and leaned up while pulling his pen-rhovan down into a slow and generous osculation, contemplating what this mouth could accomplish upon his willing flesh. Erestor ended their teasing tongue tag and firmly pressed the golden head down against his breast. He knew Legolas needed a few minutes to recover himself after such a forceful orgasm, and he wanted his partner at full strength for his own completion. He felt the fallen archer nuzzle against his erect nipple and smiled, registering the light tripping of Legolas' fingers over his side. Erestor's muscles spasmed as his ticklish spot was discovered.

"It was amazing for me, also," the Wood Elf said quietly and turned his eyes in a quick shy glance to the seneschal's face. It was positively endearing and Erestor hugged him warmly. Who would have suspected such romance from one so harshly used?

But Legolas was not content to have his cohort full with need while he was sated and spent, and with disarming casualness played his fingers in fleeting caresses over the heated skin he rested atop.

The pert bud of a hard nipple pressed against his cheek while its twin loomed in his line of sight, ruddy brown and proudly raised. With a shimmying movement Legolas sidled his mouth close enough to dart out a teasing lick against the excited morsel and Berenaur caught his breath under the contact with the warm wet tongue. That was enough encouragement for the archer, and he settled his lips firmly around one tit, sucking hard as his fingers pulled tauntingly on the other. The Noldo's impassioned squirming under his mouth was electrifying and Legolas felt his cock stir anew.

"You taste of woods I have not walked," Legolas murmured as he switched to the opposite bit of fleshy nerves and resumed his contented suckling with a growling moan.

Erestor knew not what to make of such a statement, but the constant stimulation of his nipples by the lapping tongue and the tugging, callused fingers was pleasing in excess, and he sighed as he pushed his erection against Legolas' overdraped thigh.

Legolas responded to the unspoken request and slipped his hand from the small erect nub to the more massive brick red one housed between the seneschal's legs. He ringed the slippery lip with his grasp and squeezed as he pulled, biting down playfully on the teat he refused to relinquish.

The response was immediate as Erestor lifted up his pelvis and shoved his full length through the tight grip, grousing in his desperate want. When his hips came to rest on the soft ground again he was trembling in anticipation of what the wild one had planned next. There was obviously nothing lacking in the fallen archer's expertise in this area of lovemaking. Erestor felt cool air drifting across his wetted chest and called out softly as the lovely mouth he so desired to taste of him left his breast.

Exploring slowly over the contours of the unfamiliar body, Legolas tested the tempting firmness of conditioned thews and sinews under the slightly salty skin. He let his lips trail delicately across the toned, tight abdomen and licked the sensitive tenderness under the ribs where Berenaur was ticklish; delighting in the expelled guffaw that followed. Smiling, he glanced back to be sure the touches were pleasing and was encouraged by the heightened venery of the dark eyes boring into his.

Legolas allowed his fingers to sensuously slip under the heavy sack perched securely below the straining penis he still held tightly motionless. He tentatively grazed a fingertip against the small stretch of ultra sensitive flesh between the balls and the anus, and encountered the oozing warmth of his own semen there. He watched Berenaur's involuntary chorea as he struggled to keep still and submit to whatever he had planned. The Tawarwaith smiled wider and allowed one strong pump to stroke down the indurate shaft, relishing the wheedlingly excited cry this elicited. Suddenly he relinquished his hold and straddled Berenaur, easing his own newly formed fullness against the Noldo's erection, leaning up to worry his lips into the black bounty of flowing hair in search of a scarlet tipped ear, and eagerly licked it just as he preferred himself.

"I know what you want," he whispered seductively and pulled back with a grinding gyration of his hips, forcing their erections together.

They gasped in unison and Erestor reached up to caress his hands over the bare skin, palming the softness overlying the wiry strength of the wild elf. It was unbearably suspenseful, letting him take command and watching mesmerized as the vermilion mouth went everywhere except to his yearning erection. Esculent lips claimed his as the inexorable rubbing of their penises continued under Legolas' rocking pelvis. Erestor growled down the inviting throat and forced his tongue as deep as he could send it, hoping his unsounded plea would be recognized.

Legolas smiled into the invasion, accepting the tongue and sucking it powerfully, knowing what this would signal to his companion. The seneschal's hands tightened upon him and his head lifted up as if to force more of the muscle into the warm wet orifice. At last the archer broke free and sidled back down the Noldo's body, locking his gaze upon the smoldering lust-filled expression regarding his every movement. When he was positioned just above the Imladrian penis Legolas froze an instant and then without using his hands at all swooped down to gather up the cock as the eager organ bobbed up on lifted hips to meet his open lips.

"Ai! Yes, Legolas!" Erestor shouted gratefully as the tongue bathed his rigid need and the mouth lowered closer and closer down to the very base of his shaft. The seneschal gasped as the wild elf began to suck voraciously, lifting and dropping his head over the burning cock and darting his agile tongue over and around the sensitive rim, pushing across the leaking slit to gather up the steady extrusion there.

The Noldo's hands transferred to the blonde mane and burrowed deep into the tangled mass, gently holding the animated skull, careful not to apply any pressure, though his desire to do so was incredibly hard to restrain. He watched as the tip of the red tongue darted out on the uplift and swirled around his girth, disappearing back behind the stretched ruby lips on the downthrust, and Erestor begged for more. In answer, Legolas swallowed against the intrusion and took him even deeper as the seneschal shouted incoherent encouragement.

Then Legolas broke the contact and shifted around to the Noldo's side, smiling at the seneschal's plaintive wail when his solid organ fell back against his belly. But he need not have worried for Pen-rhovan had simply decided to add another level of delight to the experience, and lifted two fingers up to the parted lips of the nearly delirious advisor. Confused but nonetheless willing, the seneschal complied and sucked in the digits eagerly as Legolas beamed his approval. When he was satisfied he pulled them free and grinning slyly resumed his devouring consumption of the Noldo's desire.

Erestor let this head fall back and closed his eyes as he groaned under the continuous stimulation in the talented throat of the wild elf. With a jarring pulse he felt himself breached and the archer's fingers were inside him, feeling for the sensitive prostate. It was incredible and he howled as the tender gland was lightly stroked in accord with the gulping attentions of the tongue laving his throbbing organ. Erestor knew he was near his climax and gazed in amazed admiration at his gifted attendant, reaching suddenly for the erection he could see nodding between the archer's thighs.

Legolas' eyes widened and he grunted around his mouthful, almost gagging as his rhythm and pace were interrupted by the unexpected stimulus. But he welcomed it and slid his knee to the side so Berenaur could reach him better. Their motions synchronized, Legolas' head moving in time to the seneschal's massaging hand, and then the Noldo squeezed hard and shouted loudly as his orgasm began, excreting a powerful stream of salty fluids down Legolas' sucking maw.

Erestor could not suppress the quick upthrust of his body as he came, pouring his seed in a steady torrent down Pen-rhovan's throat, and belatedly resumed stroking the wild elf's shaft as he felt the compulsive swallowing of Legolas drinking down his essence.

The younger elf let the softening organ slip from his lips as he erupted in a soft cry and a quick burst of thick creaminess over the seneschal's hand and side. Arm trembling from holding himself up during these exertions, overcome suddenly with weariness from the dual ejaculations, Legolas eased himself down, laying his head on Erestor's stomach and sighing. The scent of his own seed was strong but he did not care about that or the slight stickiness smearing against his shoulder where it leaned into the Noldo's side. He slipped his fingers from inside the panting elf below him and draped his arm over the seneschal's legs. He felt the gentle caress of a hand smoothing down his hair, and smiled happily when it came to rest upon his head. This was exactly what he had needed, for how long he could not even begin to guess.

They lay this way for some minutes as their hearts slowed and suspiration eased, and the soothing sound of the summer shower came back into their conscious knowledge. Neither wanted to disturb the absolutely satisfying closeness as they remained quietly contemplating how unlikely all the night's events had seemed just hours ago, and how right the union had proved to be.

Erestor stirred, tugging at Legolas' arm to draw him up closer.

"Come here, Pen-rhovan, where I can feel your heart beside mine," he said softly and Legolas scrambled into the waiting crook of his arms and returned his weary head to rest again upon the broad chest, enchanted by such a request.

No one had ever said such a thing to him before and he smiled against the warmth of the elf cradling him gently as he drifted toward welcome sleep.

Erestor felt him relaxing into slumber and made no move to keep him wakeful despite his own lack of sleepiness. He just wanted Legolas to relish every bit of their experience together, even the slow slipping into dreamless, carefree repose. He believed it was indeed the first time Legolas had ever known pleasure without the burden of agony, and feared that, once he returned to Imladris, the archer would never feel this way again.

TBC


	28. Trenared Balch

Trenared Balch [Cruel Revelation]

Minuial had chased away the gentle rain from the sanctuary and bright glinting beams warmed the quiet shelter where Erestor rested with the exiled prince held close against him. He had slept little and awakened first, concerned to find Legolas still deep in slumber but also relieved that he was at peace enough to rest as much as he needed. He ran his hands cautiously over the slim figure recumbent at his side and fingered the messy locks of felted gold.

The Tawarwaith was truly amazing. He wondered if there was any way to convince him to leave the dark loneliness of his stark isolation and come to live in Lorien. Penbara and Penraeg could look after Pen-rhovan, and there he could see him often. And share in his considerable carnal talents! he thought with a small leap of his heart.

Legolas must have felt the momentary surge in his companion's pulse and shifted as consciousness returned to him. He woke smiling, a rare experience since the Judgement began, and stretched against the firm body curled cozily against him, tightening his arms in a welcoming hug around the seneschal's shoulders.

"Aur Maer! [Good Morning]" he said as he beamed his dazzling welcome up into the Noldo's eyes.

"And to you, Pen-rhovan!" Erestor grinned back and dropped a quick kiss onto the golden crown followed by a rub of his cheek against the hair. They cleaved one to another, blissfully contented to remain in the comfort of such closeness.

"I thank you for last night," Legolas spoke these winsome words and exuded happiness when Berenaur gave him an answering squeeze.

"It is I who should be grateful, Legolas! It was remarkable; we are well matched," he replied and felt the wild elf shaking with silent laughter, nodding wordlessly against his chest.

"Perhaps we should try and see if it is repeatable," he suggested and took a taste of the nipple so invitingly near. The seneschal exclaimed appreciatively as his penis stirred at the stimulation. They shared gleaming smiles and then Legolas sat up, admiring the elf that had so fulfilled him. "Come! It looks to be bright without, and the stream sounds full from the evening's rain! I did promise you would stay warm and dry yet a swim I would welcome. We can generate plenty of warmth afterwards," he said with genuine joy as he pulled on the Noldo's hands.

Erestor readily agreed and they exited the shelter just as they were, plunging into the invigorating brook.

They played for awhile in glorious abandon, as elflings might do, splashing and grappling each other to bring about thorough dowsings below the surface, sweeping great curtains of fluid up into cascading arcs that rained back over them. Slowly the raucous play became more subdued as Erestor began washing Legolas free of the grime their pleasure had created, and the archer responded by working away at the sticky remainders of his semen upon the seneschal's skin. Their touches became softer yet more heated and soon questing lips sealed together as they became closely entwined in each other's embrace.

Lost in their rising passion, neither heard the silent approach of the Elf Lord as he entered the sanctuary.

His duties with the child had kept him several hours in the village, yet the concerns of the humans were misconstrued, for rather than suffering another setback the babe was improving. The healer had determined Cemendur was experiencing his first hunger pangs in weeks and was bawling for this lesser and more easily remedied cause. Elrond stayed and supervised with satisfaction as the child greedily slurped down the nourishing gruel made by his adoring aunt. He remained in the sick house until the boy was sleeping soundly, having checked over the injuries and rebandaged the stump of his tiny arm.

Once he was confident all was well, the Elf Lord left in search of Legolas. When an exhaustive investigation of the village proved fruitless, he located Radagast and learned of the two elves' departure, and marched out into the night.

Finding the way had been rather difficult for him under the moonless sky, and the light rain slowed his progress by slicking the detritus and duff of the forest floor. Yet Elrond actually felt easier of heart as he hiked. Revealing his suspicions regarding Thranduil and the One Ring to Legolas had been right. The archer's logical refutation had convinced him; the cursed relic was far from the reach of his adversary and the future was suddenly less dark. Indeed, even the constant rain was welcomed to cleanse the air of the lingering scent of ashes and death. He had been eager to reach the sanctuary and tell Legolas about the child's recovery, hopeful of another chance to restore the broken bond he had glimpsed so fleetingly.

Elrond could not believe what the glory of Anor revealed. His best friend and his young lover, so deeply submerged in luxuriant foreplay that the pair did not even realize they were no longer alone.

Legolas was caressing the tight contours of Erestor's buttocks while his other hand rigorously stroked the advisor's erection. The exiled archer moaned softly against his companion's lips as the seneschal held him close with an arm around the shoulders, insinuating several fingers of his right hand carefully into the wild one's arse.

Elrond glowered; every muscle constricted, and beheld the languidly sensual display unfolding. Clearly, Erestor was preparing to take Legolas, and while he was loath to witness this, the Lord of Imladris could not seem to avert his eyes from the tableau. Even as he watched his seneschal lifted Legolas up round the waist and waded to the bank, settling him there against the cushioning ferns and mosses.

With swift movements born of heightened desire the fallen prince lifted his opened legs onto Erestor's shoulders and the Noldo entered him with a thunderous cry, filling him completely with the first thrust. With every invasive impact of Erestor's cock into the wild elf, the slosh of the water swirling in eddies around the seneschal's legs competed with Legolas' excited pleas for more. The Noldo drove into him with increasing force and Pen-rhovan arched back, arms splayed out, his entire body lifted off the ground, seemingly balanced between the penis spearing him and the crown of his head pushed nearly backwards into the soft moist ground. He begged loudly for Berenaur to fuck him harder, deeper.

The seneschal complied and caught the slender stiffness of Legolas' cock, handling it expertly as the archer screamed in delight and came, the silver fountain of his seed shining under the brilliance of the morning sun. Erestor's orgasm followed immediately and he shouted, pounding his cock into the clenching sphincter with even greater vehemence for two prolonged lunges that stole their breaths away.

Legolas flopped against the bank with a satiated sigh and reached for Erestor, who carefully removed himself from the tight enclosure of the wild elf's body. He wrapped his arms around Pen-rhovan and lay down beside him on the bank, drawing him over to rest upon his breast.

The voyeur heard his old friend ask if Legolas was all right, if he had hurt him in any way, and could tell by Legolas' encircling embrace that the answer was only of joy and satisfaction without pain or discomfort. They held each other as their heavy breathing gradually subsided. Slowly their composure returned and the soft cadence of easy conversation began.

Elrond shuddered, recoiling from their casual intimacy, and quickly retreated from the glade. He told himself this was no more than he had instructed Erestor to do, but the obvious delight of the couple rankled. He told himself this meant nothing to him, Legolas was merely a diversion from his lack of physical intimacy, a means to a political end, and not someone he cared about.

But he had expected Legolas to rebuff the seneschal's wooing and had even felt slightly worried for Erestor's health when he had learned the two had left together. Legolas was supposed to choose a bond with him, not couple with the first lothario to cross his path!

He attempted to convince himself he was pleased to know the truth; Legolas was just like his mother. Ningloriel was completely selfish, maintaining a string of lovers, inconstant, faithless and incapable of sustaining a true bond. Fool he had been to seek any sort of union with the spawn of such a one!

Below his upwelling anger a sense of betrayal emerged. It seemed everyone Elrond had ever cared about had left him, and now the pattern reasserted itself.

Elrond halted his progress and wearily cast himself down upon the fallen and blasted trunk of an ancient oak. Why was he locked in this unceasing cycle of sorrow? How had he come to be so ruthlessly cursed by fate, and what injury had he done to earn such torment?

Even more infuriating, each loss had near its center Thranduil's presence. The toll of the names rang through the Elf Lord's mind: Gil-Galad, lost trying to salvage the remnants of Oropher's warriors, one of which had been Thranduil. Celebrian, lost because the Woodland King's xenophobia prevented news of the Orcs in the High Pass from reaching Imladris.

Yet even more than these, the loss of Ningloriel burned against his soul.

The image of the Danwaith Queen filled his mind as he recalled the moment of their meeting. He had been in Lorien for some years when she arrived to visit her sister. Knowing nothing of her and little of her people, Elrond considered the Wood Elves too simple to offer anything of substance to the splendor of Imladris.

But she had known of him, had searched him out, and boldly stated her intentions. Not waiting for her father to petition the match or for Elrond to perform the appropriate rituals of courting, she had ticked off the tally of the advantages their mating would produce, listing the beauty of their resulting offspring foremost! They had coupled that very night and the fiery joining had been incomparable, for she was both demanding and extravagant in her fulfillment.

The experience had overwhelmed him and Elrond fell under the Woodland inu's spell, instantly wishing that his negotiations with Galadriel had not been so close to summation. He had already secured Celebrian's betrothal and to renege would have been not only brutally crude but also would have earned him an enemy of far greater power than he cared to face.

Had Ningloriel only arrived a mere handful of months earlier! Elrond would have sought to ally with the Danwaith, stretching Imladris' borders across the Misty Mountains. If he had known of her sooner, Ningloriel would have provided him with an exciting and satisfying union, a vast realm of great potential, and revenge upon Oropher.

Instead, it was Thranduil who wedded the impetuously passionate Sylvan, securing the ongoing support of the forest folk and continuing the regency established by his sire.

The philandering had continued. Thus he had developed his scheme regarding her usefulness as an informant against her husband to account for their frequent rendezvous. Convincing Galadriel of this had been easier than he would have thought. Indeed, he spoke the lie so often he even persuaded himself, and Celebrian had behaved as though the affair did not exist. When little news of value resulted from Ningloriel's gossip, no one seemed to notice or care.

But she had changed. Or perhaps, he considered, he had just come to understand her. After the birth of Arwen she had begun speaking of her aversion to Thranduil's touch, bitterly bemoaning his insistence that she produce an heir. Even so, it had been several loa before Legolas arrived. The child's birth had heralded a complete break with her role as wife, and the concept of motherhood she seemed to regard as an affront. It was then that Elrond realized the truth; Ningloriel had expected him to refuse Celebrian the comforts of their marriage bed as a sign of his love for her. This was never openly discussed, but was aired through the Elf Lord's indignance over her kept pet guardsman.

She refused to relinquish Maltahondo. That bond she neither tried to hide nor justify. She needed him; that was the entirety of her argument. Whenever the issue arose, she brought up Celebrian. If he rationalized using the import of his alliance to Lorien, she resentfully reminded him he possessed an equal power in Vilya. A power, she always added, that might lift the strain of darkness from her lands and return her people to tranquility.

And in the end she had left him, choosing to take Maltahondo with her, and this too was influenced by Thranduil through his decision to take a consort and beget a new heir.

How it burned, the faulty, callous nature of her feeble affection for him! Elrond would never admit to himself that she had wounded him deeply when she left forever. He disregarded his original motives for their entanglement, underlain with desire for vengeance upon Thranduil and lust for her sex. Likewise, he refused to consider what drove him to profane possession of the ostracized prince, never acknowledging his obsession was constructed from the identical blueprints, only replacing Ningloriel with the son she had so readily abandoned.

Legolas. So very like his mother: wildly passionate, beautiful to behold, entirely wanton, and completely selfish. Are all in Ningloriel's line so false of heart? he thought morosely.

Memory vividly accosted his thoughts, forcing the Elven Lord to relive the scandalous scene: Legolas' lithe body bent in lewd display as Erestor shoved his cock in and out relentlessly, the wild elf's desperate entreaties for deeper penetration, the sight of his exposed penis, crowded with the swollen sack, as the seneschal grabbed it, the ecstatic scream as Legolas' ejaculation pearled through the air.

Rage coursed through him and Elrond leaped up from the log. This offense would not go unanswered!

He returned to the village, recalling both of his promises to enlighten Thranduil. He would enjoy revealing Legolas' debauchery to the Woodland King. Let him know nothing in his House went untouched by Imladris, even as Thranduil's existence had hovered near all the losses the Noldo Lord had endured. And revealing the cause for the harassment by Dol Guldur would surely incite terror and havoc throughout Mirkwood. Perhaps the Nandorin Elves would no longer be so appreciative of their king's renowned wealth.

Especially, he mused, if the messenger learns the dire nature of the communication. Gossip will spread the words to every citizen in the Woodland Realm: their King is harboring the most destructively evil object in all of Middle Earth!

While the Wood Elf and the Noldo enjoyed their gentle post-coital chat, the Lord of Imladris composed his scathingly derogatory missive and included the cloth soiled with Legolas' blood and his own essence.

As the messenger left the village, Elrond cared not that his action could seal Legolas' fate as a traitor to the Greenwood, naming him the lover of its Regent's greatest antagonist. Such betrayal would mean permanent banishment from his homeland and severance from Tawar forever.

Safe in the protection of the sanctuary, lost in the consummation of their delicious lechery, Legolas and Erestor remained ignorant of the intrusion.

Erestor cautiously removed his spent organ from the searing envelopment of the wild elf's body, terrified to look for fear of finding Legolas' blood coating him. If there were such evidence of his impassioned ferocity he would never forgive himself. Carefully he transferred the completely lax limbs from his shoulders, laying the long legs out upon the bank. Legolas' feet dipped into the cooling water and Erestor heard a light exhalation as he shifted, rippling the fluid around his ankles. It did not sound like an expression of discomfort and so the advisor dared to examine himself. Relief flooded him and guilt departed for no discernible scarlet stains covered his slackened genitalia.

"Are you alright, Legolas? Have I hurt you in any way?" he whispered as he climbed up onto the refreshingly springy grasses and scooped the weary woodland warrior into his secure embrace. Legolas turned in the hold and snuggled against the Noldo with another soft sigh, resting upon the comfortable firmness of the broad smooth chest. Erestor felt the rapid impression of velvety lips caress the skin overlying his heart and a strong surge of joy engulfed him.

"Nay, you have given me no pain, only great pleasure. I have never felt this way with anyone else," Legolas whispered shakily and squeezed tightly in hopes of transmitting the fullness of his gratitude through the contact.

This admission was deeply moving for the advisor to hear, for it was confirmation of his own suspicions, and this was truly saddening. A joining such as they had shared was what Legolas deserved, and he should never have been taught to accept anything less. He gently stroked the golden hair and caressed across the scarred shoulders, desiring to comfort his partner.

"It pleases me to know all is well," he said and leaned his cheek against the mound of unruly tresses tucked against him.

But Erestor understood now what Elrond had meant about Legolas' demands and the overwhelming force of the sexual enticement his perverted appetite for pain created. He had refused to let the seneschal return to the thicket for the oil and Erestor had used only the water from the stream for lubrication, and had not been gentle in taking him. It was difficult to admit that the sensation of his penis scraping against the jagged ridges of the marred muscle within the misused elf had been unbelievably stimulating. He had intended to be careful, allowing his invasive piercing to be deep and thorough but not jarring or injurious. Yet Legolas had begged for more and Erestor had been unable to resist his own urge to use every ounce of strength he could rally to fuck the feral elf nearly into oblivious stupor.

"Many have shared their first experience with me," he resumed, "and I have never hurt anyone even under such delicate conditions! Indeed, I am considered very adept and skillful in this regard. I could not abide the thought of you being the first to know pain from my lovemaking!"

"Worry not; your reputation is well earned and quite safe!" the archer said, and Erestor thought he detected a hint of mirth tinting these words.

"You think me boastful, Pen-rhovan, but I am actually being quite humble!" he scolded indignantly and was dismayed when Legolas laughed outright.

"Berenaur, if this is modesty do not ever speak of your real abilities or I will be unable to restrain my unbridled cupidity!" he said within his gleeful chuckling.

Erestor gave an ungracious snort but smiled to have made Legolas laugh; it was a good sound to hear.

"There are no deficits in your own proficiency for giving pleasure, either," he praised and Legolas wriggled closer into his embrace.

"Coming from one who has sampled so many elves and shares body and soul with two lovers at once that is high praise indeed," he joked softly, and now it was Berenaur who laughed lightly in response.

"Ah! I have not felt so relaxed since my last visit to Lorien! Legolas, you are as soothing to the spirit as you are to the flesh!"

"Why do you not resettle in the Golden Wood, then? Clearly you long to be with Penbara and Penraeg," Legolas commented, comfortable using the nicknames since he had earned one himself.

"I am bound to the Court of Imladris by my oath of allegiance to the High King." the seneschal said, exhaling a wistful breath. "It is a trying position yet I could not in good conscience leave when I am so needed. You would scarcely believe what goes on in the Last Homely House, and without my attention the whole of Imladris would end up in disarray," he said with exaggerated drama and was soon explaining, in precise detail, exactly what he meant by these words.

Peacefully content in Berenaur's arms, Legolas lay smiling as the advisor prattled on about the most mundane things that occurred in Imladris. He complained of this elf's rudeness and that diplomat's hauteur, expounded on the hardheadedness of the stable master, slandered Glorfindel terribly as a lazy lout, and even disparaged the chintzy portions of honeyed butter allotted at breakfast.

Legolas found the incessant chatter endearing; he had never heard anyone talk so much! Malthen had rarely spoken after sex; usually leaving Legolas right after their completion to sleep in his own quarters. Even during the time they served together in the patrols it was Legolas who did most of the talking between them. Maltahondo, he remembered now, had a predilection for lecturing and instructions rather than conversation.

His one other lover had enjoyed talking only if he could speak obscenely and publicly embarrass Legolas, boastfully and explicitly describing every sound Legolas emitted, from the gentlest sough to his most lasciviously pleading screams, for all that would listen. They had argued bitterly over it, yet Legolas did not want to admit he was unable to make the match chosen for him work. When his lover had left the Greenwood permanently Legolas had not been upset in the least.

These musings were too dark and dreary to accompany the cheerful gleam of Anor and the tranquil familiarity of the Noldo's protective embrace, he decided, and banished the memories from awareness to concentrate on the rambling discourse.

The seneschal was completing a tale involving a prized Numenorean vase and the Elf Lord's daughter. Apparently she had given it away on a whim to the mother of a young courtier from Lorien, and the ensuing chaos and attempts to retrieve the priceless item had fallen on the advisor to remedy. Berenaur laughed softly and sighed, squeezing Legolas again and rubbing his palms luxuriously over his naked back.

The touch became assessing as he fingered individual scars, worrying them. The seneschal's words did not resume and his body tensed under his companion's weight, as he seemed to withdraw into melancholy introspection.

Legolas looked up to find a concerned and worried expression regarding him, and instantly became unsettled. "What is it? What is wrong, Berenaur?" he asked and did not understand why these simple words made the Noldo wince as if pained.

Of course, it was only that one specific falsehood that grieved the older elf to hear: the name Berenaur. Erestor's conscience was mercilessly berating him for continuing this egregious deception upon the Wood Elf who deserved not such abuse. He drew a shaky breath and tried to steel his nerve for the task at hand.

"Legolas, I wish to speak seriously to you. What I say will be difficult to learn, and even now I hesitate to relay too much for fear of adding to the injurious treatment you have already sustained!" he began, and Legolas leaned up on his elbows to stare at him with dread.

He was not certain he cared to have this information if it meant absorbing fresh insults.

"What is this about?" he asked guardedly, and the Noldo could see the anxiety seeping into him, dislodging his former tranquility.

"It is about Erestor. Or, actually, it is more about Elrond of Imladris that I would speak," he ventured cautiously into the suspect terrain. "And myself, for I have been a willing participant."

Pen-rhovan's response betrayed his conflicted emotions. He sat up to have a clearer view of his partner's features and wrapped his arms about himself, curious about the Elven Lord's part in the plot but instinctively withdrawing from the predicted shock.

"What does he think about me?" he asked tentatively, not yet brave enough to ask what he truly wanted to know.

The question threw Erestor off-guard a bit, for he had not expected the note of hopeful expectation underscoring the fallen prince's words. This could be stickier than he had at first comprehended, and the advisor began to understand why Aiwendil had not been overly eager to reveal the truth to the forest champion.

"Ah," he said lamely and tried to gather and reorder his thoughts. "Well, I know he thinks you are courageous and resourceful, fair-minded and intelligent, and unjustly accursed by this awful Judgement!" he revealed honestly and observed Legolas' brows ride skyward in surprise.

"All that? He has never even met me; how can what you say be so?" he demanded.

Erestor realized his error; he had not quite thought this through. He would now have to either construct more lies or just come out with the brutal truth, neither choice desirable.

He looked at the unsuspecting elf's expectant expression and read there the hopeful neediness for some sort of positive confirmation of the things he had just heard. The seneschal understood with a constricting sensation around his heart that Legolas wanted to believe there was a wise and noble Lord somewhere out in the faraway reaches beyond the Misty Mountains that knew of and cared about him.

Legolas was seeking his father.

This was far worse than he had considered. He could not explain his own true name without revealing Elrond's. But the wild elf obviously believed what Erestor himself thought likely: that the Noldo Lord had begot him. To learn his own father had viciously bedded him, that was a concept too hideous to entertain. The seneschal shuddered, thinking how he would react to such a grotesque situation, and fearing how this would impact upon Legolas' grief-stricken mind.

"Hmmm, yes," he stammered, "Even so, he does know much about you. You may be isolated here, forbidden to discuss anything of your situation, but others are not. Not everyone is subject to the Custom and Law of the Woodland Realm," he stalled.

"Mithrandir!" the Wood Elf devised his own conclusion and smiled. "Has he told Elrond about me, then?"

Erestor blinked and managed a shaky half-smile in answer. It churned his gut, this en-miring quickmud of deceit, but he could not bear to destroy the wild elf's hopes so completely as the truth would surely do. It occurred to him, in light of the illusion the younger elf had been harboring all this time, that the reality of his relationship with Elrond might actually kill him.

Better for him to remain in ignorance of the healer's true identity, he concluded and thus rejected his desire for full disclosure. Berenaur, it seemed, would remain a fictitious reality.

"Mithrandir, yes; I am sure he has spoken to Elrond about you. However, it is not so much this that I wanted to address." He said and attempted to steer the conversation toward a partial admission of the subterfuge perpetrated upon the outcast.

"I was not lying when I said earlier that my colleague and I had discussed how to go about getting you to grant us sexual favors. We thought you would be more open to revealing Thranduil's secrets if we courted you thus. My part in it all I completely regret, especially now after what we have shared."

Here Erestor reached out and gently stroked his fingers across Legolas' jaw and the archer allowed the caress to travel on around his throat and past his ear where the touch remained softly alight on the nape of the neck.

"However, I do not understand what my old friend is thinking regarding this. I do not want you to continue to have sex with the healer, Legolas; he does not consider how he harms you!" the seneschal finished all in a rush and waited apprehensively for Pen-rhovan's justified outrage.

To his amazement Legolas smiled hugely and flung himself back over the Noldo's body, settling himself securely back within his arms.

"You are worried about me!" he exhaled delightedly. "Do not; I have not given my heart to him and will not suffer much when he departs!"

Legolas was simply not in any frame of mind to generate anger. The Noldo had apologized so many times, and had already told Legolas this disturbingly erotic truth. It was somehow exciting to think of them discussing him so even prior to meeting him, desiring him before they even looked upon him. He found Berenaur's protective jealousy unexpectedly flattering, this was the first time Legolas had ever come between two elves.

Erestor was dumbfounded as he felt the delicate pressure of his companion's lips focus again on the spot over his very rapidly pounding heart, and squeezed back supposedly to reassure the feral elf but more to alleviate his own tension.

They remained silently contemplative as they re-established their previous comfort level, yet the seneschal could feel a slight restraint remaining in Legolas' limbs. After several minutes Pen-rhovan stirred and his fingers began absentmindedly twisting a lock of the Noldo's glossy raven-hued hair.

"Berenaur," he said and paused. "What else does Elrond say about me? I know about his relationship with my mother; you need not fear revealing a confidence in this respect," he cajoled. "Does Elrond consider me, does he think he is," Legolas struggled to get this question asked. Everytime he brought it up some appalling reply left him wounded; he was wary of repeating the experience.

"Legolas," the advisor frowned at the hesitant quality of his partner's speech knowing exactly what the Wood Elf wanted to say. "If you are asking whether Elrond believes himself to be your father, then I must answer no." He felt the tenseness dissolve away to be replaced by a palpable sensation of gloomy disappointment.

A great sigh escaped from Legolas and he lay limp and listless a long time, and Erestor could not think what to do other than to gently caress the troubled elf's shoulders. The silence stretched on as neither spoke, for the seneschal feared to make matters worse not knowing how the fallen prince was digesting this revelation. At last he felt another tremendous heave against his chest.

"Then, Elrond believes Thranduil is my father?" Legolas raised his head to look questioningly at Berenaur, as though he needed the confirmation to be able to accept this fact. The expression of revulsion in his eyes was clearly evident.

But about these matters Erestor did not see any need for lies and so he sought to mitigate that unpleasant reaction to the concept of the overbearing and avaricious Woodland King as a father.

"Nay! Elrond does not think that; indeed, few knowing the whole story would consider this true! The Lord of Imladris believes your mother's long relationship with her personal guardsman generated your conception!" he said.

The response this created was not what he had expected. Legolas shoved back and sat up from him, staring with the most horrendous expression of disbelieving shock and repugnance the Noldo had ever seen.

"What! Why would he say that? Malthen cannot be my father!" he wailed hysterically and reached for Erestor's shoulders, shaking him for emphasis.

The seneschal grasped his arms and tried to steady him, but Legolas was becoming more distraught by the second and began struggling to escape.

"It is a lie! It must be a lie! He would not do that to me!" Legolas was screaming these words in tones that could only pour from the rending trauma of a shattered soul and Erestor became terrified of what he had unwittingly done. He tried to wrap his arms tight around Pen-rhovan to hold him still.

"Legolas! What is it? Why is this such formidable news? Speak!" Erestor was beside himself to contain the wild elf's despair and calm him, for he had never intended to bring about the agony being experienced now. Legolas was far beyond the reach of such entreaties, however, and his rage and devastation boiled over as he assailed the Noldo with his fists and feet and broke free.

He sloshed across the water and disappeared into the shelter, Erestor close behind him, but when he encountered the seneschal on his way back out Legolas was dressed, armed, and had his dagger in hand. One murderous look was enough to send the Noldo backing quickly away.

In vain Erestor tried to convince him to stop and speak of the matter but Legolas merely allowed him a small glance into the depths of his tormented eyes and the seneschal was rendered paralyzed and wordless to see the despairing anguish there. Without another sound the Tawarwaith fled his violated sanctuary.

Erestor recovered himself and fairly dived into the brambles to retrieve his pack, intent on following the broken warrior and repairing the damage he had caused. Crawling inside the shelter on his hands and knees, he suddenly froze as his eyes fell upon the crushed and twisted mosses where they had enjoyed each other so fully through the night.

There upon the ground lay the braided souvenir of auburn tresses, severed from its long embrace of the wild elf's ankle.

TBC


	29. Mellyn Evyrn

Mellyn Evyrn [Fast Friends]

Tawar looked after its own, but in the spreading darkness of the living Shadow the besieged spirit of the Greenwood did not discern the approach of disaster in the form of the First Born from Rivendell.

So soon after the devastation of the trembling earth, the forest had not recovered its strength and the shifting emotions roiling from its champion whenever the Noldo were near further confused the ancient trees. The wizard, too, sent Tawar conflicting opinions of the Elf Lord and his advisor, at once infuriated yet tolerant of the son of Eärendil and the survivor of Gondolin.

While disjointed and virtually severed by the Misty Mountains, a faint connection between the Greenwood and the forested valleys of Imladris remained, and naught but good sentiments passed between them where the elves of either land were considered. Whatever the source of their friends' misgivings about the Deep Elves, the trees would never have looked to the West and the lands of Imladris as the origin of so injurious an element to Harthad-en-Taur. Surely, had the spirit of the Great Wood foreseen the harm their Tawarwaith would sustain from the Noldor's hands, it would never have guided them to him on that first day of their meeting.

But the forest failed its fair champion and did not prevent the damage his interaction with Elrond and Erestor generated within his heart and mind.

Legolas' new despair focused not on the interlopers but on one of his own, a Danwaith long trusted by the forest as a loyal defender of their Realm. The distress of the archer coursed through the woods from every leaf and twig he so much as brushed in passing, and the impotent rage of the weald's denizens manifested in an unholy cacophony of groaning and creaking as branch and stem ground against each other in futile fury. The whole of the Greenwood near him looked gale deranged and typhoon tossed; indeed, this was true though the conflagration was bound within the shredded shards of the wild elf's soul.

High in the obscurity of the densest foliage, Legolas relentlessly pressed a course through the branchways away from the safe sanctuary of his enchanted glen and back into the unprotected wastes between the region of the woodsmen's villages and the Old Forest Road. He moved with speed born of frenetic desperation to both escape from his own quintessence and reach the comfort of the protective embrace of the only elf he trusted anymore, Fearfaron. Determinedly he pushed on, forgetting the village and his human friends, the ailing child and the ageless Maia, the Elf Lord and his advisor. All else diminished while the staggering misery of guilt and rage that drove him increased.

Even if they had been Wood Elves raised under the forest's roof, Erestor and Elrond would never have been able to match the urgent momentum of Legolas' pace. By the time Erestor made his way back to the village, the archer was already six leagues away from the glade. As it was, the seneschal's mangled explanation of what had transpired appeared not to move his Lord, while Radagast actually broke his staff rather than his vows so great was his desire to avenge his friend. Aiwendil left the village without a word and the Noldor saw him no more for a time.

The Elven Lord remained cold and distant and shunned his longtime friend, refusing to hear Erestor's pleas and arguments for going after the suffering Wood Elf. Elrond icily reminded his advisor that they were not exactly free to travel to Mirkwood's stronghold, but encouraged him to attempt it should he desire a protracted confinement in Thranduil's dungeons. In fact, he had stated, perhaps such a fate would be fitting for one who turned on his own and thwarted plans designed to aid their people, for thus he judged Erestor's actions to date.

Still unenlightened regarding Elrond's firsthand knowledge of his intimacy with Legolas, Erestor became incensed. He berated his compatriot for his callousness in allowing Pen-rhovan to go from them in his present state of mind and challenged the unfairness of the accusations against his character. But in the end, helpless to find his way or to explain himself should he happen upon the patrols, the advisor gave up his hope for aiding Legolas. Yet he would not return to Imladris when Elrond prepared to leave, and stayed in the village hoping for the Brown Wizard to return with the Tawarwaith in tow.

Legolas traveled without rest three days, stopping on the fourth only for water when he felt close to collapse, for the grief his own good heart caused him increased by the hour, it seemed. Poised back in the treetops above the sluggish trickle that had eased his parched throat, the exhausted Wood Elf tried to summon the will to go forth.

His back stiffened, becoming rigid as a slicing stab of acute anguish flooded him right at the site of the old dagger wound. Legolas' hand flew to the throbbing scar and he pressed his fist against the tearing torment as a slight gasp escaped him. The spasm increased its intensity and he almost lost his balance on the branches, clasping tightly to the kindly tree with his free hand as he tried to will himself to be calm and ride out the attack.

How often that blade has been my antagonist, he thought, yet never would he part with it for it had been a gift from Malthen on his Coming of Age.

The pain had started the day Erestor had disclosed his real relationship to Malthen and the episodes were becoming more frequent. The old wound felt like it was ripping open again, seeking to complete its aborted task from all those years past. He had expected to find his hand covered with his blood the first time the wrenching paroxysm accosted him. The agony seemed to last longer each time as well, and he was now uncertain he would make it back to see Fearfaron. He had thought that such a bitter mixture of remorse and torment would be too much to bear and yet live, and wondered with every passing of Ithil's night how he had succeeded in surviving to another day.

But he knew what held him still to Middle Earth and it was not the obligations imposed by the Judgement nor even the strong desire to reach his foster father's sheltering care. Legolas found himself overcome with a turbulent flux of loathing and longing and felt for the second time in his life the wish to destroy another elf.

Images assailed him perpetually, replacing his peaceful communion with Tawar as he made his way through the forest heights. He saw himself with the dagger drawn, brutally attacking his old guardsman and former lover, reducing Malthen's chest to a bloody pulpy mass as lungs still trying to breathe forced bubbles through the streaming life-giving fluid. He jabbed and cleaved, tearing open the thorax and hacking through ribs, seeking for the heart of the vile offender. Yet when the warrior no longer breathed and the blood no longer gushed, the archer still could not find the victim's vital organ within the messy ruins of the body. And this only fueled his raving even more so that he came out of the hallucination declaiming and cursing against his beloved guardian and friend.

But he loved Malthen; thus the daydreamed slaughter left him even more immersed in self-disgust and fear for what he had become.

This gory visualization was profoundly disturbing and he could only address it subconsciously, aware on this internal level that he had not really been heading directly for Fearfaron. He was instead seeking a fight to get into that he would not get out of alive. In this way he would expend these fell emotions upon the Shadow and at last be freed from the torment of his revoltingly obscene desire for his own father.

Legolas could go no further and rested fitfully in the sheltering oak all the fourth day and through the dark night. Dawn brightened the forest around him on the fifth day and still he did not budge, suddenly uncertain what he was going to do if he ever reached Fearfaron. Instinct had set his feet upon this course, but now he wondered if he could speak of this shameful horror even to his foster father. As the day grew older he became aware of the distant sounds of horse's footfalls along the ground, and trained his hearing intently upon it.

By mid-afternoon the sources passed under his tree and he examined them carefully. One was well known to him and a surge of sour rancor filled his stomach: Mithrandir. The other he had never seen in his woods before, nor even one of his ilk.

This was a human; not a woodsman as dwelt under the eaves of Tawar nor a townsman that lived within Laketown upon Esgaroth. Neither was he one of the beornings found in the meadows serving the great changeling Bear. This was a warrior, a Man whose life was one of hardship and battle, whose closest friends were there with him below: the charger and the broadsword. Legolas had not met such a Man before, for the soldiers in the Battle of Erebor were farmers and merchants pushed to their task by desperate need rather than trained and seasoned swordsmen and archers.

He rode proudly yet fatigue burdened his broad shoulders for he stooped a little forward in the saddle. Around his stalwart form he wore a fair cloak, much stained with mire and muck yet so finely woven it must be of elven make. The cut of his garments was well made to his body and also of distinctly elvish design. Scarred by much exposure to hazard and havoc the tough leather jerkin protecting his torso still bore recognizable segments of the elegantly tooled runes of power originally adorning it. His boots were likewise of rich manufacture but mud-caked and gory. Being so high above, Legolas could see only a crown of dark shoulder length tresses that matched the color of the bay stallion the Man rode, and caught meager glimpses of chiseled features grim and haired as most Men's were.

He watched them.

They progressed steadily forward on horseback at a moderate pace, wary and silent for the most part. When they spoke it was generally to warn each other of a low branch or an upraised root barring the way. They were tense and guarded and often did their fingers look for reassurance at the hilts of their broadswords. Repeatedly they had been forced to deviate from the path and plunge into the wilds for several leagues. Thus had they come past the tree wherein the archer reposed, returning to the road after much struggle to locate it and hours of lost time. Gradually they became aware that the topography was rising and this distressed them exceedingly. The dour realization was inescapable, despite intentions to bypass them and make for Thranduil's stronghold they were being drawn towards the Central Mountains. Orcs were known to dwell in numbers there across the river from the boundaries of the Realm.

There were just these two, alone in the dense growth of the Greenwood, attempting to traverse its vast and cloying vegetation without escort. Mithrandir seemed to have a clear idea of the course required and this was a hidden way, a narrow and meandering footroad lacing through the great trees and marked by no sign visible to any but elf-kind. Those outside the Woodland Realm who were aware of it could be summed on one hand. Legolas had not known the wizard was counted among these and it was somewhat disturbing to see him leading this unknown human upon it.

Legolas silently shadowed them, slipping along through the canopy high above, and they never knew he was near. At first he had inwardly cursed to discover more intruders in his lands and had entertained the thought of continuing his journey away from the interlopers, almost hoping they would be found by Orcs and destroyed.

It seemed that lately the Greenwood had become a most popular place for careless wayfarers and tourists. He would never desert them, of course, for the essence of his nature forbade it. He felt it his obligation to protect all enemies of the Shadow within his own lands, and to vigilantly guard them. Being fools was not, after all, a crime deserving of death.

Even so, Legolas had no wish to speak with the wizard, for he could not be certain his anger could be restrained under the present circumstances and feared to learn what he felt was the truth: Mithrandir knew about Malthen.

The three continued on, the wizard and his comrade unaware that they had become a trio.

The Tawarwaith was exceedingly disturbed to see the deviations in the hidden pathway. This was not the work of Thranduil's patrols and the conclusion boded ill for both the travelers and the Realm. Only the trees themselves could alter an elf-made path, and to find confederates of the Evil One growing so close to the heart of the Greenwood bit deeply into Legolas' soul and fired him to outrage. He could feel the infiltration of the Shadow into his cherished trees, and was aware of the hatred beaming out to him from every turned hardwood in his vicinity. He was eager to follow this twisted trail to the lair of the foul creatures served by these unwholesome standing timbers. If he destroyed the Orcs, perhaps the trees could be salvaged, their spirits reunited with Tawar.

Nervous and uneasy the horses shied sideways at every leaf fall and rustling scuffle from small four-footers scurrying out of the way of the heavy hoofed beasts. A small brown wren flew up abruptly at nearly nose height to the larger bay stallion and he snorted, backing away and rearing just enough to embarrass himself for having been spooked by such a harmless creature. His hindquarters careened into the shoulder of the smaller golden-coated gelding and the steed wheeled to try and get out of the way, smashing his rider's leg against the boll of a beech in the process.

A cry of annoyed discomfort sounded as Gandalf tried to steady his mount. His efforts only succeeded in swinging the horse round backwards so now the gelding's haunches clashed with the bay's flank, and the stallion blew a warning through distended nostrils as his ears went back and bared teeth appeared below curled lips. There was a rapid blur of brown as the stallion extended his head and planted those incisors firmly if briefly in the offending rear.

With a terrified squeal the gelding leaped away and danced around as the wizard shouted and struggled to calm him. The other rider scolded his charger soundly and pulled him away to give room to his comrade's labor. After several minutes of trembling mincing twirls and worried backward glances into Gandalf's face the edgy equine finally relaxed enough for them to resume. The travelers let more space grow between the horses yet not so much that they were too far to be of aid to one another should the need arise.

The horses have more sense than their masters, Legolas smirked. For at least they are aware of just how unpleasant things could get before they leave the forest. Idiots!

But Mithrandir watched carefully to his right and left and suddenly halted his horse and the two remained very still. The bay stallion stopped as well as its owner turned back to see what was amiss.

Legolas peered down curiously as the little wren returned, hopping in brief flights from bush to tree and branch to twig, drawing closer to the gelding, careful not to startle the poor horse. At last the diminutive bird alit upon the Istar's shoulders and poured out a rapid stream of notes. The recitation was punctuated by the hasty snap of flapped wings and darting bobs of the tiny head as it sought to train a bright black eye upon the wizard's face.

"What is it, Gandalf?" the Man on the sorrel charger asked in undertones of misgiving. For a message to reach them through Aiwendil's friends, the information had to be dire and speed of its delivery essential. He urged his horse closer to the flighty gelding and leaned, weary with worry, against the pommel of his saddle, waiting while the bird continued its song of woe.

"Ill news. Aiwendil reports that my chief ally in this dreadful place has come to great harm. And was the communiqué not from the Brown Wizard never would I believe who perpetrated the injury! My young elven friend faces the dangers of Wraiths and Orcs daily yet not from among these did the wound originate. Elves from Imladris have done this thing!" The old wizard was clearly shocked, as was his comrade, who abruptly sat up. He seemed as dumbfounded as the Maia and shook his head.

"What has happened, and what elves from Imladris would harm another, even an elf from Mirkwood?" he queried as Gandalf's scowl deepened. In the canopy, Legolas nearly growled to hear this derogation of his people.

"The bird cannot give so much detail as that, Aragorn. Yet it can deliver the depth and extent of the harm, and this is severe. Aiwendil fears for the archer's life and bids me forgo our planned agenda to find him at all costs."

The Tawarwaith gave a terrific and fearsome shout as he descended from the tree and leaped onto the palomino behind Mithrandir. He snatched the wizard's staff up and cast it away, and in his left hand he held the dagger, though he did not hold the Maia at its point. With his right hand he grabbed the reins and trained fiery eyes upon the Human who was in the process of unsheathing his sword. The Man's action was arrested by the extraordinary fierceness of that gaze and he eased the blade back slowly into the scabbard. The jittery horse stood stock-still and trembling but obeyed the Wood Elf's command to hold.

"Well, I have saved you the effort it seems, Mithrandir!" Legolas said in a rather unpleasant and dangerous sounding pitch. "But I wonder, just what was that planned agenda you feel compelled to forego for my benefit?" he demanded.

"Legolas! What is this? Aiwendil is concerned about you, as am I!" the wizard said quietly but firmly. He could feel the tautness of every muscle in the feral elf's body pressed behind him and the edge of the blade was too close to his middle for comfort.

"Concern?" Legolas gave a short sarcastic sneer. "Had you any consideration for my welfare you would not have sent me to Dol Guldur! Speak no more of your false words to me!"

Aragorn watched this through wide eyes that appealed to the wizard for direction. Was the Maia in danger? Gandalf gave a brief shake of his head in answer. Legolas was not blind and the unspoken communication enraged him more.

"Oh, more secrets? You have a way of keeping things under that ridiculous hat of yours! What are you doing in my woods, wizard?" his low words reverberated through the suddenly deathly still forest and Gandalf shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.

"Nay, Legolas! We have no secret business here; we were on our way to Thranduil's stronghold for Aragorn to meet the King, at my suggestion! Aiwendil sent word of the trouble you were in and. . . "

"Trouble? Is that your euphemism for betrayal and cruel abuse? You knew all along! I trusted you, but you never said a word to me about it!" Legolas lowered his voice even more so that his words were little more than a hissed murmuring reminiscent of the warning rattle of a viper's tail before the strike.

"Nay!" Gandalf refuted the unexpected accusation. "I knew not of this! Believe me, Legolas, I would never willingly contribute to any scheme to harm you! What is it? What have they done?" he asked, alarmed.

And as if by the command of these words a savage salvo of wrenching excruciation assailed the wild elf and he gasped aloud, rearing back severely under the abrupt assault. With a tremendous effort Legolas disengaged from Mithrandir and scrambled inelegantly back up the tree to cling to the slender twigs of the topmost branches until the seizure passed, for he no longer believed his former friend.

The wizard and the human stared at each other in amazed dread and then scanned the branches above them in hopes to spot the archer, with no success.

"Gandalf, can you tell me what is going on here? I take it that is the elf you spoke of, but why does he think you are involved in some sort of subterfuge?" Aragorn asked softly, wary in case the fey, unstable creature returned.

"He thinks that because I usually am so engaged!" the wizard frowned at the Man from under his furred and furrowed brows. "He seems to be talking about several different events all at once, so it is hard to figure out what part he assigns to me."

"He is in pain," said the Human. "I do not think he has gone far from us. Call to him, for I fear your fellow wizard may be right and when next we find the elf he will be beyond our help."

Gandalf became more disturbed on hearing this, for Aragorn was trained in healing and his gift of insight was known to be great. Anxiously the wizard called out for Legolas, but only the uneasy grinding of the trees' branches croaking as they scraped against each other responded. The forest groaned against the distress of the feral elf while he endured the anguish in silence.

Then abruptly the rasping commotion ceased and the air became heavy and stagnant. A low keening wail issued from the highest reaches of the leafy roof and the two travelers looked up in vain to find the source of the unbearable cries.

Legolas knew not the effect his torment produced on the woods and the interlopers among them. His awareness internalized, sharply focusing on the abominable agony and the events that produced it. The pain and the succeeding vision of his barbaric revenge mixed with the overwhelming longing for his lover, clashing against the surfeited self-loathing that rose from the center of his gut. His lamenting dirge poured out into the solemn woods.

A great pulsing wave of heated air swept over them and yet not a single leaf stirred as the force of Tawar's apprehension for its champion registered through the blazing connection to the travelers' minds, and the location of the fallen prince was revealed.

Aragorn froze under the intensity and fearsome experience of this mental link to the soul of the Greenwood, observing with mouth agape and eyes round the frightful scene of the suffering Wood Elf clinging to the treetop. It was so vivid he seemed to be next to the elf in the branches and even reached out a hand to touch the battered shoulder before the image faded. With a cry he shook his head to clear it and looked around for Gandalf.

Mithrandir wasted no time in such awestruck wonder and guided his horse over to the designated oak. With a fluid sweep of his arms he shucked his long gray robe over his head and draped it over the saddle before him, revealing simple and brief undergarments covering his surprisingly unwasted physique. Gandalf tossed his beard back over his shoulder and reached up, hauling himself onto the nearest branch, and began climbing towards his friend. He arrived with atypical celerity, heaving a bit from the exertion, and cautiously tested the slender branch where the Tawarwaith still mourned, unaware of the wizard's presence. Gandalf frowned to see how small the twigs were at this height, and refused to turn his gaze down back along the path he had come.

I must trust the tree to support me. The Wood wants me to help him, surely it will not let me fall in the effort to do so. He reasoned internally and gingerly stepped onto the branch.

"Legolas!" he called softly and carefully placed his hand on the wild elf's arm. Legolas' head snapped up and he glared in fury at the old Maia through wretched and afflicted eyes.

"You!" he spoke through clenched teeth. "You kept it from me! You sent me out here and all the time you knew about the Elf Lord's plans!" he hissed.

"Elrond? Legolas, of what plans do you speak? What has happened!" the wizard was growing more disconcerted by the second, for there were many plans of the Lord of Imladris to which he was privy, yet his understanding recalled none that involved the outcast archer. The Elf Lord, however, was not bound to reveal everything to the White Council and very likely had numerous plots in play that none beyond the borders of Imladris ever learned about.

Legolas turned away for he put no faith in the Maia's apparent bewilderment. How could he trust him? He had not revealed the concerns of the other elven realms about the location of the One Ring. He had not told him that Imladris was seeking this dread talisman and had already tried to infiltrate the King's guard.

"You should have disclosed to me what Elrond thought about the Dark One's talisman. Even Aiwendil denied me the truth," the beleaguered elf realized suddenly and this sent another wave of pain into his body. He writhed against it futilely for several minutes as Gandalf tightened his grip.

"Legolas, you are suffering, what is this injury? Can you not tell me what has happened to you?" the Istar pleaded. "What I withheld from you I was bound to do, under the oaths of my order. This was decided among the White Council, and though both Aiwendil and I argued against it, Saruman sided with Galadriel. She does not trust Thranduil; this you know. With both Imladris and Lorien against him, the White Wizard felt compelled to allow their decision."

The agony subsided to needling throbbing stabs that bloomed with the rhythm of his heart and left Legolas more energy for his anger. He yanked his arm from Mithrandir's hold and shifted away onto another branch.

"Why should I tell you these things? It is too late to worry about the consequences of your omissions for they are already upon me!" he bitterly berated the wizard.

It was intolerable, listening to these excuses and rationalizations for keeping such important facts from the Woodland Realm. Why did he feel the need to protect all these outlanders when surely they cared not for his welfare? And Mithrandir abandoned him to endure the calumny of his own kind as well as the Dark forces in Dol Guldur! The healer's words came back to him; Mithrandir did desire him to perish, perhaps the whole of the wizard's order backed the despicable ploy!

"You are full of lies and deceit, all of you! Tell me, Mithrandir, did you know about my father as well? How could you let me learn of this from outsiders, elves from Imladris no less!" he hurled the words away as though the sound of them would wound and then suddenly sobbed as his love for Malthen overpowered him again. The piercing affliction returned and he groaned, sliding down to crouch upon the bended branch, leaning fully against the tree's trunk.

Now Gandalf comprehended the nature of the damage done, and his worry increased. The depth of the tribulation displayed left no doubt that somehow the disgraced prince had learned of the relations between his mother and her guardsman. The wizard felt his own ire rising on realizing these Noldor Elves had named the archer's father: his first love, his childhood friend and protector, Maltahondo. Mithrandir yearned to learn the identities of the Imladrian miscreants and demand justice before Elrond against those who had so severely and unnecessarily maltreated the woodland warrior.

And how could he answer Legolas' charges, for they were true. He had known this gossip and deliberately kept it hidden, no matter the sincerity of his intentions. Gandalf sighed with chagrined regret; he should never have encouraged Legolas to go alone to face such a fate.

"I knew; you are right and your animosity is just. I can offer no defense that would be acceptable to your ears, or even to mine. Legolas, I have wronged you so much I am surprised you did not send me back to Aman with an arrow!" he quietly confessed and the words drew the unmistakable sound of tear-disrupted breathing as the distraught elf absorbed this.

He had silently sworn he would cry no more; yet even though Legolas had fully expected these words from Mithrandir, he had simultaneously hoped for a sound refutation and convincing proof that his charges were unfounded. The wizard's denial would have allowed him to entertain the hope that Berenaur was the liar instead. Now he felt the last remaining supports of his old reality crumble away beneath him and he plunged in forlorn free-fall into the deeps of black and murky gloom.

"There is no definite proof that he is your father, Legolas. That is why nothing was said. I myself believe it not. My own assessment leads me to conclude that Thranduil is your sire, despite the quidnuncs who speak otherwise. And I know Maltahondo does not believe Ningloriel would allow him to create a child with her. His reasoning was not flawed; and other than your mother I would guess his information is most reliable!" Gandalf continued, hoping this would ease the burden enough for Legolas to survive this catastrophe, at least long enough to get him back to Fearfaron. The Istar hoped the carpenter's love could halt the progress of the wild elf's fading, for surely this was what he was witnessing here. With careful movements the wizard transferred to a nearer branch so he could reach Legolas, and the Wood Elf did not move away.

Legolas had no power left to fight with; his surge of crazed anger ebbed away and left behind unconstrained exhaustion like the stranded detritus of the ocean's contents revealed in the passing of retreating seas. This new world his existence occupied was simply too confusing and overwhelming, and there was no way to drive the misery from his soul. Legolas just wanted it to stop; the pain, the sorrow, the rage, and the love; all of it. He released a ragged breath and the tears ceased; they failed to relieve the anguish anyway, pouring ineffectually over searing sorrow so unendurable that death appealingly beckoned.

"Mithrandir, I need to go home," he whispered and let the Istar lift him up.

Tbc


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Some have asked, so here is Feud in relation to the Books:

2941 - Battle of Erebor, Legolas' Judgement

2953 - Release of Annaldír

2956 - Aragorn meets Gandalf (Return of the King, Appendix B, JRR Tolkien)

2957 - Aragorn begins his years of errantry incognito (same as above)

2958 - Legolas baits the Nazgul, meets Elrond and Erestor, and meets Aragorn  


* * *

  
Gwain Erthad [New Alliance]

Gandalf's instantaneous mutation from creaking and aged grandfather to agile and wily Ainu caught Aragorn unawares. It was rather like watching a sun-dappled bit of leafy ground suddenly stand up and reveal itself to be a spotted hind before darting away before his eyes. The Man barely had time to snatch up the reins of the tawny horse before it bolted, unsettled by the wizard using its back as a springboard for his ascent up the tree. He secured the leather leads to his own saddle before dismounting.

There was no need to tie his charger, for the horse was well trained and knew better than to stray an inch without its master's consent. The bay stallion looked disdainfully and threateningly at its skittish companion and the gelding turned a walleye to the sturdy war-horse. The stallion chose to ignore this lesser of its kind and returned full attention to the human.

Aragorn strode over and stood beneath the tree, staring up into the branches to see where the Maia had gone. Just visible, he could make out the pale color of bare skin amid the green cover so high in the canopy that the figures swayed along with the movement of the wind blown limbs. The low murmur of voices met his hearing but he could not tell what was being said. The elf's voice held much emotion, however, while the wizard's maintained an even and soothing tone. It was clear they were arguing and the Man wondered what it was all about, for the elf was more unhinged than any he had ever encountered, and he had known many over his time alive.

The forest seemed to be watching him and he felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though the trees would break him if he so much as imagined an unkindness with regard to the feral Sylvan. Aragorn was unable to stifle the urge to peer over his shoulders as his back keenly imagined the sensation of sharp weapons trained upon it. His mind was invaded by images of oak trees five times the height of a Man uplifting themselves to squash him into the ground while sword-like limbs pierced him through. He shook himself to ward off the uncanny threat. I am here to help him; I have never harmed elf-kind or green life, he projected this thought and forced his heart to remain calm. The uneasy feeling abated somewhat and he relaxed again.

Up above, the Istar's voice rose imploringly as the First Born chided him in sounds of such absolute despair that the Man cringed to hear them.

He sighed; this was likely to take some time. Whatever had been done to this former royal had likewise undermined his belief in the wizard's loyalty. Then again, he realized, what do I know of this wizard that causes me to trust him? I met him but two years hence while that archer may have known him centuries. It was usually difficult to hide one's true nature from an elf. Was the Istar a cunning deceiver, or was this forest warrior grieved past reason?

Casting about for a way to occupy himself and relieve his thoughts of such conundrums, the human spotted the discarded staff and the pointed hat and knelt to retrieve them. The hat he tossed back up onto the pommel of the wizard's saddle from whence it had been dislodged by the Maia's leap into the oak. The staff, however, he approached with a blend of caution and inquisitive interest. The seemingly simple wooden pike fairly hummed as he touched it and his palms tingled as they did when being shaken back into circulation after falling asleep. The implement seemed to be more a weapon than an aid to an elderly man and possessed a greater weight and density than any form of walking stick he had ever handled.

The gnarled pole is as hefty as my broadsword, he realized with surprise and a wry expression touched his features. What he knew about the Istar was limited indeed. With care he reseated the staff, tucking it through the leather loop designed to hold it securely to the Maia's saddle, and then turned to his own baggage. He gave a loving slap to the shoulder of his charger, who blew a satisfied reply against the Man's neck and nudged his muzzle against the small of his master's back.

Aragorn smiled. He was about to search through his pack to see what he might have by way of a small treat for his horse when a low and somber groan of terrible grief and pain breached the solemnity of the woods. With a glance back toward the treetop, his pleasant expression vanished and a frown of worry creased his features. He reached instead for his supply of herbs and a small hide-bound booklet of various recipes for healing ailments and easing discomfort.

There had been no visible blood, no sign of bandaging, and no evidence of recent physical wounding on the Elda's body. At least, that much of it as he had seen in the brief seconds he had watched the wild one fleeing back up into the safety of the canopy. Aragorn did not think he would be called on to treat the sort of lacerations and contusions he normally dressed for his comrades after battles. The nature of this injury was much more difficult to heal and far more likely to be mortal for one of the fair folk than any cut by blade or arrow's piercing. He had never before attempted to cure a broken spirit and was fearful he was not up to the task. Only once had he even known such procedures to succeed: the healing of Celebrian through Elrond's skillful hands.

Attentively he perused the pages of the book and at last settled on a mildly sedative combination of pleasantly scented herbs. If he could get Gandalf to administer the drink to the Wood Elf, deep sleep should follow for several hours, allowing him peace from whatever tortures invaded his mind and plagued his body. This might perhaps prolong life long enough to figure out how to complete the remedy.

Mixing the ingredients with water in a small flask, Aragorn added a few drops of Miruvor for good measure. He was still agitating the stoppered bottle when the rustling and rattling of complaining limbs forewarned the wizard's descent.

Gandalf gathered the ailing archer carefully into his hold and started to maneuver back through the branches, downward towards the forest floor. Legolas held on, arms round the wizard's neck, legs dangling, and shut his eyes.

Aragorn slipped the flask into the scabbard of his sword for easy retrieval and watched the Maia's descent curiously, his gaze taking in the limp creature draped over Gandalf's shoulder. He was eager for a good look at this unfortunate being, and anxious to learn what Imladris had to do with his harried state of mind. Vaulting onto his charger, the Man gathered up the reins of the golden gelding and guided the horse back under the forest giant, speaking soothingly to the animal to keep it calm as its master neared. Soon Gandalf was just a meter or two above them.

"Aragorn!" he called down, confident his comrade was close at hand though unable to see for Legolas obstructed his view. "Come and take him from me; I do not think I can get onto the horse; his legs are tripping me as it is!" he wheezed from his unsuccessful attempts to get astride the animal and waited for the human to move in place. Aragorn stood in his stirrups and reached up to take the Istar's burden.

As soon as he felt the unfamiliar hands grasp his waist, Legolas tightened his grip around Mithrandir and stared angrily down at this unknown person. He quickly landed a solid kick into the human's stomach and the hands left him as a loud 'oof!' sounded out into the air.

"Sweet Elbereth's Tits! Was that necessary?" the Man demanded curtly and neither traveler understood why this caused the elf to flinch so sharply against Gandalf's chest.

"Do not harm him, Legolas. I vouch for his worthiness, though I know my esteem has fallen much of late. I need to get down and cannot do it while holding you," the Maia spoke gently against his friend's ear.

Legolas considered his options and found he had not the strength to even make such an evaluation. The pain drained him; the tears depleted him. He simply felt wrung out, as though he had been swimming against the rapids of the Forest River where it churned through the Central Mountains and could no longer keep up the struggle. He nodded against the grey cloaked shoulder and was aware of the hands again, holding him a little less assuredly this time, as Mithrandir lowered him down to the human. Legolas let his arms slide from round the wizard's neck.

Aragorn received the unresponsive body carefully, drawing him down and seating him upon his horse's whithers. He was privileged to a brief flash of blue brilliance as the elven eyes met his for an instant before the feral elf turned away and leaned upon the stallion's neck, whispering something in the horse's ear that he could not make out. The heavy tangle of golden locks slipped forward over the elf's shoulders, mixing with the dark strands of the horse's hair. Aragorn stared in horrified fascination at the ugly pattern scarring the bare flesh beneath the utilitarian quiver of arrows.

As soon as Gandalf was dressed back in his robes and seated comfortably on his gelding, he turned to Aragorn and motioned for him to hand Legolas over. The archer allowed himself to be passed back to the Maia, settling in front of the wizard, and leaned back with a sigh into the encircling arms. Without a word he promptly fell completely lax, losing consciousness without the aid of the draught the human had concocted.

Aragorn looked on in surprise; that kick had been sound enough yet the elf was in a complete swoon, even his eyes shuttered down in defeat. His healing instincts were all afire as he surveyed the bizarre creature in Gandalf's care. This did not seem like an adversary worthy of the Masters of Dol Guldur.

"Valar! That is but an elfling starved not the brave warrior so skilled with the bow as you have indicated! Gandalf, I doubt your archer will live another ten-day!" he forewarned as his inner sight scanned the wild one carefully.

"We must not allow him to fade, Aragorn! It is good you are with me for your medicinal knowledge and your understanding of elvish ways will assist us in preventing his departure to Mandos.

"What I spoke to you about him is accurate, as you will come to see in time. Here is a worthy heart unlike any other, and a truer friend you will never have, could you win his trust!" the Istar admonished his comrade's scorn.

"I can not say what may help him. If his spirit is destroyed there is nothing that can repair such injury, and indeed he must be much depleted to fall so still so quickly! The drugs I had thought to use to induce rest I now fear to give lest he never wake from such a stupor!" Aragorn said. He decided to reserve further comment of the warrior's worth out of respect for the wizard's opinion.

The three set off once more on the thwarted path.

Tawar sought to prevent the travelers' further deviation into enemy terrain, but the body of evil infesting the area was strong, and grew greater with every step the horses took away from the elvish road. Little could the Greenwood do to protect the Tawarwaith when so many of its beeches, oaks, and myrtles had already fallen to shadow.

The day wore on until at last Aragorn decreed the dimming light under the forest eaves too slight for further travel. The elf had not stirred in all these hours of riding, his head bobbing sideways in time with the gait of the wizard's mount and now the human was worried Legolas would never awaken. He chose a likely campsite not far from a small running freshet spilling out of a spring-fed pond.

Taking the archer in his arms as the wizard dismounted, Aragorn then handed him back when Gandalf settled on the ground. The Man knelt to make a cursory inspection and removed the wild elf's weapons.

This is the child of Ningloriel, he thought and wondered if perhaps here was another foster brother, the blood offspring of Elrond. It was a topic he often sought to bury when he was with Elladan and Elrohir, for they argued it incessantly. Elrohir was convinced they had a baby brother that must be rescued from the clutches of the evil Thranduil and Elladan was appalled at the very idea of an illegitimate sibling. Arwen refused to discuss it at all, as had her mother, preferring to ignore the fact of her father's long association with the Woodland Queen.

Aragorn had always been the moderator of the twin's debates, keeping hidden his secret wish for this mysterious elf to come and diminish some of the attention he received as the youngest of the family. He remembered once, as a small child, seeing Ningloriel when in Lorien, but she had swept past him as though he did not exist. He had found her so beautiful then that he could never fault this hauteur. For long years after had fantasized that this glorious Queen would become his new mother and bring her infant elfling to dwell in Imladris, not realizing the 'child' was by then already several hundred years his senior. He smiled sadly, for long prior to his adulthood he had abandoned such notions, never thinking to actually see Legolas. Yet here was, broken and alone, outcast and forbidden to associate with even his own people.

For this was the infamous kinslayer, first to cause the deaths of elf-kind in over four millennia, a longer time than any kingdom of Man had yet continued. Many were the tales told in inns and alehouses of Erebor regarding the treacherous and fearsome traits of this Wood Elf. Aragorn appraised him; finding him beyond any description he had yet been told. Aboriginal and fey, certainly; dangerous and deadly he judged him as well. But was he cruel and cold, bloodthirsty and vicious as the stories depicted? Was this an evil being twisted to the will of the Dark One as many alleged? Seeing him defenseless and vulnerable, Aragorn could not believe any of the rumors.

Fingers touched the hairless chin and turned the elfin face towards him, and Aragorn could not help a small sigh departing from him, as the firelight played over the clean lines of the elegant features, for the beauty of his countenance was great. Like his mother, and yet there was something here she lacked. And young, far younger than any other of the First Born I have met, he realized and suddenly wished the eyes would open again so he could somehow restore the abused innocence he had briefly beheld within them early in the day.

The fingers moved into the strange texture of the long golden hair. Aragorn had never seen hair worn in this manner and wondered about it as he played with a lock absentmindedly. His gaze traveled with a healer's interest over the rest of the physical form, noting the lean and spartan flesh stretched firmly over the compactly muscled body. Not fit, exactly, for he was far too thin to be called that, but not consumed beyond repair of his health either, if his spirit could be rejuvenated.

His digits traced the fresh pink skin over the newly healed arrow cut only weeks old and Aragorn was surprised that this had left so bold a mark, for it seemed to his touch not to have been a very deep wound. With a frown and careful movements he turned Legolas on his side and explored the awful expanse of marring across his back. He looked up enquiringly at Gandalf.

"It is unusual for an elf to carry permanent scars from wounds, unless they are life-threatening, for healing is so rapid. What can you say of this?" he asked quietly.

"I do not know all of it, but it was allowed under the Laws of the Woodland Realm as part of the Judgement. The one responsible has since been banished, but not before the damage was already done," the wizard sighed, shaking his head. He had held his peace as Aragorn made his inspection, curious how he would react to this phantom come to life, this ever-present yet unseen interloper in his family's home, but trusted the Man's good judgement would guide him to the right conclusions about Legolas.

Aragorn's features contorted in disgust for such an appalling definition of justice. "If it was lawful to do it, why was the perpetrator expelled?" he asked and grew more horrified to hear the tale behind the chastisement and its culmination. This confirmed his earlier diagnosis. "So the real malady is grief, and all else springs from that," the human mused to himself and felt a greater respect for the wild elf's strength. Legolas had been bearing his guilty burden a very long time and was reaching the limit of his perseverance. He found he was profoundly saddened that the former prince would succumb to the turmoil that sought to steal his fëa.

Gently he turned the archer back over upon the Maia's lap and settled his head in the crook of Gandalf's arm. Aragorn softly slapped the insensible patient's cheek to rouse him, but not even an eyelash fluttered in response. He cautiously placed his palm over the old chest wound and this elicited a feeble moan and a virulent shudder from Legolas. With deep concern Aragorn's gaze met the wizard's. He removed his hand and rose, letting Gandalf see to the elf as he set about securing their position and picketing the horses.

The animals, he noted with satisfaction, displayed no greater fidgets than one would expect respectable beasts reared in Imladris to feel when wandering through such a pernicious land. This he took as a positive sign their area was clear of dangers. The human quickly collected enough dead wood to supply them through the night and lit a large bonfire, more to ward away prowling wargs and spiders than to provide for warmth in the stuffy jungle. These tasks complete he returned to his companions with a water flask.

"Should he stir, give him as much water as he will take but nothing more," he said. "I will go see what can be found in this dread place to serve as food."

"Is there nothing else to be done?" Mithrandir studied his human friend with anxious eyes, but Aragorn only shrugged.

"If you know any chants of power for such curing among your order, then say them," he said bluntly as he rose. Leaving the camp, he took to hunting for a time, reluctant to hurry for he feared he would discover the immortal lifeless on his return.

He had been gone some hours before suitable game crossed his path and even this was meager by his standards: four small grouse and a quoll. Little in the way of healthy herbs grew in the murky illumination under the canopy, and so a handful of edible fungus was the best he could provide to accompany the meat.

Stepping into the firelight Aragorn halted, for the elf was still senseless and Gandalf was bent over the prostrate form. The wizard was bathing Legolas' forehead with water to try and make him respond, and the Man detected the refreshing scent of king's foil in the fluid. The Maia was so intent upon his task that he did not hear the return of his friend.

"Aina Manwë, aina Varda, ilyar valainar Valar!

Á hortal Erukyemenya: I Iluisa, I Iluvala, Iluvatar.

Maquetin envinyatalië an sína Laiquendë,

Sína cundu aldion, sína taurë orato, I Tirno Taurion, Laiqualassë!

Áva lavil nwalmerya na taituva. Án antol indorya estel ar fëarya tuo.

Á envinyatal se! Á envinyatal se! Nucumna, maquetin sína.

Valar Valuvar.

[Holy Manwë, holy Varda, all divine Valar!]

[Speed my prayer to Eru, the all knowing, the all powerful, Iluvatar.]

[I ask healing for this Green Elf]

[This prince of the trees, this forest champion, the Watcher of the Great Wood, Legolas!]

[Do not allow his torment to be prolonged. Give his heart hope and his soul strength.]

[Heal him! Renew him! Humbled, I ask this.]

[The will of the Valar be done.]"

The wizard reverently murmured these words of a healing spell.

"Valar Valuvar," Aragorn added with a brisk nod of his head and laying down the night's meal approached the two eternal beings. "No change?" he queried and Gandalf shook his head dejectedly, despondent after having tried every incantation he could recall and some he invented on the spot with no response from his comatose friend.

"Perhaps there has been more improvement than is apparent," spoke the Man. Aragorn's eyes twinkled just a bit as he surveyed the sickly Elda, detecting what the Maia, lacking healing insight, could not. "Á cuiva, Legolas!" [Awake, Legolas!] He uttered the command softly but the elf heard him and stirred, shifting as though struggling against it. Seconds later doleful eyes gazed accusingly up at him and the confused warrior shoved himself up into a seated position.

"What are you two doing here, Mithrandir?" he asked, and glanced around their camp, frowning in bewilderment. "And if we must stop then at least let us get up into the trees for the night," he complained and a strange expression traversed his visage. "This is more of your underhanded manipulation! How did you bring me here, what magic have you done to me?" he suddenly shouted as he scrambled up onto his feet and scanned the area frantically for his displaced weapons.

"What? What are you talking about now?" the Istar sputtered in frustration. "Hours have passed as I toiled to restore you and yet your first words are more insults!" the wizard's eyes flashed in exasperation. "That is entirely rude! Surely someone in that dreadful catacomb you call a home must have tried to teach you proper manners! The words 'Thank you' occur to me!" he scolded, but this served only to irritate the over-stressed archer.

Legolas snatched up his quiver and bow, making for the nearest tree with a low growl of malcontent. "I have naught to thank you for, and that accursed place was never a home to me! Stay on the ground if you like; I will shoot as many Orcs as I have arrows in your defense from above, even though I have ample reason to leave you to be killed!" and so speaking he disappeared into the foliage.

Aragorn grinned; realizing that to Legolas it seemed he had merely napped a few minutes after their initial encounter rather than the hours he had been unconscious.

The wizard must have been chanting unceasingly to bring about so thorough an erasure of the young one's earlier agony, Aragorn thought and was truly encouraged for the archer's recovery in light of this new development. The Man was softly laughing and turned back to the fire to prepare the meal, shaking his head at the perturbed expression the Istar turned to him.

"Do not blame him for his faulty memory, Old One!" he said. "The poor creature seems not to recall much of the day's earlier events so complete was his descent into oblivion! Whatever grudge is between you was never settled as far as his retrospection knows, and I fear you have displeased him further by your display of affronted sagacity!" he chuckled at the forlorn look that replaced the wizard's previous haughty one and resumed his culinary task.

Gandalf walked to the base of the tree and stared up into the darkness, unable to detect Legolas until a very lividly furious Wood Elf plummeted down beside him and stomped over to the fire.

"You called me a poor creature? Who are you to come here to my lands and belittle me?" he shouted as color rose rapidly up to his ears and he pointed at the Man's chest with his dagger. The human backed away a few steps and held up apologetic palms.

"Careful! Your recovery was forced and I suspect your wrath is using up whatever energy the wizard garnered for you with his magic!" he cautioned and this remark maddened Legolas even more.

"Ai! It is unbearable! I should have left you both to face the Orcs and find your deaths!" he was beside himself and turned to fling the dirk away so that it ploughed deeply into the dirt rather than into the human's heart. "What are you doing in my woods? Go back to whatever country you derive from and leave me in peace!" he railed and began pacing round the camp in agitation, for the human was correct; he had only a vague remembrance of how he came to be with these two. He recalled fully what had driven him into the tress, however, and a fresh wave of burning anguish assailed him. He crossed his arms round himself as he began shivering and could not stop, struggling to maintain his composure as the pain built to its crescendo. Abruptly he leaped back up into the trees and vanished from view, fearful to be on the ground with them in such a vulnerable state.

"Legolas," the wizard called and stared up into the blackness uselessly. "Please come down and I will explain what is going on." But no reply came back.

"There is nothing for it, Gandalf! You will simply have to go back up in the trees, apologize again, and coax him from cover," Aragorn quipped and settled near the fire, leaning against his pack. "You should do so now, while the blade is buried there in the ground," he encouraged. "What does he hold against you, anyway, wizard? Should I be mindful of your character in light of his reaction?" Aragorn added, only sarcastic in part, and turned to search through his luggage, taking out his clay pipe and filling it.

Mithrandir gave a grunt expressing his appreciation of this remark but refrained from encouraging further discussion.

Soon drifting smoke rings and the aroma of the tobacco caught the Maia's attention and he delved in his saddlebag for his own briar bowl. They smoked quietly together as the stew simmered and added its inviting odor to the musty surroundings.

"Will his mind clear?" Gandalf asked and was relieved to see the Man nod assent. The earlier confrontation had been horrible, and he truly wished the fallen prince spared the reliving of it, and had no desire to do so himself either.

A very quiet but nonetheless discernable gasp of misery reached them from above and frowning dismay met worried care as the two travelers exchanged glances. But the power of the wizard's spells held and the current distress was certainly far less severe than was the afternoon's.

"He will not come down?" the Man asked, curious. Gandalf shrugged. "Not even to eat?" Aragorn pressed and the wizard slowly shook his head as they both stared into the empty blackness of the thick canopy.

"He would not eat this kind of food anyway," said the Istar.

"Does not seem to eat very often."

"No, probably not, given the region he has been in for the last few years."

"Tell me," the human said and listened to the recount of Legolas' history, making appropriately shocked and indignant sounds over the significant events he had survived to date. Mithrandir did not reveal the intrigue regarding Legolas' true father however, for he did not wish to violate the wild elf's remaining confidence in his character. Besides, Aragorn no doubt had enough information on that from his side of the mountains.

The two remained quiet for a time, as Aragorn seemed to be assimilating the full import of the tragic tale.

"I believe that is a worthy and brave hearted warrior, hidden above us," the Man finally said, gazing shrewdly at his companion. "The stories I have heard are lies; this is not the Kinslayer of Mirkwood. Surely, this elf is the same called the Archer of Erebor in Bard's kingdom, that aided the destruction of Blog and thus made safe the roads and byways for leagues and leagues far from the borders of his own lands. Now he seeks to take on, singly, the most noisome of the Dark Lord's creations! A worthy ally and I hope I shall be able to count him as such."

Gandalf understood his intent and nodded sagely.

"Yet, you name one and the same being with these appellations. Difficult it must be to bear both titles: hero and outlaw. His strength of will is most uncommon even among the fair folk. We are fortunate he is with us, for the way leads us astray and Eru knows what awaits at trail's end!" he joined in the irregular style of apology.

They both knew elven hearing made all they spoke clear as spring water, and Gandalf understood the wild one's character. Legolas was not one to bear grudges or remain angry for very long in the face of sincere remorse. Also, many were the blessings of the Valar he had called down upon the Wood Elf; these must surely relieve some of his understandable mistrust. Mithrandir was convinced they had not encountered Legolas to no purpose.

High in the lightless canopy, the woodland warrior listened. His memory had returned and he knew he had accepted the wizard's previous apology and relented to his care willingly. Mithrandir, trying to talk his way out of his falsehoods with pretty words! he thought with a quirky smirk. But Legolas noted how the wizard held his tongue and kept his ugly secret from his companion's knowledge. And the human, Aragorn the wizard called him, hoped to undo his insults with lavish praises. Still, the Man had not sought to harm him even when threatened at dagger point, and the Man's steady eyes had looked upon him kindly when he had awakened from the darkness. At least they wished these kind words to cancel the harsh ones so that a fresh start could be attempted, and the feral elf accepted this peace offering.

As the two travelers had hoped, the wild elf dropped down right beside them and crouched on the ground looking from one to the other seriously.

"All the more reason to get into these trees!" he joined the conversation at Gandalf's last point. "You are both open to easy attack and I do not think I have enough arrows if a full patrol of the monsters arrives!" he was almost pleading with them, for every instinct he possessed warned that the Orcs were already on the march toward the encampment.

"Your council is wise, Legolas, yet we cannot heed it," the Man said quietly. "We are not elves and in the upper reaches, where you would have us climb, the branches will not suffer our weight upon them for such a long period."

Legolas frowned; he had forgotten about this problem.

"We will set watches, confident that you are above keeping guard as well," the Istar added. "And perhaps we will have a peaceful night."

Legolas could not think of any plan better and remained silent, watching as the Man went to the stewpot and ladled out their miserly meal. He smiled at the Wood Elf but received no answering uplift of the firmly set lips in the fair one's face. Handing a bowl to Gandalf, he turned back to his new comrade.

"I am Aragorn, a Ranger," he said, extending his hand Man-style to his companion. "I have recently made acquaintance with our mutual friend here," he added with a nod to Gandalf.

"Legolas, Tirn-en-Tawar," came the reply as the slender hand gripped the sturdy one and pumped it once as he had seen the woodsmen do. "And I am not so sure one can call a wizard 'friend'. Definitions vary so from one kind to another," he smiled a little and let his gaze slip sideways as the Istar exclaimed in aggravation at this cut.

TBC


	31. Chapter 31

** Gwaedh O Gwend Uireb **[Bond of Eternal Friendship]

The bonfire greedily gulped the close, oppressive air and malingered hungrily over the taste of the aromatic branches buttressed against the lethal darkness and danger of the Greenwood's nocturnal predators. Stretching avidly towards the boundaries established for their short life, the flames tentatively touched the dry ground beyond these limits, tossing out bright sparks, testing the temperament of the surrounding forest floor to determine if anything there could be devoured as fuel and utilized to advance their escape.

The small flares were bold and the living incandescence darted and weaved cleverly, attempting to steal a greater share of sustenance from the trees and thus, secure its continued growth. Nonetheless, the sources of this tempting feast remained just beyond the range of the slavering jaws of red and orange heat. Wherever the fire chased after a tumbling leaf, it found the earth noncompliant, offering little more than crumbs of bark and tidbits of debris that were rapidly reduced to harmless ash, and so it could not advance beyond the carefully constructed barricade established before ever it burst into being.

The Wood Elf did not trust these flaming tongues, speaking their cheerfully crackling chatter and laughing in short loud pops, blowing soft sighs in blue jets, offering warm comfort and hot food while plotting to charge a heavy fine for the use of their potent energy and temporary docility. Legolas could not sit with ease and parley with such an inconstant and poorly controlled confederate, and wished he was in an area where the trees bore lofty flets. Then even his guests could ascend to safer rest so the fire would not be needed.

The three companions sat near the blaze in silence, the mortal and the wizard devouring their watery grouse stew while Legolas watched. The Man had offered to share the meagre repast, and he had declined as graciously as possible. Then Aragorn had searched his pack, disclosing a packet of lembas, and handed this to the elf. Legolas took it with thanks but only ate one piece, more curious than before. When he attempted to return the remainder, the mortal had insisted it be kept for future needs.

_Who is this human with such close ties to elf-kind that he carries waybread, and what elves granted so great a privilege to an echil [human]?_ Legolas wondered as he tucked the packet away in his quiver. When he returned his eyes to the human, he found Aragorn studying him.

"You are a Ranger, yet I believed the Rangers lived to the north and west of the Misty Mountains," he said to the Man.

"That is true."

"I have not heard of any elves in that region."

"Nor have I." Aragorn took up his pipe again and with exaggerated care filled and lit it, suppressing a smile as the slightest of sighs escaped from the exasperated Wood Elf.

"Then how did you come by elvish clothing, elf raised horses, and that sword was not forged in any human foundry either."

"I got them from elves, of course!" the Man said in tones clearly indicating surprise at Legolas' failure to comprehend the obvious. Truthfully, he was uncertain if it would be wise to admit his connection to Imladris, given the hurt that had come to Legolas from that Realm. He had no wish to return the elf to his previous state of turmoil and wished he had thought to confer with the wizard about this before waking the archer.

"Elves do not trade such goods with humans, to my knowledge." These words from the woodland warrior followed his much more audible sigh of irritation.

"No?"

"No!"

"Then perhaps they were gifts."

"Exactly, but what elves would give such gifts to a human, making him like to one of their own?"

"Why is it important to you? Are you saying humans are not deserving of such gifts?"

"I spoke not those words! Forgive me, I can see you do not wish to discuss it; I did not know it would be a sensitive topic," Legolas said and removed his gaze to Mithrandir. The Maia had settled back with his head resting on his pack, pointed hat pulled down so that his face was almost covered, and seemed to be, but was definitely not, sleeping. A fleeting glance back at the Man revealed no signs of offense, but Legolas was unwilling to attempt conversation again based on the first failure.

A loud pop grabbed their attention and Legolas startled as a bright shower of sparks erupted from an exploding sap-heavy bough of eucalyptus and dusted his shoulders, briefly inflicting smarting needles on bare skin before he brushed them away in irritation. A larger faggot, flung higher by the force, fell back through the air and settled upon his arm. With a curse he plucked it off, leaping up to create more distance between his person and the glowing embers.

Gandalf stirred to tend the unruly blaze, reordering the displaced tinder and shifting around the wayward branches, trying to tell if any green ones were still aflame in order to pull them out before the event repeated.

Legolas stood gazing at the small blister forming on his forearm and groaned aloud in dismay. His small brush with the cruel heat reminded him of the torment the humans in the woodsmen's village had endured.

"Cemendur," he whispered and began striding back and forth, furious with himself on realizing he had completely forgotten the suffering child in his own worries. Now he could think of nothing else.

"What was that?" the wizard asked, his regard drawn back to the Wood Elf, and he did not like the heightened agitation Legolas displayed, for it was not the archer's natural state to so behave. The manic burst of activity reminded him of the behavior exhibited earlier in the day, and that had preceded the advent of the elf's overborne rout towards the brink of bleak despondency.

The Man rose and approached to see what harm was done, receiving a bewildered and suspicious look from the elf for his trouble.

"Are you burnt?" he asked, for the wild elf had stopped moving and pressed a hand against his forearm. Aragorn reached out but Legolas backed further away. "I am trained in healing," the human offered as explanation for the Elda was staring at him as though his actions were completely inexplicable.

"What good is that? He is probably dead now, too," these worrisome words were barely audible and the mortal shifted his gaze to the wizard, and both turned to their companion apprehensively. "Alas! My mistakes claim more and more souls! I will never free them all!" Legolas was growing increasingly disconsolate by the second. "Why do these others have to suffer for my faults?" he demanded and sat back down, hunching over his updrawn legs as he glowered into the fire's heart.

"What is this about, Legolas? Who is dead?" Mithrandir asked in trepidation.

"I should never have gone to the Southern Regions!" the archer exclaimed angrily. "My activity there has exacted a terrible price from the woodsmen and Tawar!" Legolas' voice rose in volume as he glared at the Istar. "Children! Innocents, Mithrandir, burned to death! I know not how many trees lost to the shaking ground."

"How is it you are the cause of that?" the human asked, aghast.

Legolas shot him a look stricken with anguish, mistaking the Man's words for accusation. "I made the Wraiths come out from Dol Guldur and face me. They were not pleased, for many Orcs perished and yet I was not captured. They caused the ground to tremble, and this in turn felled several trees, and that caused a fire in one of the human's cabins, and before anyone could do anything the flames spread and viciously devoured many lives, human and green." This abbreviated account tumbled swiftly from his lips, pebbles and gravel hurrying before a landslide.

"That is not your doing, Legolas. The Dark Lord has long haunted and harassed that region; for far more numerous years than your recent interests there," the wizard stated firmly, but he could see that the wild elf was not hearing his words.

"There were two little babes scorched in the flames, twin brothers called Carnil and Cemendur," Legolas lowered his head in misery, ignoring Gandalf's remark, if even he heard it. "The father was crushed under the collapsing roof, but the mother lived for days while the fire slowly devoured her. Carnil lasted a month in horrible agony before succumbing to his injuries. Cemendur was still living when I left the village, but he had grown worse again. He is probably dead now, too," he repeated the muffled prediction and rocked himself dejectedly, swept up in the relentless avalanche of guilt and misery.

Aragorn stepped closer and knelt near; his heart wrenched in concert with the warrior's over this fresh sorrow heaped upon the First Born's burdened spirit. That Legolas loved these humans was openly revealed and the mortal wondered at it, for his dealings in Laketown had left an impression of vigilant allegiance between the Wood Elves and their human neighbors, but not friendship. This elf keenly experienced the loss and strife of the people in his Realm, and Aragorn knew not if the primeval atheling could shoulder the additional grief of their persecution.

The Man endeavored to summon words to refute Legolas' claim of responsibility, clearly a manifestation of his shattered soul. No one could be the cause of such events or possess the means of preventing them, nor would Legolas believe these things in a healthy state of being.

_The Maia's prayers were only a charade after all, relieving the burden of the pain but not touching the source of it, like a wound where the skin has regrown over the surface but inside the injury festers and spreads its poison through the body_, the Man thought and cautiously touched the distraught Elda's arm.

"Legolas, what Gandalf says is right. You are not responsible for the Dark Lord's actions," he reasoned.

"What would you know of it?" the fallen prince demanded, and got up again to resume his excited exercise. "You have no idea what doom dogs all that I care for! What if my failings have become as a weapon in the Dark One's hands? What if I have turned into one of his chief agents?" Legolas' own words terrified him and his appalled astonishment was mirrored in the Man's eyes. The archer retreated, shaking his head, not believing he had spoken these words aloud. "Ai, Elbereth! It is true!"

Aragorn rose also but did not know whether to stay or draw near. Every instinct in his being predicted that the wild elf was going to bolt, but as to preventing this his thoughts only suggested a running tackle. This he rejected, for he had no doubt that in any contest against the wary warrior he would be quickly dispatched, grief or no. He looked to Gandalf for guidance.

"There is no truth in what you speak," the Istar turned, a meek and meagre old man no longer, shed of his humble pilgrim's demeanor, and confronted the archer. For here was Olórin in their midst, mighty agent of the Ainur. His voice filled the clearing like a wind from the Western Sea, deeply commanding, flushing away all lesser airs in its path and raising the fire up high in a brilliance of ruby flame and gold-kissed cinders. The simply worded statement rang with the majesty of the Music and echoed in overtones of the puissance of Aman so that Aragorn was overawed and stepped back.

Yet Legolas did not heed him.

The forest champion turned to flee back up into the trees where he could suffer this new revelation unobserved, desperate to find a means to stop these dire catastrophes from accosting all he held dear. Legolas worried his mere proximity to the travelers would result in their demise, rather than granting them protection from the evils in his lands. And how could he ever return to Fearfaron now, bringing this harrowing condemnation to that peaceful talan? This Legolas could not bear to imagine, for so much harm had already befallen the carpenter from his association with the archer.

"Gandalf! Stop him!" Aragorn shouted, and joined the Maia in giving chase as Legolas darted out of the camp and disappeared from view.

Legolas made it just beyond the fire's illumination and vaguely heard the shout of warning from the Man to the Istar before the vehemence of the slashing penetration gutted his soul and brought him to his knees.

He found he could not even breathe, each attempt to inhale increased the degree of extremis tenfold, it seemed, and he curled over until his forehead was nearly touching the earth and his arms squeezed vise-like around his chest. His left hand began futilely searching for the hilt of the blade piercing his heart, so desperate to pull it out, yet there was no weapon there. Panicked, Legolas unfolded his form, a grotesque blossoming of raw torment, and thrashed upon the ground clawing at his old wound, each gasping heave commuted to a gargled and shuddering groan.

"Valar!" Aragorn froze for a second, horrified at this sight. Beside him Gandalf cried out the elf's name in dismay, hurrying past the human to kneel beside the suffering warrior.

Twisting against the affliction as if being slowly dismembered, Legolas struggled against the intangible adversary. A fresh attack swept through him and his heels flailed against the earth, quickly scoring a series of grooves deeply into the indurate soil. In his frenzy to reach the center of this searing torture he broke the buckles of his quiver's harness and tore the tips of his elegant fingers in the process. A scatter of obsidian points littered the soil beneath him and the sharp report of an arrow's shaft snapping accompanied the grueling conflict.

This was not pain; that was something he understood well. Pain was a warrior's friend, warning of the body's injuries and demanding attention for hurts and ills. He knew how to control pain, how to use pain. This was unlike anything he knew; it felt like being devoured, like being eaten alive.

Legolas screamed.

The Man quickly made an about face and raced for his pack and the supply of herbs he had brought with him. Grabbing up the water skin and a blazing brand Aragorn returned, squelching his shock and thrusting the end of the sturdy branch into the ground to secure the light close at hand. In the red glow of the torch's illumination, Aragorn could see the straps of the feral elf's quiver hanging loose from around him and bright streaks of blood across his chest where he had raked through his own flesh.

Quickly and carefully Aragorn mixed a combination of ingredients, grimacing as he tried to determine the patient's body mass, difficult even under the best conditions when dealing with elves. _If only Elrond were here_, he thought, knowing the potency of the remedy might go too far and send the elf into permanent insensibility, or conversely give barely any relief at all. He glanced up to find the wizard regarding him with somber eyes.

Mithrandir was attempting to restrain the archer's pain-racked convulsions, holding Legolas' hands away from his chest. As Aragorn watched, another spasm claimed the elf, heralded by the hideous sucking in of a jaggedly wheezing breath. The attack rigorously stretched every muscle in the slender body and nearly bent him in half as his back arched up off the ground. The quiver disgorged more of its contents, fletching and lembas captured in the disarrayed locks of gold.

Bound in the deepening sorrow's deadly embrace, Legolas held his lungs' capacity as long as possible before necessity demanded exhalation. The sound rushing from him then was unlike any expression of despair or torment either Aragorn or Gandalf had ever heard, for the process of grieving death had not been witnessed by any but the First Born.

"Do whatever you can, Aragorn, and soon, please," the Istar entreated.

The Man gave a resolute nod and drew closer, lifting Legolas' head from its unnatural angle of repose and raising the medication to his lips. The consummate terror in the elf's eyes as they connected with his nearly caused Aragorn to drop the vial, never having beheld such dread upon the features of one of the fair folk before. _This is no way for such a one to die_, he thought with anger and his determination to succeed in healing the archer was increased.

"This will ease the pain, drink," he enjoined gently and tried to send his patient a reassuring smile. Slowly he dripped the fluid into Legolas' mouth, drop by drop between haggard draws of his diaphragm, and watched for any sign of effect within the body. Finally the last of it was administered and still Aragorn continued to support the elf's neck, maintaining eye contact whenever the Elda found strength to open his, trying to impart a sense of the compassion he felt for the suffering being. Now all the two travelers could do was wait and attempt to console Legolas through the horrific discomfort they were forced to witness.

The liquid took an hour's passing to make itself known, a minute span of time that required an eternity's domain for its transit, an eon of seconds within which the vindictive and jealous grief so closely coveted the helpless soul. Then the contortions subtly eased and the length between them increased until at last Legolas was able to take more than three gasps in the intervening calm. His body relaxed during these sessations, but overwrought from the unnatural exercise, every limb trembled in the aftermath of the draining episodes. The rending groans wrung from his exhausted lungs subsided, replaced with labored breaths that deepened and slowed as the agony retreated.

Aragorn surveyed the progress of his medication with relief; silently sending a prayer of thanks to both the Star-Kindler for hearing his unuttered prayers and his foster-father for teaching him the ways of herb-lore. He looked up to see that Gandalf's shining eyes mimicked his and they shared guarded smiles.

"It is working!" Gandalf said.

Aragorn nodded and reached over to grip the old wizard's shoulder with reassuring firmness, for which one's benefit, his or Gandalf's, he could not determine. "Stay here with him. I will go make a comfortable spot by the fireside for his rest," he said, and left them there.

The preparations consisted of no more than combining both their bedrolls into one more yielding pallet and folding a blanket into a pillow to support the invalid's head. This done, Aragorn returned and helped Gandalf lift Legolas carefully, one at his shoulders and the other his feet, but they could not help but hurt him anyway for the pain was not centered at the location of a wound that could be thus avoided.

"Daro! Avo! [Stop! Do not!]" the archer pleaded piteously. The pain had only just relented and he wished never to move again. Why must they jerk him about so? Could they not just let him die peacefully? Their hands felt like wicks of flaming lamp oil laid upon his skin. Now that he longed for oblivion, the state remained cruelly elusive and he could not escape his fate.

The travelers soon had their charge stretched out on the bedding and tried to make him as quiescent as they could. Aragorn cautiously took the quiver off and set it aside, gently disentangling the arrows and plucking waybread crumbs from Legolas' hair. He adjusted the blanket to better cradle the archer's weary head.

Gandalf gathered up the heavy tresses and pulled them back to drape over the makeshift pillow rather than let Legolas lie upon his mane and feel too hot. This done, the wizard retrieved the small bowl of athelas water he had been using earlier and gently wiped down the wild elf's face and neck and cleansed away the bloody tracks upon his chest.

While he was busy, Aragorn went back into his satchel and retrieved a small jar of ointment. This had a cool and pleasing aroma reminiscent of cucumbers and mint, and he gingerly smoothed a small amount over the unpleasant fingernail gouges. Beyond these minor treatments there was little more the two companions could accomplish, and so upon completing them both moved back to give their patient room to rest.

The Istar rebuilt the campfire, mindful of any leftover sap-filled boughs, and then took up his pipe and settled again beside Legolas.

Aragorn returned to the scene of the distressing ordeal and gathered up the arrowheads and scattered bolts from the ground, retrieving also a folded bit of parchment and two feathers. Once back in the camp, he sat beside the elf and took up the quiver, replaced the wild archer's belongings, and examined the strapping to learn whether he could repair the closures.

Legolas watched their activity through half-closed eyes, grateful to be put down again yet too fatigued to speak his thanks. Now that they had moved aside, he found his eyes trained towards the merrily dancing firelight and shut them tight. With effort he turned his head away and was relieved to find his vision directed toward the human, who sent Legolas a smile that he knew was supposed to be heartening, and so he tried to return it. He took a shaky breath and shifted, wincing against a small jab near his heart, and spoke. But the words were too soft for the mortal's hearing and Aragorn immediately set aside his work to come closer and bend down. Legolas determinedly repeated his question.

"How long?"

Aragorn sat back, for this query unsettled him, though of course he should have expected such. He looked away from the elf, his steady gaze focused inward as he tried to decide how to respond. The Man felt he could not lie to Legolas, knowing that would only jeopardize the elf's trust in him, as yet a tenuous construction. Still, he did not wish to give a prognosis devoid of hope; he could not himself bear to comprehend that this unusual immortal must perish.

"Honestly, I do not know," he finally answered. "I have never attended an elf suffering from this sort of malady. It is not certain you will die; for while such injuries to the spirit are difficult to repair, it is not impossible." He met Legolas' eyes with what he hoped was optimism and confidence in the archer's reserves of strength and fortitude, both of which would be needed if recovery would become more than a façade wrought of wizard's spells and healer's elixirs.

"Yes, it can go either way, Legolas," Gandalf joined in and reached out to pat the warrior's shoulder compassionately, letting his palm rest there. "You have lasted this long and you need only proper care and rest to rebound from this latest woe. Once back with Fearfaron, you will recover speedily, even as you did before," his words resounded in what was surely that same compelling tone, the glory of the Ainur underscoring every syllable.

"I believe that also," said Aragorn and was surprised at the confident sound of his own voice.

Did he really think this; was healing possible or was he lying to himself now as well? He looked at Legolas again through his physician's perception and sat up straighter, puzzled, as he peered carefully at the resilient body recumbent on the bedroll pallet.

In the shadowed firelit camp a hazy light was visible coalescing around the site where the Maia's hand lay against the troubled Elda's skin, and seemed to suggest transference of fundamental energy was occurring from the Ainu to the elf. Aragorn looked up sharply into the wizard's eyes. This was unprecedented, as far as he knew. Gandalf, according to his own explanations to the Man, was breaking several restrictions of his order to assist Legolas in this manner.

Mithrandir met Aragorn's gaze defiantly, daring a challenge. He had come to a decision, and nothing would shake his confidence in its rightness. As he reasoned it, he had already interfered in Legolas' well being by sending him to Dol Guldur and by hiding information about Malthen. It was no more than just for the Istar to correct as much of the damage as possible, and what he was doing was little enough in any case. Gandalf did not know for certain if Legolas would be receptive to this source of renewal, or if the strength he wished to give the archer could really be incorporated into the immortal's soul.

All through the night the wizard kept contact with Legolas, a hand either upon his shoulder or softly caressing his forehead with the athelas soaked cloth. Mithrandir talked quietly to him, intermittently intoning the words of a blessing or a curing spell, imbuing the prayers with the revered authority of his kind. Thus the pain remained diminished but unconquered, and Aragorn did not have to repeat his treatment.

Mithrandir convinced the elf to drink water at regular intervals and then just at dawn coaxed him into swallowing a bite of lembas as well. Gradually the archer seemed to be acclimating to this more bearable level of discomfort and was regaining some small measure of his strength.

Aragorn was of two minds regarding this, for it was horrendous to even consider anyone having to make such an adaptation and yet this was precisely what was required of Legolas if they were to continue their journey. _And continue we must, for I have no doubt as to the reliability of the archer's warnings about Orc activity_. Perception among the Eldar was well documented, and that of Wood Elves was said to be doubly acute. Though the Central Mountains were yet several leagues away, he deemed it unwise to remain at their camp much past midday if they hoped to keep ahead of their enemies.

By midmorning the wild elf was sitting up cross-legged before the bonfire's remains. Though his head was bowed low Gandalf simply used this as means to feed more energy into Legolas' soul, massaging the back of the neck and across the shoulders vigorously as though to increase the circulation of this vital infusion throughout his being.

Pleased to see such improvement, Aragorn still feared that the recovery was progressing too slowly. At this rate it would be late in the afternoon before the three could mount the horses and move forward. He did not wish to use any further medicines if he did not need to, fearful of overdosing the slight and undernourished elf, but somehow needed to boost Legolas' responses. With sudden inspiration Aragorn turned to his pack and retrieved his small leather flask of Miruvor. This he opened and offered to Legolas, who looked at the Man with genuine regard before gratefully taking it.

"I thank you for your kindness and your aid, Aragorn," he said in the rasping remains of a voice the affliction's siege had spared for his use. "I am in your debt."

"As I said, I am trained in healing; no thanks are required nor anything owed," the mortal waved away the archer's solicitudes nonchalantly as though curing broken elves was a commonplace event. "But drink some of that, it is Miruvor and will do you good," he said encouragingly and smiled as Legolas took an extremely small sip.

The elf's face reflected pleasant surprise at the taste of the cordial and he tipped a large mouthful down his throat before handing it back to the human. Almost instantly he felt warm and contented, filled with a peculiarly peaceful exuberance.

"I am certain my own part in your recovery is quite minor," Aragorn added as he returned the flask to his pack and glanced appraisingly at Gandalf. He was definitely unprepared to meddle in the wizard's business, but was interested to know the Istar's motives with regard to the elf.

A contented murmur escaped Legolas' lips and he closed his eyes, leaning back into the wizard's touch. He sensed the flow of energy between them; it was almost like communion with Tawar, though not as overwhelming. Also, the current went only one way, through the Maia's hands into the archer's essence, whereas during his joining with the Great Wood his soul mingled with the forest's consciousness. This contact with Mithrandir was more like being replenished, he felt as a wilted plant might when absorbing nutrients and fluids during a gentle rainfall. Legolas was uncertain how such a gift could ever be returned, and vowed the Istar would have his eternal allegiance.

"That is a trait I value highly in you, Legolas," the wizard gently pulled the archer back into a tight hug, wrapping both arms around his chest and resting his bearded chin on the golden head. "You always seek to return more than you are given. I receive and accept your pledge gratefully." Mithrandir released him and resumed the brisk massage. Legolas smiled back over his shoulder at him, not surprised in the least that his old friend understood his intentions.

Aragorn, however, was completely confused and stared from one to the other, waiting for an explanation, but neither of his companions appeared prepared to enlighten him.

"Now who is engaging in secretive communications," he admonished, throwing a belligerent glance in the Istar's direction before moving to the pot boiling above the ruddy coals. He was preparing an herbal tea that should help with the strain riding was sure to place on the already weakened elf, and he poured this into an earthenware cup to cool.

"Peace, Aragorn; it is not so," Legolas said and sat forward, instinctively reaching out to clasp the Man's arm. "You, also, have my eternal fealty! Regardless of your courteous dismissal I will not forget my debt to you."

Aragorn was moved; he had done little to earn such gratitude and the wild elf's declaration was far too great a remittance for so small a service. "There is no debt, Legolas. A healer's gift is not a thing to be bartered. Yet a fool I would be to turn away from such an alliance; I gladly accept your oath also," Aragorn stated quietly and held the steaming mug out to his patient. "Let me live up to the title of healer and get your health stabilized before we break camp. Take all of this, it is a good brew for endurance."

"Aye, we need to move on from here," the archer agreed, taking the cup, and cautiously sniffed the steam wafting from it. "The Wraiths do not come as far north as the Central Mountains, but manage to make their orders known all the same. Their Orcs are expecting us."

"Yes, the Nazgul. What exactly did you mean when you said they were forced to face you? I do not recall that as part of my design in sending you south," Mithrandir said. He was worried about reigniting the wild elf's woes but felt Legolas' knowledge of the evil phantoms was important information for them, and for all of Middle Earth for that matter.

Legolas smiled, sensing this concern, and reached back to squeeze the Istar's hand where it kneaded his shoulder. He needed no words to make the wizard understand his reassurance that the topic would not undo his recovery. As his health improved the link with Mithrandir evolved and the two could now understand their respective thoughts and feelings when these directly involved the other. Legolas found this a great comfort, for every inkling the Maia generated concerning him resonated with both protective inclinations and approving admiration. He began his discourse.

"There are three of them, as you know, but normally only two at a time ever venture out together. Singly, any one of them may go forth, but if paired it is always the same two, while the third remains within the fortress and directs the others' actions.

"They were systematically isolating me from the Realm, severing all means of retreat and so I made a sudden and bold move to flee. That enticed the third one to join his brothers, and that is the one I forced into combat." The wild elf's demeanor reflected his pride in this accomplishment.

Legolas shifted away from the wizard so he could see them both without craning his neck back and forth and gazed upon his audience with glittering eyes, savoring the heralded roll of narrator in the telling of the tale. Needless to say, they listened in amazed silence as he recounted the details of the battle. He did not mention the presence of the Noldor, even as he had omitted them during the recount of the villagers' struggle for survival.

"Why, for all the wealth of Nargothrond, would you wish to make one of those demons draw sword against you? Are not the Orcs enough to contend with?" Aragorn exclaimed.

"Do you mean to say you can tell the loathsome things apart?" Gandalf asked in surprise.

"Of course I can distinguish between them. They were Men once, and still have very different personalities, enslaved though they are.

"The Chief, for so I call him, is always rather haughtily amused by what I am up to, and very certain he will have me in his dungeons to make answer. He bears a deep hatred for elf-kind that surpasses even what I sense from Orcs. What promoted this sentiment remains hidden, and perhaps he no longer remembers himself. It does seem to frustrate him that his Orcs are so powerless to bring me down, and when he comes forth to join the chase he returns alone, for in his wrath he destroys all the monsters I leave alive.

"The Lesser Evils, as I refer to the remaining pair, behave as if they were indeed once brothers; they seem to know each other's tactics and tend to stand together in battle as though to shield one another. It is sad, for probably long practice ingrained this noble behavior, and so perhaps once they were not evil, merely foolish or desperate, or both together.

"And as to why; how else will I destroy them if I cannot lure them into combat?" Legolas completed his explanations.

"They cannot be destroyed!" from Aragorn.

"That is not what I intended for you to get involved in, Legolas!" from Gandalf.

Legolas frowned at them each in turn. "It is said they cannot be destroyed by the hands of Men. Elf-kind is another matter. Elves have slain all manner of evil the Dark One has conjured, even Balrogs; why should these pitiful shadow slaves be different? And what else would you have me do, Mithrandir? I think it best just to dispense with them rather than sneak around trying to understand their plots."

The three were silent for a time as the archer's words were considered.

"There is logic in what you suggest," Aragorn answered, and silently marveled at hearing the dreaded Nazgul reduced to 'pitiful shadow slaves'. "I have heard this rumor also; but, does the description refer to 'man' as a race or to 'male' as a sex? If the latter, then you cannot succeed." He rose and carefully began extinguishing the remaining embers of the fire and collecting up the cooking gear. "But you have not drunk that tea, and I must insist. Let us have no more discussion until it is done, for we must ride hard all the remainder of Anor's hours if we wish to avoid a confrontation with the Orcs in those mountains ahead."

"We cannot escape that fight," Legolas replied seriously as he raised the cup and blew cautiously across the surface of the pale brown liquid within. "The path is designed to take us to them. We will have to kill them all," he added this so matter-of-factly that both his companions stopped what they were doing and stared first at him and then each other.

"That we surely cannot do," Aragorn said in astonishment. "There are but three of us here, unless you can send for the King's patrols using that, that, whatever that thing is going on through the trees and you. Three cannot prevail against a troop of a hundred Orcs."

"Even if this were possible, you are not in any condition for fighting just now," the Maia added. "We must find a means to slip past them."

Legolas sipped the tea and made a sour face as he calmly listened to their warnings. _They will be more trouble than help_, he considered, for they would be forced to fight on the ground, a serious disadvantage. It was obvious their experience with the demons consisted of occasional confrontations in the Mountain passes or small skirmishes close to the borders of Lorien, where they most likely had numbers on their side. Never had these travelers been hunted before. Legolas grimaced as he tried the potion again.

"Valar! This is vile stuff! Put some of the Miruvor in it, Aragorn, if you expect me to drink this Orc piss." He held the mug out and the human accepted it wordlessly.

"And the three of us have not any choice in this matter. They are instructed to capture me, as I told you before, and many of these trees are helping them. That 'thing' you refer to, Aragorn, is my bond with Tawar. And that will be of little help henceforth, for Shadow has claimed great sections of the Greenwood here, and I fear even more betrayal as we get closer to the mountains. For that reason alone I would engage these hideous monsters and drive them out."

Aragorn poured a small amount of the rejuvenating cordial into the tea and stirred in a bit of cinnamon as well before pressing the cup back into Legolas' hands.

"We are not in a position to make war on these beasts, Legolas. You will reclaim the trees, I am certain, but at a later time. Our objective must be to reach the King's stronghold without combat. You have already said you do not have enough arrows." he chided gently and pointed to the doctored concoction. "Drink."

"Aragorn is right; we must not get into a struggle against them, especially as they mean to take you alive," Gandalf joined in. "There must be some way to avoid this unhealthy enchantment placed upon the elf path."

Legolas obediently swallowed down the altered tea and wondered how much to explain about this situation to his comrades. The Istar and the Man seemed not to understand that he could readily escape this fight, using the upper reaches of the canopy where the roadway's meanderings from the real path could be noted and avoided. The travelers, however, were unable to use this method. The Shadow was manipulating them as bait, luring the Wood Elf to their side, knowing full well he would never abandon two allies against the Darkness to the clutches of the foul confederates of the Nazgul.

_Especially now_, he thought, _for I owe both of them too much to turn away. These two, at least, I will not allow my cursed doom to collect._

The feral elf was happy to play the deadly game. It would be easy to draw away most of the troop; enough, he hoped, so that the human and the Istar would be able to hold their own. Once divided victory was only a matter of time and energy, for his determination far outmatched that of the cowardly Orcs. They would flee in terrified disarray as soon as his fury was unleashed in battle. Weakened or not, Legolas intended to both spare the lives of the travelers and destroy the Orcs, and on no condition would he turn from this confrontation.

"Mithrandir, the path is fully corrupted and even if we turn back we will find our way barred except in the direction of the approaching horde. We are the pursued, not the predators. Either we kill them all or end up in Dol Guldur. This I will not allow," he patiently explained as though his friends were very dense of skull and slight of intellect.

"If it comes to that, I will see us all dead rather than suffer such a fate."

Legolas tossed the empty cup back to Aragorn and granted each of his companions full exposure to the adamantine gleam in his elven eyes, overbrimming with the fierce resolve to carry out this vow.

Tbc  



	32. Chapter 32

**Buiad Úbara** [Unwilling Allegiance]

  


Through the soil stretched the veins and arteries of the forest, a tremendous network of conduits, varying in girth from the span of a warrior's calf to the macilency of the finest strand of elven hair. These unseen tendrils carried the flow of life that enabled the great trees to stand high among the living elements of Arda. Tawar breathed for Arda, shaded her, held fast the thin blanket of dirt that served as the skin of the earth and softened the contours of its rocky bone, and both provided for and protected the Children of Iluvatar, First and Second Born. The interlocking capillaries and vessels linked the green life in an unending system of nerves, a reticulum of the archeus, filaments of living consciousness not constrained by isolation into singular entities but rather comprising the mind of the most ancient, sage, and overlooked of all the creations of Yavanna.

  


Eru's Younger Children seldom even acknowledged the fact that these entities possessed life, and failed utterly to understand that there could be awareness in anything so unlike the form of Man. Even elf-kind had a tendency to relegate non-speaking beings to a lesser role, seeing the forest and the host of plants it housed as owning a more utilitarian sentience, part of the background, a comfortable structural support for their existence. It was much easier to think of this huge organism as merely a burgeoning flora created to supply their needs; a part of the Valar's Making of the World to fit it for the coming of the First Born. And so they taught themselves and their young to believe.

  


Few had the insight to even imagine another scenario; unable to contemplate that the Quendi had been awakened as much to protect the green essence with their voices and songs as to enjoy its bounty. Who among the First Born had considered it their task to ward off the destruction of the forests until the coming of Anor and Ithil, ensuring the continuation of Arda as fit for the advent of the Second Born as well? In fact, none among the Eldar were likely to consider the Ebennin [those born after the elves] as worthy to become the stewards of the earth, and could only look upon the changes their coming launched as something to fight against and prevent if possible, for as long as there was breath to breathe. Perhaps it is a trait of all oldest children everywhere to perceive themselves wiser by virtue of primacy, always the heir apparent rather than the herald.

If so, this was a characteristic not developed in Legolas, first-born of Ningloriel, or Tawar, first-created of Yavanna. Between these two was shared a common understanding of the necessary symbiosis of their respective kinds, and if anything Legolas tended to revere the forest's spirit and treated the human inhabitants as a part of Tawar. And so rare had such an outlook become that Tawar in turn cherished the Wood Elf, and spread knowledge of its champion's actions and well being through every fiber and thread of its rooted soul, from one end of the Greenwood to the other and beyond. Even into the heart of Thranduil's stronghold where stood the Sentinel.

  


It had become the practice of Fearfaron to spend the opening and closing hours of his days at the Sentinel, for there he would be first to encounter any messenger seeking entry into or departure from the stronghold's inner courtyard. The humans did not always make it to their destination, he knew, overtaken by spiders or Orcs along the way. He had no way to tell how many, or, indeed, whether any of his letters had reached Legolas, and had himself acquired but one from the fallen prince, and none since his last appearance in the Realm, over two years ago. He kept this hopeful vigil nonetheless, confident that sooner than late word of the wild warrior would return to him. Besides, he felt closer to his foster-child there, where Legolas had spent so many elfling hours in silent and peaceful contemplation of his world among the trees.

  


Lindalcon, too, was often at the knees of the grandfatherly beech at tinnu, for only then was he free to wander from his duties in the fortress. True to his word, he had relinquished his demand for appointment into the guard, and as such was not required to be long hours in the training grounds honing his skills with the bow. Instead, his mother had secured him an apprenticeship of sorts to one of the older Council Members, a distant relation through his father's people. There Lindalcon was set numerous tedious tasks designed, in his mind; to cause him to favor anarchy over governed rule.

  


To say the elfling despised the cavernous cut-stone chambers and artificial light of oil lamps would be to drastically misrepresent the depth of his disgust. Lindalcon positively suffered under the servitude, caught in a miasma of recording the Councilors' droning speeches and conducting unending research to support them, using texts so faded he occasionally made up the words just to speed his task along. He more than longed for the feel of fresh air, the smell of brown earth and green wood.

  


The comfortable companionship of the Sentinel and Fearfaron was his primary destination as soon as each day's session adjourned. There he could relax; glad to be once again near an elf who was not afraid to speak to him of his father. And in the presence of the aged tree he felt a kinship to Legolas, who had sheltered there through much of his youthful years.

  


Lindalcon had come to understand, in a smaller sense, what it must have been like for the former prince to live in the royal household. Not that the screaming arguments of Ningloriel and Thranduil were duplicated, quite the opposite. His mother ran her new accommodations with the same quiet calmness she had always exercised in their modest talan in the city. Indeed, her son was amazed at how easily she took up the task of ordering the daily affairs of the King's House, and how quickly the resident servants responded to her new authority. In fact, all were exceedingly grateful for her steadying influence on their King, and glad of the new air of peacefulness that permeated the mountain fortress.

  


All save Lindalcon the Usurper.

  


The adolescent seethed at every look the Woodland King directed toward his mother, despaired at every smile she returned, and raged against even the most fleeting of physical contacts between them. Lindalcon still could not comprehend how his own mother could so soon forget his father. How could she turn away from the love they had shared? How could this odious and temperamental Sindar King compare with the compassionate and loyal devotion his father had always given? Could his own mother truly feel the possession of wealthier housing and higher social station was worth the sundering of her eternal bond with Valtamar? If so, this could only mean her love for Valtamar had been false, and that was a truth he could not encompass, for it made his whole life a lie.

  


Meril and her son were seriously at odds over the matter, and no pleas she spoke could justify her betrayal to his satisfaction. Her reminders that nothing could now undo Valtamar's death, and that he would wish for them to find some manner of good from the catastrophe meant nothing to Lindalcon. Upon hearing this argument, the elfling asserted that, had his mother been the one to die, Valtamar would never have sought a replacement, and certainly would not have traded their family for a chance at prestige and power. Lindalcon could not believe his father would want his link to his family destroyed, no matter what might befall him.

The deciding blow had come when Thranduil had interrupted one such argument, admonishing the youth never to speak to Meril in so insolent and disrespectful a manner ever again, and drew her out of Lindalcon's room and away to his. Since that day, he had avoided them as much as possible, taking meals with the others apprenticed to the Councilors, or with Fearfaron, and slipping into his own rooms to sleep without bothering to let his mother know he had returned.

  


It had hurt him terribly the first time he returned late and she had not been there waiting for him, a mixture of anger and relief washing over her features.

  


The carpenter helped as he could, which was to say he listened to Lindalcon wail and rant against this terrible injustice against Valtamar. The youth could only remember, this was all of his father that remained, an idea frozen in the young one's mind of a doting parent and fierce protector, eternally courageous and true. Their family had been perfect, their life idyllic, their future secure in the boundless bond between his parents. Meril's new status threatened to utterly disperse the visions her son was so desperately clinging to as he struggled with his grief.

  


Fearfaron felt for the elfling, but knew there was no remedy for the anguish he was undergoing other than age and wisdom. Even with these inimitable teachers, he felt it would be all Lindalcon could do to master the most basic semblance of resignation and stoic acceptance. The carpenter found he was unable to encourage forgiveness and understanding, uncertain if he would be able to manage those himself, were he in a similar situation. Instead, he simply offered friendship, and this grew from their shared outrage over the rest of the population's ability to so quickly forget the Lost Warriors and from their common interest in the fallen archer.

  


They seldom spoke of their fears for Legolas' fate, which accrued as time continued and no word from him arrived by messenger. They had to be satisfied with the accounts of his activities from the woodsmen, and after a year the report came back that the wild elf had left the central forest to venture ever closer to Dol Guldur. Fearfaron and Lindalcon could not share their horror at what this might mean for their friend. Instead they reassured each other, constructing flimsy rationales for his long absence and pretending they were utterly sound.

  


While Fearfaron could not sense Tawar as Legolas now did, he yet was more attuned to the trees than many of his kith and kin in the Greenwood, it being his trade to handle wood and walk in the arms of the trees in the deeps of the forest all his days. There had been times during the last two years when he had become suddenly overwhelmed with worry and dread as he stood by the Sentinel, convinced that some dire danger was besetting his adopted son. Only twice had he felt anything of a positive nature from the ancient tree. Most of the time, the Sentinel just waited and watched, as had been its way for centuries out of time.

  


Four days after Legolas learned the truth about Malthen, then the old beech very nearly rended itself into kindling as the shock wave of the wild elf's grief and rage rolled through the Greenwood's nerves and reached the stronghold. Fearfaron had wept in despairing terror as he watched the frenzy of the hardwoods, writhing and scraping their limbs in outrage while not a wisp of a wind moved through the still summer air to account for the reaction. The carpenter had feared to touch the Sentinel, dreading he would learn that what he prayed against had come to pass: Legolas was dead.

  


The bizarre disturbance set the whole community on edge, and great was the audience in the Council's Chambers the following day as the Sylvan folk sought an explanation.

  


Now Thranduil was apprised of the curiously ominous windless thrashing of the forest and had seen for himself that the reports were true. He was not raised in the ways of the Woodland folk, however, and so he found nothing overly portentous in the event. He immediately suspected the Masters of Dol Guldur, for nothing as simple as an infestation of spiders or a stray band of Orcs would promote such an unprecedented reaction among the trees. The Sinda ruler had none of the superstitious nature he scorned in his subjects, and found no need to search for additional reasons for the Greenwood's distress. Prophecies and portents, he found, did not make the struggle any easier, and in his opinion created a tenancy among the Danwaith to hold back, to endure fate rather than strike out against the evil.

Throughout the long night, Thranduil heard the pleas and prayers of his subjects begging the Valar for protection for the Sylvan folk from the dread doom they feared must be approaching.

  


Unlike the carpenter, the King would be the last to ever suspect the explanation would involve his former heir. Unlike the citizens of his Realm, Thranduil did not associate with the woodsmen that sometimes came to trade goods, and thus he had heard nothing of the emergence of a protector of the humans in the southern regions, Tirno, a fighter of renown against Orcs and Wraiths alike.

  


Yet his subjects had heard these tales and through them knew their disgraced prince yet lived. A fair number wondered if he was somehow involved.

  


Following Annaldír's Release, the Wood Elves had begun to take notice of Legolas' activities with greater excitement. They began to question how it could be possible for one elf alone to accomplish these things, and had gone to the Council for answers. There had been plenty of lines of old script the elder Eldar were only too willing to ascribe to this new champion, and the Sylvan folk began to hope that their forest would be released from the spreading Shadow of evil.

  


It was expected of their King to attend this Council, Thranduil knew, rather than summoning the Councilors to his throne room as he normally did. An appearance within the confines of their power was required to assure the population of his proper respect for the Council's authority in interpreting the more philosophical and esoteric aspects of the Wood Elves' existence. He would have to suffer through the reading of possible prophecies that might be forewarned by the unusual agitation in their home. He sighed, aggrieved to have to endure the endless hours of arguing and debate, as one group after another ascribed either dire or beatific fortunes to the strange occurrence, brandishing scrolls and ragged old tomes alleged to back their cases.

  


He had already dispatched extra patrols to seek out and hastily report back regarding any corresponding movement of the Orcs outside his boundaries near the Central Mountains. This, he was certain, was behind the event, and nothing more. That was more than enough reason for the Greenwood's travail of creaking fury.

  


From his balcony Thranduil watched the steady influx of elves into the stronghold's inner courtyard as minuial approached. They clustered in restrained apprehension, waiting impatiently for the Council to convene its session. While there was no reason he knew of to demand it, as most of the Woodland folk preferred the evening twilight, the Council always convened as the first sunray broke over the horizon.

  


_Which none of them have ever seen, I would wager_, he mused.

The tension lifting off the gathered throng had quite spoiled his appetite for breakfast and marred his quiet indulgence in Meril's companionship before the day's duties began. They were seated together there as on any other day for the past five years. Thranduil sighed in irritation.

  


"You will need to tread lightly today, my King," the royal consort gently warned and reached across to squeeze her hand over Thranduil's where it rested upon the table between them.

  


"I have been dealing with such nonsense for centuries," the sharp edged words fell from his frowning lips as he stared at her and removed his hand. "Are you now presuming to teach me the ways of my court, Meril?"

  


The Danwaith inu was unperturbed by the caustic reprimand, however, and presented a serenely patient smile as she shook her head.

  


"I would have you heed the ways of my people, no more."

  


"That, also, I have done for time out of counting."

  


"In that case, perhaps you should spend a small amount of this day's allotment of time to listening. Or do you not consider your subjects' thoughts and impressions worthy of your acknowledgement?"

  


Rather than feeling wrath or rage for this outburst, Thranduil actually smiled appreciatively. Meril never spoke idly, and this was her way of telling him there was gossip in the city of which he should take note. She knew something. _Well, that is an understatement; she finds out every bit of dubious blethering passed from lip to ear in the Realm_. he thought. He expected her to enlighten him at the evening meal, and her request took on new layers of interest. She wanted him to hear what her people were saying now, how the gossip was changing in light of the previous day's activity.

"You will not attend?" he queried.

  


"Nay," she shook her head, "I have much to do this day, as summer draws closer to its ending. Soon I will have even less freedom, and so I mean to enjoy these warm waning days under Anor's rule."

  


Thranduil gave her a small smile and took her hand back within his own, carrying it to his lips to impress the slightest of caresses upon her fingertips. With a less frustrated mind the Woodland King rose and left the balcony, entering their shared suite to ready himself for the ensuing conclave.

  


These were not his old bachelor's chambers, kept during his years with Ningloriel. Neither were they Meril's previous accommodations, situated in the guest's quarters of the stronghold. Instead, the King had ordered the renovation of an entirely different part of his fortress, utilizing several rooms hitherto relegated to visiting dignitaries. This apartment comprised a voluminous cluster of high-ceilinged caverns, adjoined through a cleverly constructed series of archways linking room to room, from the outer receiving parlors to the inner circle of the couples' private grotto. These portals were artfully concealed in the foremost domains, limiting admission to the secluded boudoir to all but a select few servants.

  


The couple's suite opened out onto the balcony overlooking the magnificent walled gardens. In the midst of the drear of the half-lit woods, this was a brightly sun-drenched oasis of Anor's glory, and numerous plants grew here that could never survive the eternal shade of the canopy's cover. A winding stone stepway had been cut into the outer surface of the rock for convenient access, an unprecedented act, for previously such contrivances had been viewed as breeches of safety. But Meril disliked the long trek through the fortress required to reach her garden haven, and so Thranduil had ordered the work. Beyond the walled terrace, the gallery allowed a clear view of the stronghold's courtyard and gates.

  


The apartment had become a haven for him, something of a personal surprise, for his original intent had been to secure a place for his new mate and their offspring far from his own chambers. Those he scarcely frequented anymore, abandoning them almost totally after the first year of their cohabitation. For where Ningloriel had been derisive and argumentative, scathing in her disgusted recriminations whenever he attempted to touch her, Meril was willing and even adventurous in their amorous endeavors. And while Thranduil had enjoyed his share of lovers over the bitter centuries of his marriage to Ningloriel, those had never been other than outlets for carnal lust.

  


With Meril, there was something more.

Meril graced her station with a calm dignity the source of which had at first completely flummoxed Thranduil. She was, after all, just a common Danwaith, not born of any noble line or even of any prestigious family. Her people were all warriors, and while there was nothing but fierce courage reported about them, still this did not seem to account for the sense of authority with which she carried herself.

It had soon become apparent however, that her contentment lay in the prospect of becoming a mother again, and bearing the heirs to her people's lands. This she took to be an honorable fate, a way to lessen the desolation left by the loss of Valtamar. Her acceptance of her role had been virtually immediate, and seemingly the dissolution of her bond to her dead husband was not a troubling matter.

This made the King vaguely uneasy. Thranduil was positively pleased with her attitude regarding children but considered that perhaps there were areas of Law and Custom he should reinvestigate. He could not fathom how such disregard for so serious a matter as a marriage bond could be possible among one of the usually ritualistic and symbol plagued Danwaith.

While he thought on these things the King had dressed and left for the Council Chamber. As soon as he reached the main hallway, he was nearly run down by the speeding form of Lindalcon, hastening to his post. Thranduil snatched at the elfling's arm, but the youth was quick and evaded the grasp, acknowledging the encounter with scarcely more than a cursory glare over his shoulder.

"Slow down!" the King ordered, but Lindalcon ignored him and kept going. Furious at such insolence, Thranduil sped after him, and in less than five strides had caught up a fistful of the elfling's flying hair and yanked him back hard. This made Lindalcon cry out and he grabbed at the hand holding him thus, trying to pry himself loose. "Do not behave as though you neither saw nor heard me! When I speak to you, answer!" Thranduil growled.

"Let go! I have to get to the Council, leave me be!" Lindalcon shouted and turned to pound against Thranduil's arm with his fist.

"Stop at once! I will have a respectful apology from you, Usurper, or assign you a new post in the stables!"

"That would suit me well, I despise your stupid caves!" Lindalcon shouted and attempted to land a kick in a very sensitive area. This maneuver failed, for Thranduil easily stepped back, smirking as Lindalcon then overbalanced and nearly upended, remaining upright only because of Thranduil's grip of his tresses.

The King pulled him back to surer footing by his hair, causing another jarring snag, and Lindalcon screwed his eyes tight to keep the tears of humiliation from falling. Thranduil laughed.

"What, does that smart, elfling? Fortunate for you that your mother is a loving parent and convinced that old Elda to take you on, for you are far too flimsy and delicate to ever have lasted as a warrior. Why, I believe you are the first male in her line not to take up the bow, is not that so? How grateful your father must be to know he will never meet you in Mandos' Halls, if he ever gets there." he mocked.

That was too much for Lindalcon. With a sudden rush of enraged energy he pulled back and landed a solid hit bearing the full weight of his gangly adolescent form into the King's stomach. A loud hiss as all the air fled Thranduil's lungs sounded in accompaniment to his release of the elfling's hair as he bent awkwardly over to steady himself. Lindalcon took the opportunity to complete his previous foot action and was mightily pleased at the pained sound and low crouch this initiated from his adversary.

"Do not ever speak of my father! None of this would have happened if not for you! You sent him there to his death! You are the kinslayer, not Legolas!" the youth screamed into the disabled regent's ear.

While the attack had come as a complete surprise, Thranduil recovered quickly and before his assailant could flee he had hold of Lindalcon's slender neck with one hand and unsheathed a fine mithril dagger with the other. He pressed it close to the youth's ear and squeezed around the throat, a menacing gloat upon his features.

"That is treasonous talk, Usurper! Think carefully of Legolas' fate, for a similar one can be arranged for you. It is only for your mother's sake that I allow you here at all," he said with reptilian coldness, and laughed at the fear spreading through Lindalcon's eyes as he struggled to gain breath and clawed at the hand sealing his airway. Thranduil shoved him back with a disgusted curse, releasing him, and stood over the gasping elfling sprawled on the floor. "Now, I believe you have something you wish to say to me?"

Lindalcon massaged his sore neck carefully and gazed up with a mixture of dread and loathing at his regent. He felt his eyes filling and knew that even if he succeeded in preventing a spill he could not keep the tears from invading his voice, and how much pleasure that would give this vindictive charlatan of a stepfather. He swallowed and cleared his throat before trying.

"I apologize, my King, for my rude behavior," he spoke the wavering words and inwardly cringed to see the malignant triumph in the older elf's sneering smile.

"How simply done," he quipped, "Had you any sense under those locks that is what you would have done forthwith. Then, you would not have to be punished for being late, as well as for your unwarranted accusations." With that unpleasant promise of further torment, the King adjusted his clothing and sheathed his dagger. "Oh, and do not bother to go to your mother regarding this matter; I intend to inform her fully as soon as the session is adjourned." Thranduil casually stepped over the elfling, who scrabbled back against the wall to get out of the way, and strode off down the passageway.

Slowly Lindalcon righted himself, sniffing hard to prevent the further embarrassment tear tracks would lend to his appearance. Which was a shambles, he realized, as he tried to brush off the dusty dirt from his leggings and tunic, unable to reach the worst of it in back. _And my hair must look a horrendous tangle._he sighed and he tried to smooth it back in place, with little results. There was no time to go and repair his dishevelment; he had been late already before the unfortunate incident occurred. If only he had stayed at Fearfaron's talan through the night, as the carpenter had suggested, this would not have come to pass. There was nothing to be done, he would have to go to the Council just as he was and bear the curious and disapproving looks from his colleagues and his mentor.

With a heavy heart and an equally ponderous breath Lindalcon set off in the King's wake, no longer bothering to attempt a rapid arrival. He could not believe what he had just done, and feared what his punishment might entail. If the King held to his assertion of treason, he might even have to face several hours in one of the stronghold's black cells. Lindalcon shuddered in revulsion and terror; he had heard these dungeons existed but had never had the nerve to go exploring and seek them out. It was not knowledge he wished to confirm first hand.

He shook his head. Surely his mother would never allow that to happen. She would talk the King into clemency and spare her first-born that torture, at least. But he knew he would never be able to convince her of his justification for so behaving to his 'protector'. She considered his plight a great honour, and admonished him to show courtesy and gratitude for the many benefits being the King's stepson accorded him.

  
  


_And never does she believe me when I tell her of the coldly ruthless looks the King sends in my direction when she is not around. He plays the indulgent and long-suffering father figure everytime she is near, but turns on me completely the moment we are alone. How I despise him_! he thought. He groaned dejectedly as he imagined the hurt and anxious expression his mother's face would hold when the fact that he had not only been rude, but had actually struck the King was revealed. Not for the first time Lindalcon wondered how Legolas had ever survived the weight of Thranduil's hatred for so many years.

He had reached the Council chambers while fretting over these things, and could hear the quiet intonation of one of the Eldar reading from a scroll. It was the opening incantation, and he dared not walk in as it was being spoken. As soon as the invocation was completed, he slipped through the archway and attempted to unobtrusively edge his way over to his mentor, hugging the shadowed walls as he went. As he progressed, he gazed upon the crowded room and was amazed to see so many elves in audience, despite Fearfaron's prediction that this would be the case. Lindalcon was pleased to see the carpenter there as well, and sent a reassuring smile in answer to the worried brows raised in response to his rumpled attitude.

A hand snatching at his collar, attached to the person of his mentor, halted Lindalcon's motion and the irked Councilor frowned in distaste at the improper conduct and manner of his protégé. The old Elda said nothing, however, and released the elfling, motioning with his chin for Lindalcon to attend him. The Councilor pointed to a table holding an armload of scrolls and two great books, and with a sigh the apprentice took them up, attempting to order them according to the Elda's preferred hierarchy. Together they approached the dais whereupon the King was seated this day.

"My Lord King, it is with gratitude we greet your attendance. If I may begin by saying the concern you show for understanding all that befalls the Danwaith is heartening to our people," the ancient Elf stated formally. He had been alive and a member of this Council since before Oropher's time as King, and now he was simply called Iarwain, the oldest. Iarwain never failed to emphasize the distinction between the Sindar rulers and their Sylvan subjects.

"The King is always present for his people's needs," Thranduil returned the correct reply.

"As you say, my Lord," the Councilor bowed his head in respect. "Now I ask you to hear the thoughts of your subjects regarding the extreme distress of our Woods at yestermorn. Here are the words of Hûngalen [Green-heart], my forebear from the time before the rising of Ithil:" he held out his hand and Lindalcon plopped the required text upon his palm. Iarwain unrolled it with carefully exaggerated aplomb and began to read.

"'Heed the movements of the forest, for the trees know much that occurs in distant places and will share this knowledge with the Laiquendi.'

"And further, he speaks of additional vigilance:

"'Should the trees be disturbed for reasons not of nature, be sure the reason is truly not of nature, but of the Black One seeking to corrupt the lands.'" The old elf returned the scroll and kept his hand out, awaiting the next. As Lindalcon struggled to disentangle it from the stack, another Councilor stepped forward and raised his hand, palm outfacing, the manner in which a request to interrupt the speech was made. Thranduil acknowledged this demand, much to Iarwain's ire.

"With your indulgence, my Lord, I think these words are clearly understood and none will dispute that the signs of yesterday are not events of natural cause. Permit me to read to you this text of prophecy from the First Age:

"'In days of peace will come the stench of war's breath, and the Darkness will strive against the Tawarwaith.' Now, I say this reference is directly to our situation," he said and stepped back.

Thranduil scowled. Had not this thick-skulled Elda simply repeated the first Councilor's claims? Yet the room was filled with soft murmurs from the ordinary folk who were in attendance, and a sharper edge had somehow found its way into the atmosphere within the cavern.

"I see that this is so; and let me assure all here that I have already sent out troops to reconnoiter the movements of the Orc host befouling our Central Mountains. They will encroach no further, and my warriors will foil whatever evil plot they have devised," the King reassured, and received an unexpected response. A great uproar of disapproval arose among the Councilors and the common folk alike.

"You must call them back!"

"How could you do this without consulting us?"

"You dare interfere with the fates? You will drive the beasts straight towards Tirno!"

"He has crossed the prophecy!"

"Aye, we do not even know where Tirno is at this time!"

Now Thranduil's confusion doubled and his irritation deepened.

  


"Silence!" he shouted and rose up to command the elves' attention. With some grumbling they settled down again, and waited for their King's justification for his hasty action. "I know not why this disturbs you good folk; it is the principle purpose of my reign to protect the Greenwood and her inhabitants from those accursed creatures. Surely this is the way to heed such a prophecy," he said in exasperation.

"This text does not use the name 'Tawarwaith' to refer to the Sylvan folk in general, my King," spoke Lindalcon's mentor with patient albeit condescending tones. "The words indicate Tawar's champion. We believe this warrior has arisen among us and is now trying to stem the evil that threatens to awaken even the dark pits of Utumno."

Thranduil observed the way the elves signaled their agreement with Iarwain and their dismay that the King did not understand these things. He recalled now that the Councilors had already advanced this idea some years ago, and received assurances from him that no new military action would proceed beyond their borders without first knowing what was happening to the lone warrior in the southern regions. He had ignored it as more of their symbolic religious prattling, never considering the 'forest champion' to be an actual living elf from his Realm.

"Tawar's champion," he spoke the words with guarded care, though they were bitter on his lips. "Who is this warrior, and why does he persist in such endeavors singly, when the King would readily assist any who stand against the Darkness?" he demanded, and was again thrown into confusion, this time by the depth of the silence that filled the great chamber. New and deeper lines of frustration creased his forehead as he met the eyes of each of his six Counselors, yet none spoke. The expression on their faces, however, filled the King with foreboding. His heart tilted with a sense of having prophesied his own future in those simple words, and he feared to hear the answer to his query, already suspicious as to the truth.

A movement in the assembly drew Thranduil's eye and he watched as a tall and willowy elf came forward all the way to the dais. His eyes were gleaming in what appeared to be triumphant pride, and he could barely suppress the gleeful smile struggling to transform his sober countenance. The elf was familiar, and the King realized he was often hanging about by the courtyard gates, but he knew not what name he bore.

"My King, may a humble carpenter speak in this forum?" said Fearfaron, for it was he.

"Of course, all may say here what they feel needs to be heard. The more welcome will your speech be if you can remove your King's ignorance," said Thranduil carefully, feeling more and more like a rat in a trap. He had no choice now but to play this out, having set the course of the discussion himself.

"I will gladly answer your request, my Lord," came the spirit hunter's answer and he made a deep bow as apology for the disrespect of admitting the King's lack of knowledge to his face.

_Yes, perhaps just a bit too gladly_, thought Thranduil with displeasure, and silently swore to know all he could of this craftsmen before tinnu.

"Yet, I would ask you to say again, that all may understand your intentions. Do you mean that the Tawarwaith has your endorsement, and even may count on the aid of our archers in future?" Now he lifted his eyes and met Thranduil's and the two gazes warred for supremacy in the chilling brightness of their respective glares.

At last Thranduil inclined his head, never averting his sight from the carpenter's deceptively placid features. "I would support any who fight against the Darkness; this has always been the primary objective of my sovereignty. If this Tawarwaith is such a one, then he will have my backing," he said, and again his own words had the ring of doom to his ears, and he frowned, certain he would long regret his hastily misspoken thoughts. "Now, tell me of this champion."

Fearfaron inclined his head and smiled, and his gaze strayed to the side and found Lindalcon, who was decidedly delighted and could scarcely be still.

"The Tawarwaith is called by many names, Sire. To the humans inhabiting the central forest he is Tirno-en-Tawar, and so many call him Tirno. Others prefer just to say Tawarwaith, as is used in the old texts. Some there are that name him Hecilo, yet these are not his friends. I call him by his given name: Legolas."

In the silence that followed, Thranduil sat down again upon his chair and observed his subjects keenly. The fallen prince clearly had garnered a measure of support in the five years since the first Warrior's Release, a surprisingly hefty majority, in fact. It was a clever bit of manipulation, and the King was unable to determine who was behind it; that was more disturbing than the actual subterfuge. Somehow, he had been cornered into defying his own order of banishment. Not only that, he had publicly promised assistance to a creature he had hoped never to encounter or acknowledge ever again.

Even from Aman, Ningloriel's mocking laughter reached him.

Tbc

#### 


	33. Chapter 33

**Dagor Minui: Auth dan Yngyl** [First Battle: Fight against the  
Spiders]

The Man and the Wizard did not know exactly what to make of their  
elven companion's unyielding demeanor. Legolas persisted in his counsel  
to head directly for the mountains and assault the demons head on. The  
two travelers refused to give up their strategy of attempting to keep  
to the longer route of the elf-made road. No amount of argument could  
prevail upon Legolas to abandon his intent to meet the challenge of the  
Dark Lord's minions, but Aragorn and Gandalf together overruled him.

Just before noon the trio set forth upon the pathway again, two  
hoping to discover a means of circumventing the danger and reaching the  
Wood Elves' stronghold unscathed; one morosely certain it would not be  
that simple. Riding single file, Mithrandir lead the way holding  
Legolas seated before him, an arm protectively wrapped around the wild  
elf's waist. Aragorn followed.

Legolas appreciated the opportunity to lean back and rest against  
the Maia, finding comfort in the old wizard's encircling grasp. The  
flow of vitality from Mithrandir had ceased, but the infusion retained  
its potency and rendered the forest warrior calm and clear-eyed, free  
of the gnawing guilt and rage that so recently had feasted on his  
broken spirit.

He was still amazed by the sense of genuine enjoyment the old wizard  
projected, a certainty that he felt fortunate to be a part of the  
archer's existence. It was just like the comfort of Fearfaron's solid  
grasp upon his arm, or Aiwendil's embracing smile. The terrors of the  
grieving affliction had made Legolas forget that there were at least  
these three beings in Arda who accepted him with absolute affirmation.

Having come to his decision concerning the confrontation he was  
certain awaited him, Legolas chose to use the brief respite from his  
turmoil to store up as much strength as he could. All around him the  
woods seemed as usual, an ever changing interplay of light and dark, a  
mixture of the gentle harmony of Tawar's Song and the more somber,  
fleeting notes of mortality's frail anthem, played out in the intricate  
two-step of life's dance among the unchanging weald. Yet he could feel  
that shift in tempo and the loss of balance as the Shadow grew bolder,  
proud in its defeat of the trees, and the archer longed to join the  
rencontre and restore the Greenwood's stability.

The trio had not traveled five leagues before the horses were once  
again hopelessly lost and the skillful gifts of the Ranger were  
outwitted, for no sign of the elf-track could he discover. Back-tracing  
led the horses into even greater confusion, and it seemed to Aragorn  
that the trees were rearranging themselves to thwart their return to  
the road.

"This is hopeless! Gandalf, can you not think of some counter spell  
for this situation?" the Man scowled with infuriation as he surveyed  
the ground around him. He had dismounted to examine the hoof-prints in  
the duff only to realize they were the ones their horses had made two  
days previously, the last time the pathway had disappeared. The evil  
enchantment had them going in circles whenever they attempted to head  
due northwest, cunningly forcing the horses to veer northeast instead.

"Nay! I fear any magic attempted here may be swallowed up and  
regurgitated in a much less healthy form. Legolas was correct in his  
assessment of the forest dwellers; more are now unsympathetic to our  
cause," the wizard replied. He pointedly ignored Aragorn's incredulous  
expression; it was his own business when he chose to disobey the Powers  
and when to hold true. Battling the evil infecting the trees, spell for  
spell as it were, was not his place. A sudden inspiration lit Gandalf's  
eyes and he nudged Legolas in the shoulder. "Legolas, climb up and take  
a look; you can guide us back to the path from above."

The wild elf turned to gaze at his old friend mirthlessly. No matter  
how often he told them, they refused to heed his words, and he was  
rather tired of it.

"Mithrandir, these trees will not allow it," he said, exasperated to  
have to explain this yet again. He expected Mithrandir to understand  
these things on an instinctive level, as Aiwendil did.

"There must be much good wood left; we are still nearly forty  
leagues  
from the mountains. Use your bond with Tawar to find the trees that  
favor you." Aragorn contradicted him irritably as he remounted his  
charger and guided the horse closer to the golden gelding. The elf and  
the Man stared  
at one another wordlessly for a few minutes while Legolas decided what  
answer to give to this objection.

Of course there were loyal beeches and true oaks, and all manner of  
other species steadfast in their resolve to combat their foes. Yet the  
forest's defenses seemed unable to halt the unnatural infiltration of  
shadowy energy that encroached over the woodland's spirit and dulled  
the ability to act in concert. It was as if the Dark Lord had devised a  
way to isolate the individual trees from Tawar's omnipresent  
consciousness, using the vast system of osmotic fibers and roots to  
spread the sickness through the region. While not enough of the  
poisonous force was present to kill the trees, it was at least enough  
to confuse and befuddle the stalwart woods. In its distress the  
Greenwood was actually pleading for the forest champion's help and  
retained little ability to be of any service or aid to Legolas.

"Why do you refuse to understand me?" the Tawarwaith demanded. How  
could he explain to this mortal that he was here for Tawar, and could  
not just ignore these pleas? His bond with Tawar was not a tool to be  
manipulated for the travelers' benefit, but rather a nearly sacred  
trust between the wild elf and his homeland. "Yes, there are kindly  
trees here, but they…they are alone, cut-off!" he struggled to make  
things clear to Aragorn. "It is expected of me to deliver them. The  
Greenwood cannot hold fast to the straight way designed by my people. I  
can go up into the branches and direct your horses back to the  
elf-path, but when we travel upon it then it will cease being the  
elf-path. You will find it does not lead us to the stronghold, but  
rather into an unpleasant trap."

"What trap?" asked Gandalf. "Does the forest speak of this?"

Legolas rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers and sighed. He had  
been dealing with the Orcs for so long it was second nature to him to  
reason out their strategy, and as their intelligence was limited it was  
generally the same thing every time. He did not need Tawar to tell him  
these things; his experience was more than sufficient.

"Nay," he said with strained patience. "It is merely what Orcs do,  
Mithrandir. They will try to corner us and then overwhelm us with  
superior numbers. They believe they will succeed as long as we are  
grounded." Legolas suspected that the monsters planned to use some of  
his own traps against them, based upon the direction they were being  
forced to follow, but these thoughts he did not divulge.

"That is what I fear, also! We have no way of overcoming such a  
threat unless we can see the twisting of the wrong path and get back to  
the right one," rejoined Aragorn. "Why do you resist this chance? Are  
you well, Legolas?" he looked his comrade over as he said this. The  
Wood Elf appeared much rejuvenated, yet this had seemed so before and  
been proved false. Refusing to at least try to escape seemed irrational  
to the Man, and he sought signs for the return of the depression that  
had preceded the excruciating spasms of the previous night.

The moment he saw the gentle concern in the human's eyes Legolas'  
aggravation dissolved away. They meant well; after all, Aragorn and  
Mithrandir desired to avoid the inevitable confrontation primarily to  
spare him any further harm. And had he not already pledged eternal  
devotion to the pair?

Yet he was torn in heart, for he could think of no way to aid the  
wizard and the Man without abandoning his beloved trees. How he longed  
to grant them relief by heading straight into the fight and ending it  
quickly, removing the source of the sickness! It was a hard choice, and  
an unfair one to demand from him, for he did not relish the thought of  
drawing these two friends into his battle, risking their lives. He  
would just have to try to find a way to turn the Orcs' trap upon its  
springers.

"Aye, I am just weary, that is all. I will guide you from the  
canopy," he said quietly and without any spoken words to order it, the  
palomino stepped to the tree Legolas wanted. He felt Gandalf give his  
shoulder a quick squeeze just before he stood upon the gelding's  
whithers and pulled himself up into the branches.

The forest vibrated in uncommon dissonance as the tension between  
those trees of the Greenwood loyal to Tawar and those that had abjured  
to the Masters of Dol Guldur warred one another. Once in immediate  
contact with them, the Wood Elf was caught in the discordance and could  
not help a growing sense of defeat as he watched the subtle, relentless  
coercion of the normally unswerving way of the elven foot-road. He  
could feel the strain of the forest's effort to close its enmeshed soul  
to the injurious umbra, and saw how this was the manner in which the  
Dark One achieved his goal; for, once cut off from the network of  
nerve-like nodes, the trees floundered in isolation. Legolas' only hope  
was that as he moved through the woods, the evil flux would follow,  
receding from the oaks and beeches, myrtles and pines behind him.

It was a slow process, leading the travelers, for he had to scout  
high above and then move ahead and guide them by voice to his new  
location, only to begin again. Twice he had to come completely down and  
go forward by horse to a different stand of trees in order to avoid the  
small groups of turncoats within his beloved woods. Several hours of  
this effort in addition to the resonance of his own spirit with the  
stressful endeavors of the disjoined trees began to wear upon him, and  
Legolas found the pain was more difficult to tolerate. He waited in the  
lofty heights for Aragorn and Mithrandir, considering how he might defy  
the fates and avoid the trap he felt closing round them. The sun was  
just setting beneath a violet and crimson streaked sky when he heard  
the horses under the boughs and climbed down lower, peering from just  
above head level into Aragorn's rugged features.

"We are nearing a rather nasty section of Greenwood now, where I  
have numerous enemies. I do not think we can avoid an attack," he said.

"Is there a part of the woods where you do not have an overabundance  
of foes? What variety are these, Legolas?" asked Gandalf, dreading the  
answer.

"I am sorry; for as long as you remain my companions, no area will  
be safe." Legolas could not suppress a flinch at the sting in the  
wizard's words, though they were not unkindly meant. "We can only go  
forward this way or turn about and drive towards the approaching Orcs.  
For my part, I would prefer to face the Orcs."

Aragorn and Gandalf shared a glance of confirming knowledge that  
each had observed his reaction and an unspoken decision was unanimously  
decreed between them. Aragorn guided his charger under the wild elf's  
supporting tree and waited there, extending a hand towards Legolas, a  
friendly smile upon his lips.

"Come down, Legolas, we have traveled enough for this day. Guide us  
to a suitable campsite, if you will," he said. "And tell us what sort  
of enemy is more loathsome than a troop of Orcs?"

Legolas accepted the proffered arm and swung from his perch to sit  
behind the human, grateful for the call to halt, yet sure no ease  
awaited their bivouac. He reached round and took the reins from the  
Man's hands, dropping them loosely against the charger's neck. The  
stallion set off at once as surely as if his master had spoken, and  
Aragorn looked back over his shoulder into the elf's serious eyes,  
waiting for his answer.

"For many years before going south, I hunted out the spiders'  
nurseries and destroyed many. Ungoliant's offspring are ever vigilant  
for my return. The spiders are far more intelligent than the Orcs, and  
they know I am near by the feel of my walking in the limbs. They will  
come from all the lairs in a seven-league radius for the chance to feed  
me to their young. It is not going to be a restful night," he explained  
solemnly, yet his tone indicated this to be a normal and unremarkable  
sort of experience.

Aragorn stared back unspeaking as he listened to this, disturbed at  
what sort of life the wild elf must lead. It was not a life at all, as  
he defined the concept. He turned back to gaze ahead and observe their  
progress, but he saw not the trail his horse was treading. Instead he  
became lost in introspection, considering the years since the Battle of  
Erebor and wondering how old Legolas was at the time. Like most of the  
Eldar, Aragorn found him to be both old and young. _But, in his  
case, the wrong sort of youth, and the worst kind of age_, he  
thought. It was all askew, an immortal constantly rubbing shoulders  
with death, like a child being given a wolf's den for a play yard.

He was jarred from his musing as the stallion broke from the cover  
of the trees into a large clearing; brightly lit with the last remnants  
of fading crimson from the west. In comparison to the continuous  
half-light under the forest's eaves the spot was bathed in brilliance,  
and yet unlike most breaks in the cover where the land reveled in  
worshipful adoration of Anor, the glory of the sun's warmth failed to  
touch this field.

"What is this place?" he asked with alarm, for the site had the feel  
of a graveyard to it. _Or a battleground_! he corrected himself.

"It is your camp, Aragorn," said Legolas as he lightly jumped down  
and waited for the others to do the same. He watched as his two friends  
surveyed the chosen spot with revulsion and turned to him, their shock  
evident upon their features.

"You are not wrong, your instincts are true; it is a foul place and  
under other circumstances I would never want you to come here. This was  
once a woodsmen's village, but all is devastation and woe now. The  
earth is defiled with the spilled blood of men, women, and innocent  
children, slain and eaten by the kin of the Orcs now pursuing us. Only  
sorrow grows in this soil these days, for the Greenwood will not  
reclaim the site, and so it will be for all time to come, I fear."

"Then why do you place us here, Legolas?" Gandalf demanded. He gazed  
with loathing at the bare and blighted land.

Abruptly the order of time shifted and he could see the gruesome  
scene under the starlight of a summer's eve: a great troop of Orcs  
swept upon the unprepared townsfolk, and the people were overwhelmed  
and subdued. The demons remained in the village, caring nothing for the  
grotesque tableau of decomposing bodies in various stages of  
dismemberment strewn throughout the settlement. Some of the humans they  
kept alive for weeks, bound and piled together in groaning heaps,  
wailing piteously as they starved slowly. These unfortunates had borne  
witness to the Orcs' voracious consumption of their friends and family  
members before becoming fodder themselves.

And Gandalf could see how it ended, as well: confusion and disarray  
erupted among the abominations of Melkor's pride as a torrent of arrows  
broke upon them where they glutted their gorges in their gruesome  
feast. Every one of them died within the hour, and the egregious,  
putrid flow of Orc blood mingled with that of their human victims' in  
the sanguine saturated soil. The few surviving villagers, six in all,  
were released and lead away from the disgusting and traumatizing  
display.

It was Legolas who was their savior, Gandalf saw, and in the instant  
of comprehension a short and bitter sound, a twisted inversion of  
laughter's lightness, shattered the mirage and returned the wizard to  
the present.

"Too late," was the outcast archer's sorrowful lament.

The Maia's eyes peered with worried concern upon the Tawarwaith's,  
for he realized the events had occurred exactly as he had envisioned,  
and indeed were the very sights his elven friend had recorded within  
eternal memory that horrendous day.

"You could not have done more," said Mithrandir gently.

The Wood Elf's ability to access the wizard's mind had apparently  
progressed so that he could initiate the contact much as he did with  
Tawar. This form of communication was not unheard of among the Eldar,  
but was still rare enough to be regarded as an almost frightening gift,  
even among elf-kind. _A result of the lengthy exchange of essentia  
on the previous night, no doubt. Legolas is a quick learner_, he  
thought, and caught the fleeting smile that graced his young friend's  
lips.

"I am sorry, but the two of you will have to use more words,"  
Aragorn's grim chiding finally ended the abbreviated tete-a-tete.  
Legolas sighed and Gandalf smiled and offered an apologetic shrug to  
the Man.

"I have brought you here because it is the only defensible site in  
the region. We are not in a position to be choosy, much as I abhor this  
place," the fallen prince at last gave an answer to Gandalf's earlier  
inquiry.

"That does not make this more clear, Legolas!" exclaimed Aragorn.  
"How is a huge open clearing defensible by three lone warriors?"

"Two. Your foes will be at a disadvantage on the ground. The spiders  
prefer to pick off their victims from the cover of the leaves, using  
their silk to bind them.

"You must make and keep a strong fire through the night, for they  
fear it more than blade or arrow. Have a burning brand in hand even as  
the other wields your sword. They will not attack from only one side,  
but come upon you en masse, from several locations among the  
surrounding trees. You will need to be quick with the fire, for it is  
all that will sunder their threads if once they ensnare you!" Legolas  
instructed as he moved around the clearing gathering up the remains of  
the human's furnishings for the fire.

"Two? Where will you be?" demanded Gandalf.

"I cannot fight them this way; I need to be in the trees," he said,  
aiming a glance at his friend to judge the wizard's reaction to this  
half-truth.

A snuffling breath and a short stamp directed his attention to the  
animals. Legolas threw down his armload and went to the horses and  
spoke to them; the steeds immediately obeyed, leaving the clearing for  
a destination only the wild elf knew. He would not have the fine  
animals become the spider coven's next meal. Satisfied with their  
prompt response, he resumed his gathering.

The two travelers watched their companion in a sort of daze, trying  
to take in what was happening and understand how events had gone so  
far beyond their control. When had their friend undergone this  
transformation from crushed and immobilizing despair to determined and  
stubborn command?

"Unacceptable!" It was Aragorn, to the wild elf's amazement, which  
blurted this singular rebuttal. "We must not become separated."

Legolas watched him with mild surprise but made no reply, merely  
dumping his armload of kindling and fuel near the Man's feet. The  
exiled prince then removed his quiver and bow, withdrew his dagger from  
inside and slipped it under the leather tied round his waist, and held  
the weapons out toward the mortal.

"I will not need these," he spoke another lie, "but please do not  
let the spiders near them. They will spot them and wish to destroy the  
implements of so many of their future generation's destruction."

Aragorn just stood staring at him and so Legolas sighed and put the  
quiver and bow upon the ground beside the Man's pack.

"Do not leave the clearing, even when the battle is over. Stay by  
the fire in case any get away from me and come here, seeking their  
brethren. I am not sure how many members are in this particular colony,  
for I have not been near for several years, but they will not send all  
the adults anyway. Some will stay behind to protect the nests. We have  
an excellent chance of surviving, though it will not be an easy task by  
any means."

Legolas meant this speech to be reassuring, but could see by the  
dour expressions regarding him that his effort had failed miserably. He  
frowned, there was no time for more discussion, and he could not make  
them understand anyway. After the fight they would have all the  
knowledge they would ever need, but before hand no explanation would  
seem rational to those who had never encountered Ungoliant's bizarre  
mutations of Yavanna's design.

"Legolas, what are you planning to do? I think Aragorn is right, we  
should remain together to face this threat," Gandalf said and laid a  
restraining hand upon his friend's shoulder.

Through the physical connection the mental one was opened and the  
wizard received a flood of information on fighting the arachnids, too  
much to assimilate. He had no references with which to associate most  
of it. A visual of the most vulnerable points in the creatures' bodies  
was all he could manage to retain. Legolas' intent was clear enough,  
though; he would do things his way and no words would deter him.  
Mithrandir's hand fell away limply from the elf, but the wild archer  
grabbed it up again in both his own and clasped it tightly albeit  
briefly in encouragement.

"Do not get bitten!" Legolas said and raced away back into the trees  
before they could attempt to stop him.

Gandalf and Aragorn stared at one another in the descending darkness  
for a moment or two and then in silent accord set about creating a  
fire. As he carried more wood to the center of the barren glen, the Man  
considered what he had been told.

"Gandalf, neither of us have the reflexes of an elf, and not even  
the Lorien elves are as quick as the Wood Elves, it is said. And I  
would be willing to wager that among his own people Legolas is somewhat  
more resourceful than most, for he thrives amid the harrows of the  
Shadow where many have faltered," he said contemplatively. The wizard  
stopped his activity and turned to his companion.

"All that you say I would not contest. What is your meaning?"

"Legolas owns the ability to combat these things, but we have none.  
Without him here I fear we will be lost in a direct conflict. I think  
we need to take measures to even the odds a little. If the creatures  
fear fire, then we must use it more robustly than even our wild friend  
instructs. We must construct a flaming barricade to guard our backs, or  
we will be overwhelmed by these foes."

"Legolas would not approve of endangering the trees in that way, but  
I agree with you!"

The two shifted their focus, defining a broad expanse of earth as a  
suitable location for their firewall. Carefully they cleared away all  
inflammable debris between their fortifications and the forest beyond  
the bleak expanse of the blasted settlement's boundaries. It would not  
do to have their elven friend return only to find his homeland ablaze  
due to careless oversight.

They piled high the logs and planks, rafters and beams, broken  
bedsteads and chairs that had once comprised homes to happy families,  
raising the bulwark as high as they had means to do. It seemed fitting  
that the decimation of the human habitat would assist the travelers, as  
though the townsfolk long dead partook of the struggle, too. As the sky  
over head began to gleam with the lustrous mithril scintillation of  
Varda's gift to the First Born, they completed their task and lit the  
palisade up.

Another glance passed between the duo, and together they drew their  
swords, planted themselves firmly before the burning blockade, and  
waited.

From the position of the moon, both knew that three hours had passed  
from Ithil's reign with nothing but the crackling inferno to break the  
somber night's silence.

There was no prelude to the attack. Unlike four-footed beasts or the  
fearsome Orcs, the spiders were silent in their approach and as careful  
in the trees as an elf. Of a sudden the clearing was brimming with the  
huge bloated things, scrambling with alarming speed on their eight  
hairy hinged spindles of legs towards their prey.

Aragorn braced for the onslaught, gripping his blade with calm  
determination, remaining fixed to prevent being flanked and exposing  
his back to danger. Yet the creatures halted just beyond range of his  
sword arm and in the next instant a stream of fetid silk shot across  
the remaining distance and wrapped his ankle in a tightening knot.

The spider grasped the strand with its two front legs and yanked  
hard, jerking the Man from his feet. Aragorn shouted in anger as he was  
flung to the ground, and hacked at the sticky stinking string as the  
arachnid reeled him in. Their silk was sterner stuff than it looked and  
yielded not, and then the human recalled the Wood Elf's advice too  
late. He had not kept a flaming torch at hand.

With an enraged yodel Aragorn grabbed onto the silk and pulled with  
all his strength, and the foul beast was taken by surprise and toppled  
forward, its gruesome eyes shoved rudely into the dirt. The mortal took  
the opportunity and speared the grotesquely bulging body through;  
gagging at the release of vile fluids that poured out, surging from the  
breach.

The spider did not move again, and Aragorn scooted backwards as  
another streak of yellow-tinted spinning launched towards his chest. He  
reached the fire and snatched a branch from its base, searing away the  
clinging wrap even as the loathsome spinner began its relentless  
retrieval. Before the spider could sever the thread and shoot forth  
another, the Man replayed his initial maneuver and, snatching the  
disgusting extrusion, hauled the writhing enemy into his blade's eager  
bite.

But Legolas had not been recalcitrant in his warnings, for this  
species was eminently more astute than any Orc could ever be. The next  
bit of organic rope to reach him ensnared the Man's sword arm. Aragorn  
shoved the torch into the web-maker's hold even as a second and then a  
third cord attached to his shoulder and his thigh.

He was down again, and now two spiders held tight their twines as  
the third advanced upon him with rapidity he found alarming.  
Frantically he seared through the constraint upon his shoulder and  
swept his sword through the attacker's neck, severing the goggle-eyed  
head from the bulbous thorax. The malodorous juices of the fiendish  
monster spewed over him and he strained to suppress his rising gorge.

A hoarse shout from his right alerted Aragorn to Gandalf's plight,  
not much different from his own.

The wizard was swinging his fiery brand in the same two-fisted grasp  
that controlled his sword, and three spiders tried to snatch the old  
one's arms and legs with their hateful webs. Even as he fell, the Maia  
succeeded in chopping off two legs from one and burning the eyes of  
another in one upswept, arcing movement of controlled fury.

The disabled spider clicked its menacing fangs and lunged at the  
Istar's darting arm, hoping to inject its potent venom, but Gandalf  
kicked with his free leg, knocking yet another of the loathsome  
monstrosity's supports from under it. His sword and the torch finished  
the arachnid as its two companions sought to tug him into their  
clutches.

Shouting damnation and curses upon the diabolical arthropods looming  
in the dancing haze of the roaring firelight, Gandalf copied Aragorn's  
strategy and pulled back on the silk attached to his leg. The creature  
bared down and stood firm, bracing against the pressure, and the wizard  
singed the thread through, sending the spider rolling backwards in the  
release of tension on the line.

The third creature disengaged its own string and retreated slightly  
to try again, and Gandalf jumped to his feet and picked up the  
discarded length. With a snapping crack he whipped its free end up and  
caught the destabilized spider as it was trying to right itself, and  
the strong filament stuck tight. The wizard gave a satisfied yell as he  
yanked the flailing heap of legs and eyes toward him and sliced its  
segmented torso in two.

The retreating spider continued its rout, suddenly less bold as the  
noisome liquids that served as blood for its kind flowed so freely from  
the broken remains of its fellows. Two others, fleeing from Aragorn's  
wrathful advance joined it, and in mere minutes the battle was over.

The two travelers remained alert, expecting another assault, and  
gulped in lungfuls of the polluted air as their hearts thundered from  
the exertion and the flood of adrenaline released by the stress of the  
encounter. Gradually, they calmed and eased their vigilant stances, at  
last realizing the spiders were defeated. They exchanged weary looks  
filled with unbelieving relief and surveyed the carcasses littering the  
ground.

In all, they had felled seven of the ghoulish abominations, and they  
dragged the disgusting remains out away from their encampment, forming  
a ring of death to the front in accord with the barricade of flames at  
their backs. This done they at last turned to take stock of one  
another, and identical grins spread across the two companions' faces.

What a sight they were! Bits and pieces of spider's silk clung to  
them and their garments were befouled with a revolting mixture of dirt  
and arachnid blood and innards.

Gandalf's beard had suffered the worst in the fray, for a large  
swatch of the flowing gray-streaked hair had been caught in his torch's  
flame and burned away. His long soft robe was ripped at the hip where a  
thread had landed, and both arms bore abrasions from the steely grip of  
the arachnid's attempts to disable him.

Aragorn was not much better; bearing a long tear in his fine  
leggings and a terrible disfigurement of his elegant elven left boot at  
the ankle. His chest and shoulder had been protected from the silk by  
his jerkin, which proudly bore its new-earned scars. The Man's sword  
arm was sore, but not unusable, and so he counted himself fortunate  
indeed to have fared so well.

The two did not relax completely, however, lest the attack be but  
the initial advancement of the dire creatures. They stood back to back,  
swords drawn and ready, torches at hand, awaiting the night's end and  
the return of the Wood Elf.

Tbc


	34. Chapter 34

**Agar Mael** [Blood Lust]  


Legolas hastened through the treetops, using all the speed he could  
manage and exerting as much strength as he dared to bolster his  
connection with Tawar as he moved from branch to branch amid the  
canopy.  
He desperately needed to know what direction the spiders would come  
from. _Where is the largest nest? How many are in it_? He needed  
to attract the adults' attention by heading straight for it and their  
precious egg cocoons, knowing this was the only way to deflect the main  
body of the colony from overwhelming his friends in the ruined clearing  
behind him.

He let the trees guide his flight, and was thankful the Greenwood  
was able to do so, given the black plague of shadowy poison slowly  
seeping through root and rhizome. Yet the Dark Lords were not expecting  
him to seek out a center of evil and no move was made to obscure the  
lair of the arachnids. He could feel the reciprocation of corruption in  
the trees housing the spiders; these blighted hardwoods stood out like  
glaring beacons of unadulterated hatred for all that Tawar represented.  
It would have been impossible not to discern these cancers in his  
forest, he realized, even if Tawar was totally incoherent and  
unreachable.

There was not enough time to prepare an adequate defense. He was  
still tired, though the sense of Mithrandir's quiddity was still strong  
in his soul. His whole being hurt, though that was the manageable  
aching he now recognized as a constant in his existence, and he had not  
the benefit of his archer's skill or the distance that would accord him  
from fangs and spinners. Those arrows, he knew, would be needed in the  
battle with the Orcs, and he would have no opportunity to stop and make  
more if he used them up against the loathsome arachnids. He would have  
to make contact with his foes, and he shuddered in revolted aversion to  
the idea of touching the disgusting abominations.

_ Not enough time! _

What could he possibly do to fend off  
the wretched beasts and keep them from killing him? Strange, had he not  
but hours ago desired such an impossible situation and thus an end to  
the unbearable debacle that was the remnant of his life? Now he needed  
to retain that vitality as long as was tenable to give his friends the  
chance to survive their inadvertent association with and assimilation  
into his macabre world. It was an irony he did not appreciate even  
slightly. He renewed his determined commitment to stay the Dark One  
from stealing these two from him, from Arda, convinced on a deeply  
instinctive level that their survival was paramount. With no realistic  
defense he decided to perpetrate an open frontal assault right into the  
heart of the arthropods' territory.

_My territory_.

He knew where the nest was now; Tawar  
sent him the precise location in a clear image. It was a massive  
conclave of draping nets and heavy sacs stuffed with the developing  
broods of Ungoliant's excremental offspring. How he longed to destroy  
them all! With a wild surge of anger and hate he changed course and  
raced for it, letting the branches carry his venomous resentment of the  
gruesome infestation to the colony's inhabitants.

_I am coming!_

At this instant he felt them, lurking  
in weighty vigilance among the branches below, and he smiled. They had  
no way of comprehending what was to befall them, for little certainty  
did he have himself.

_Fair enough, come and see if you  
can bind me then! I will not easily be made fodder for your young!_

He had no leeway to plan or plot, to  
build traps or kindle fire, and so he depended on just his raw energy  
and repugnance for the creatures. The beasts were used to him firing  
arrows from afar, sending their nests into flaming debris as the unborn  
young boiled into smoky remains and putrid odors. They expected him to  
flee to find a new position and launch more white heated darts upon  
them, not to grapple with them by sinew and blade.

_ Let  
them learn what it is like to have a Wood Elf upon them _!

Dagger in hand he silently hurtled  
down onto his first victim, landing on its black and grey mottled back  
and wrapping his long legs tightly around its bulbous body. He  
recognized the arthropod from a previous encounter some years before by  
the scarred remains of a visionless eye in a seared and empty socket.  
This one had tasted him long ago, sinking its snapping beak into his  
calf and injecting enough of its vile venom to sicken him for nearly a  
month of days. It craned its compounded glare upon him and tried to  
bring its filthy mouth into range of his shins. A sneer of feral  
ferocity graced the wild elf's features as he drove the blade through  
the join of the thorax and the head. No sound could the creature make  
as it went limp in the leaves, its own web holding it firm, and Legolas  
leaped off and up and flung himself upon his next target.

This one saw him and sent a stream of  
its silken essence toward the Tawarwaith, but the Elf was far faster  
than the beings realized, having never fought him at close range, and  
he was gone from the spot before the spun constraint landed. The spider  
snapped off the thread and turned to find him in its multi-faceted  
eyes, only to feel the dirk bite into its belly and slit it wide,  
emptying its vital organs into the dirt with a noisy, wet splatter.

The whole colony was aware of him  
now, and all but ten turned to give chase and surround the object of  
their dire abhorrence. Long silken streamers of web fibers sailed  
soundlessly across the open spaces, attempting to close him in, but  
Legolas predicted that and scrambled to move up and down, over and  
under the sticky extrusions, never trying to flee at all. The spiders  
were surprised by the new tactic, and paired up to work against him.

And the strategy cost them much, for  
the creatures could not get their webs to work to their advantage at  
this close range. They snared the branches and the tree trunks; they  
snagged each other's limbs and oculi, unwittingly creating a crossfire  
of the adhering threads.

The wild elf was like a phantom of  
air rather than a being of substance, moving just a hair's breadth to  
either side of their silky cage's clasp just before the emanations  
landed. While they thus entangled each other, Legolas wove among the  
spiders, slipping between the handicapped legs and blinded eyes to jab  
and stick them, rip and tear them, cleaving away their existence piece  
by piece.

The forest fought with their champion  
in the same manner as their devious counter parts to the south had  
worked against him. The arachnids found they spent as much time using  
their web to save themselves leg-snapping falls as they did trying to  
wrap Tirn-en-Tawar up, for the trees willingly allowed their branches  
to crack free from bark and bole to cast the spiders down.

Soon the creatures' overzealous  
reliance on their natural weaponry had created a massive stinking mess  
of both loosely fluttering and secured webs that worked to shield the  
Wood Elf, blocking any new spinnings' path as he scampered from limb to  
branch in the spaces between the strands.

His timing was exquisite, and even in  
his haze of hostile malevolence, Legolas exulted in the finesse of his  
reactions and the accuracy of the slightest flex of his wrist and  
blade. There was something gloriously primal in the release of his dark  
and dreadful desire to kill, a magnificence in the righteous flow of  
rage and anger flooding his soul at the thought of his friends'  
endangerment, and sublime surety in the sensation of the blade sliding  
through the rigidly resilient carapaces, spilling out the spiders'  
poisonous liquors to mix with the duff.

He relished it.

The brutal engagement sent him a  
renewed surge of vigor and strength, as though he was sucking it right  
out of his enemies' essential share of living energy, much as the  
spiders would have allowed their brood to siphon off his own vital  
juices had they captured their nemesis.

Unceasingly his blade stabbed and  
stuck them, slicing and decapitating, dismembering and blinding them.  
The forest warrior was cruel, hacking off spinners and then taunting  
the spiders to come for him, only to leap away from snapping fangs even  
as his clever immortal hand flicked the deadly mithril gleam behind the  
leering arachnids' eyes and snapped through their twiggy necks.

Legolas disregarded the hours passing  
as the struggle ensued, sparing no effort to consult the position of  
Ithil's face to learn that he had been killing for four hours now. He  
lost count of how many had fallen to his dagger's determined dance of  
destruction, and he heard the spiders give him new names. No longer  
merely Ungol Dagnir [Spider Bane], the identity he had held among them  
for all these years of exile, he increased in dread importance and  
manifested in their foul tube-shaped hearts an unbridled panic such as  
the species had not felt before this night.

A fell litany swept through them in  
their language of clicks and shrills, and entered back into the twisted  
trees, flowing thence through their unholy connection to the Dark Lords  
far to the south: Rûth-en-Arda, Feä Gurth, Ilfirin Coth,  
Eithad  
Balch [Wrath of Arda, Death Spirit, Undying Foe, Cruel Stab].

The spiders at last halted their  
unsuccessful attempts to corner their enemy and lapsed motionless  
around him. Though he was ringed with nine arachnids, he was not to be  
captured thus, and they chattered in apprehensive confusion. Even when  
they succeeded in gluing one of their strings to his flesh, he used his  
bitter blade and scraped it off, caring not to part with a layer or two  
of his hide to free himself. When a strand had caught his long tresses,  
he had not appeared to notice that the momentum of his motion caused  
the entangled clump to be ripped away still rooted to his scalp. He did  
not seem to feel pain, he displayed no fear, he did not give in to  
fatigue though the pace of their attacks was anything but apathetic.  
The spiders tried to reorder their evil-spawned thoughts.

Legolas balanced lightly on the  
slender limb, panting mightily with the effort the battle was costing  
him, yet refused to bow to the demands of his body for rest and for  
water. He looked at the many-eyed creatures and laughed to know their  
new names for him, briefly wondering in the back of his awareness how  
he had made the translation.

A new idea blazed like lightening  
across his brain and in his gluttony for gore he acted upon it,  
launching himself with a soul-stilling shriek upon the nearest beast at  
his left. He grabbed its front leg, covered with wiry hairs, and sliced  
it free, tumbling himself over in mid-air and then lashing out with the  
severed leg he held tight in his hand. The spiny hooks caught onto the  
webbing strands draped all round among the branches and he used the new  
anchor point to swing his body in a wide arc that allowed him to kick  
one spider away while hacking another free of its silk organ.

Legolas dropped the leg and plummeted  
down onto a third beast's back, replaying his initial attack, and  
viciously hewed it to pieces beneath him. With a sneering expletive he  
hoisted up and shoved the remains into the furious stream of web-silk  
streaming toward him, and used the snared body like a weighted  
pendulum, riding it away to a nearby branch even as two more spun  
fibers darted through the air.

He felt a thread sear his back, and  
with no hesitation slipped the dripping dagger into his own flesh and  
cut the strand away. He was no longer surprised that he barely felt the  
laceration; he had learned a thing or two about pain over the last few  
days. The warmth of the blood oozing down his spine he welcomed, having  
discovered the threads could not stick to the fluid.

The Tawarwaith chose another casualty  
and raced across the branches for it, darting through the holes in the  
matted mesh, but was disappointed to see the spider send a long stream  
of ropy silk into a neighboring tree and use it to  
escape. It kept up its retreat, casting and reeling lines from tree to  
tree, and the cowardly action spurred like behavior in its brethren.  
Within seconds the seven remaining arachnids were in demoralized  
retreat, fleeing as Legolas screamed curses at them and gave chase.

The feral immortal let them go after  
he had haunted their eight-heeled flight for an hour's length of  
Ithil's remaining regency, overjoyed to give them a small sense of what  
he had felt when pursued relentlessly by death's advocates for nights  
on end.

Legolas could not help his ecstatic  
grin and gave a victorious shout that followed after them. He cursed  
them in the names of Yavanna and Aulë, and demanded Oromë  
come and flush them out and finish the night's work, saying he had  
grown bored with them and wished to return to his friends'  
companionship. Long would his words be remembered, and the night be  
marked by their species as a catastrophic defeat, and for this Legolas  
rejoiced.

As he made his way back through the  
branches toward the clearing he could not suppress his exhilaration,  
and began singing into the approaching day as Anor crept near the east  
and paled the depths of inky night. Thus he returned to his companions,  
who heard him long before he leaped down from the trees.

Aragorn grinned hugely and sheathed  
his sword as he looked upon Gandalf's equally beaming countenance.

"It seems we have all been victors  
this time!" he said.

"I never doubted it!" Gandalf lied  
with high humour and the Man laughed at the falsehood, for they had  
both worried through the evening's last hours, yearning to know how  
their friend fared.

They listened now to his song of  
gloating fulfillment, which he seemed to be inventing as he went along,  
and called out the chorus to underscore the fair voice. But as soon as  
the elf landed on the ground and came to them, their words froze in the  
backs of their mouths and their eyes grew wide with horror.

Legolas was a ruinous mess of  
self-inflicted stabs and scrapes, required to keep free from his more  
numerous adversaries, and he was limping on a terribly swollen ankle  
that he scarcely seemed to feel. He was painted with an unholy coating  
of elven blood streaked through hideous splashes of slick spider slime.  
When he closed within arm's length, they actually drew back a step, for  
the fearsome light of his killing spree was still within his gleaming  
eyes, and it was a deeply troubling perversion of the normally  
wholesome brightness of his clear blue gaze. He stopped his chanting  
lyrics as he saw their timorous demeanor and looked in confusion from  
one to the other.

"Legolas!" said Gandalf, barely  
whispering the word.

"What has happened?" demanded the  
elf. "What is this expression of dread?" He swayed a bit, weary beyond  
his ability to grasp, for he was too drunk on the power of his  
butchering. Neither of the two travelers could bring themselves to  
answer, uncertain what they could say to him that would get through to  
his mind in his state of over elevated emotions. Legolas glanced down  
at his leg with a frown as a small twinge from it caught his attention,  
and then hobbled over to examine their own trophies of the night's  
sorties.

"Not a poor number for your first  
time against raug o tail-telyth [eight-footed demons]!" he praised them  
and kicked one of the rotting carcasses with delighted viciousness,  
laughing upon hearing the squishy crunching of the shattered  
soft-shelled beast. He turned back and scrutinized his friends'  
appearance and laughed again, a cutting sound edged in exhaustion.

"Oh, Mithrandir!" he cried out in  
distress and reached out to brush his fingers against the singed place  
in the Istar's beard. "You two look a bit bedraggled for your efforts.  
We must retrieve the horses and find some clean water to wash in, and  
no doubt you have extra clothing with you. It just amazes me how much  
stuff everyone drags about with them! Those Noldor were the worst for  
it I have ever seen. Do you know, Erestor had two spare sets of  
clothing with him?"

"Erestor!" Gandalf and Aragorn  
exclaimed together, but Legolas ignored them, drifting towards the  
remains of the firewall to examine it critically.

"Now this was surely a great risk to  
my home! How do you dare take such liberties in someone else's lands?"  
he scolded with a scowl. When his comrades made no answer he turned to  
look upon them again, still puzzled, and then stooped down to massage  
the ankle, burning much more hotly with stinging cramps than before. He  
straightened and motioned for the two to follow along. "Come on and we  
shall find the animals and see if we can convince them to carry such  
smelly and filthy riders as you."

He ambled unsteadily off and the  
Istar and the Man exchanged worried looks. They decided not to  
interfere with the Wood Elf until he lost the chilling ferocity that  
shone in his eyes, and trailed after him, each hefting a pack as they  
passed, and Aragorn took up the elf's weapons, which he had walked by  
without a second glance. That more than any other act indicated the  
unnatural diversion of his mind, for it had always been his first  
instinct to seek these tools and keep them close. The two travelers  
hoped he would walk off his excitement and return to the manner that  
they knew to be his true character.

It took better than an hour before  
the elf descended from his giddy heights of euphoric blood lust. The  
horses' refusal to let him near triggered his return from the grip of  
dark delight and forced him to cast out the recurring images of his  
lengthy battle. The beasts were obviously as terrified of him as they  
would be of the spiders, or indeed of any Orc, and that disturbed the  
elf mightily.

Legolas became quiet and sober, and  
succumbed to an encompassing gloom equal to the magnitude of his former  
exaltation. The burdens of his wounds began to cry for attention  
and at last the bone-draining weariness engulfed him completely. He sat  
down with a groan, folding his legs and gingerly cradling his injured  
ankle atop the opposite knee. When he leaned against the trunk of the  
oak his back flared up angrily as the bark pressed into the raw wounds  
from his own dagger. He had to hunch forward over his lap and bowed his  
head, suddenly ashamed to see what his friends' eyes must reflect of  
him.

He had always experienced heightened  
exhilaration during and just following a fight, even when in the  
patrols. This night's sense of grotesque enjoyment in the destruction  
he had wrought was a more potent thing, a feeling of a black craving  
that he had never known within himself before, fully sated and slaked.  
He could smell the mixture of his and the arachnids' blood all over him  
and suddenly felt overwhelmed with nausea. Fighting to suppress the  
gurgling upsurge of bitter gall, Legolas leaned over until his head  
nearly rested on his injured leg and gripped his midsection tightly.

Aragorn had been waiting for this and  
was already sorting through his supplies to mix up a remedy for the gut  
wrenching queasiness he was certain would follow. He had known Men to  
react this way, carried away in battle's blood letting only to feel  
fouled and inhuman once it was done. He had seen Elladan suffer the  
same, transformed by his desire to avenge his mother's assault, then as  
the carcasses cooled, crying out that she would never know him for the  
delight he found in such sport.

Unable to overpower the need to  
purge, Legolas hastily unfolded his limbs and crawled behind the tree  
as the vomiting commenced, and Gandalf went to help him, though there  
was little he could do when he got there. He had thought to rub the  
elf's shoulders and back, but the skin was still oozing blood from  
several raw patches and he dared not touch him.

There was little enough in their  
friend's stomach anyway, so the sickness was over quickly and he  
dragged himself back to his place by the tree. Cautiously Legolas  
raised his eyes to look at them, dreading to see their disgust and  
fear, yet he had to know if they truly despised him, and somehow he  
hoped they could forgive his new found flaw. He met first Mithrandir's  
age-old eyes and found there only worry and kindness, and relief  
flushed away the remains of the killing fever from his brain. When he  
looked at the Man, a warm smile of understanding graced the Ranger's  
rugged face, and he held out a cup with something wet in it.

"You will find this will help your  
insides settle down," he said encouragingly. "I have to make it for my  
brother every time he goes on an Orc raid." Aragorn spoke these words  
without thinking of their consequences, for he had kept back his  
relationship to Imladris, but the reference was too vague and meant  
nothing to Legolas. He took the medicine and swallowed it down without  
complaint. It was not unpleasant, peppermint being a principle  
component, and it did help ease the churning.

"Now then, I think the horses will know you again. Call to them,  
Legolas, for we do need fresh water to clean up those cuts," said  
Gandalf and helped the wild elf stand, for the ankle would not support  
him any longer. He did not even need to call them aloud, for the bay  
and the palomino were already ambling back towards their riders and  
merely blew out loudly through their velvet muzzles, protesting against  
the strong odors the three travelers emitted. Their friend was back to  
normal and they willing allowed the three to mount up.

As before, Legolas and the horses knew the course to tread and the  
Man and the Maia accepted the role of passengers. There was no trail of  
any kind that they could see and the towering boles stood in forbidding  
ranks, a maze of cramped closeness that had the animals zigzagging all  
around, it seemed to the elf's two friends. With the sun up the  
outpouring of light from Anor at least made the direction obvious as  
they progressed further east with every step. It would appear the  
enchantment was still in effect.

An hour's walk brought them to a low spot and the trees changed in  
species to cypress and hemlock, as these were happy to have their feet  
thoroughly wet, and they ringed the fen. The spongy ground disquieted  
the animals, though, and they refused to go on when tea-colored water  
oozed up around their hooves with each step.

"We will have to walk from here," Legolas sighed, "but it is for the  
best. Some of the mud can get quite a firm grip on one and I have not  
the energy to pull the horses out. There is a deep pool at the heart of  
the bog, but the way is tricky if you are not elf-kind. I am not sure  
how heavy a creature these step-stones of fern and mold will support. I  
know of no other water source near-by, however."

"Well I suppose if there is nothing else, we must try," said Aragorn  
with little enthusiasm.

"At least no Orcs can get through to the center," commented Gandalf,  
and he got down first in order to assist Legolas. The two hobbled  
forward with the Man behind.

"I would guess there is a reason you do not just use some sort of  
magic to dry up a nice solid bridge for us?" Aragorn complained.  
Gandalf muttered something under his breath and Legolas laughed,  
looking back at the Ranger in amusement.

"If he did as you say, he would ruin this place for the creatures  
that do like it this way and make it their home," he said. Aragorn  
bowed his head.

"Fair enough. I fail to see how a few less newts, frogs, and snakes  
would be a harmful thing, however."

"It would be more than that; the whole forest would change!" the elf  
exclaimed. "These trees only like this sort of spot, and some birds  
will only nest in those very trees, for here the supply of insects is  
high. Without those newts and frogs, maybe we would not be able to  
abide the flies and gnats so well, while the snakes keep the amphibians  
from overproducing."

"Oh come now, one bog drained would not make an end of the  
Greenwood, Legolas."

"I did not say it would end, I said it would change."

"Everything changes; it cannot be stopped."

At that comment the wizard and the elf both looked back at their  
friend with such solemn and sorrowful expressions that the Man caught  
his breath and suddenly felt a huge fool. Had he just been lecturing  
immortals on the nature of Arda? Between them these two had likely seen  
more in the way of alteration than was recorded in all the histories of  
human life to date.

They had made their way through splashing and sucking steps to the  
heart of the little depression, and a small black-water pool did indeed  
grace the site. The old cypress trees knelt right in the liquid,  
stretching out their long limbs across the water's surface; a plane so  
motionless it might have been solid, a huge mirror reflecting the moss  
draped branches and knobby gnarled knees jutting up among the rushes at  
the edges of the pool. It was so still and silent that it almost seemed  
a place apart, removed from the regular realm of the forest's noisy  
wildlife altogether. It was a calming kind of quietness, and the beauty  
of the place was undeniable.

Aragorn did not allow the enchantment of the serene environment to  
deter him long, however, for he was eager to get cleaned up and tend to  
the elf's injuries. He found a reasonably solid patch of land and set  
down his pack and Legolas' weapons and motioned for the wizard to bring  
him over. He cautiously lifted the elf's long hair to see the scrapes  
and Legolas winced as the pared patch of scalp was exposed. The Man and  
the Maia both wrinkled up their faces in sympathetic grimaces.

"This water will probably burn a bit, for it is filled with the  
fermenting decay from the leaves and ferns. Nonetheless, you need to  
get in it and remove all the dirt from the spiders, Legolas, or these  
gashes and gouges will not heal up well," Aragorn instructed. He  
returned to his pack to see how much of the soothing salve remained and  
looked up when the elf gasped as he resurfaced from his dive under the  
tannin saturated liquid.

Legolas stood up, howled at the pressure on the ankle, over balanced  
and splashed back under. He was soon joined in the pool as the wizard  
and the mortal both stripped off and plunged in as well. Neither seemed  
very pleased with the brash bite of the brown water and sluiced  
themselves off as quickly as they could. Legolas was already out and  
shivering on the bank when they hauled themselves to shore.

As he had predicted, each of his companions had extra clothing among  
their belongings and quickly redressed themselves. Legolas was not so  
lucky and had to put back on the tattered and much mended leggings, now  
begrimed with the stench of the spiders' remains. He watched as Aragorn  
approached with the small jar and recognized the scent with a  
suddenness that almost made him exclaim.

"What is that concoction, Aragorn? How did you get it, for I have  
been treated with it before," he asked, curious.

"My father makes it; he is a healer."

"Yet that explains nothing, unless you can tell me that elves now  
train Men to heal other elves."

"It works as well on Men, though it takes longer as does any remedy  
for my kind. And as for being trained in healing, I have found the  
elves at home more than happy to share such knowledge with me. I cannot  
speak for other humans or other Realms." As he talked he gently applied  
the cooling lotion and was gratified by the ease this gave his friend,  
and he could almost swear the growth of the new skin was visible.

But Aragorn sighed and looked over at Gandalf, for he felt he could  
no longer withhold the truth from Legolas. The wizard nodded his  
approval; they would have to get to the bottom of it and now was as  
good a time as any. He was especially interested to find out how the  
Wood Elf had met Erestor.

"Legolas, you asked before about this, and I would not answer  
because I did not want you to turn against me. It is because I am from  
Imladris, and the Brown wizard told us elves from there have harmed  
you," Aragorn said bluntly.

Legolas stared, incredulous, and found he could not generate any  
anger, only surprise and a peculiar emptiness. What the Imladrians had  
caused he did not want to start thinking about again, and hoped that if  
he concentrated on the irregularity of a human living in an elven realm  
he could just keep it from seeping back into his mind. It was  
impossible, however, for Imladris made him think of Elrond and that  
caused him to think of his father. He moaned despairingly and Gandalf  
came over immediately to his side.

"Legolas, you mentioned Erestor when you were just back from the  
fighting. Tell me what part he has played in all these troubles, for I  
will see him brought before Elrond to answer for it," he said.

"He is just a healer and a spy." Legolas shrugged listlessly; he  
could not really remember what Erestor had to do with it and did not  
want to. "He both helped and hurt. I cannot understand him at all! I  
know not what else he is involved in, or what Elrond actually intended  
him to do. They were attempting to turn me against my own; you know all  
about their thoughts on the Ring. Why they felt I would help them break  
into Thranduil's vaults I know not; except that they must think very  
lowly of me, indeed." These words were spoken with pained exasperation  
and then the elf fell silent.

But Aragorn and Gandalf looked at each other with confusion.

"Legolas, forgive me, I do not mean to contradict you. But Erestor  
of Imladris is not a healer," said Aragorn. "If they were spies, as you  
say, I suspect they lied about themselves, probably to impress you with  
their importance in hopes to sway you more easily. Describe this  
false-named elf, for I have lived in the Last Homely House nearly all  
my life and will likely recognize him."

Tbc.


	35. Chapter 35

**Thavron ah Aran **[Carpenter and  
King]

Alone in the room where the tumultuous session  
had met at dawn, the Woodland King walked silently around the chamber's  
boundaries, deep in thought and lost in the knowledge he had gained. It  
was a serious slip, this lack of comprehension for his dispossessed  
heir's growing popularity. Thranduil did not try to deny or rationalize  
the failure. Someone had found a flaw in the carefully crafted  
blueprint of his regency and was cleverly manipulating events to  
maximize the trouble this would cause. Within his mind wheeled a list  
of names, a handful of elves that might individually be merely  
irritants, burrs upon the hide, yet when subtly combined could  
represent a more serious threat to his dominion.

In general, it was easy to keep malcontents  
within the Realm under control. A stint guarding the southern borders  
quickly changed most elves' perspectives on the value of Thranduil's  
regency. These champions of a return to the days of unstructured  
self-governance immediately understood the need for a well-trained and  
highly disciplined army under a central authority. The cost for  
maintaining this force no longer seemed so high, and indeed these  
nay-sayers tended to become the most vocal in requesting for the  
warriors the best their King's wealth could afford.

The few who remained staunch in their  
disapproval usually had strong ties to kin in Lorien and were apt to  
contrast the two Realms' defensive capabilities; an unrealistic  
comparison at best. Maltahondo came to mind instantly, and his motives  
were the easiest to predict. Devoted to Ningloriel, the warrior had  
barely been able to control his urge to openly challenge Thranduil each  
and every time the couple's altercations flared. The Woodland King was  
certain it was only Ningloriel's demand that he refrain from open  
aggression that prevented this. With the Queen gone, Maltahondo would  
bear a monumental grudge and would have no need to restrain his desire  
for revenge. It was also well known that no one else in the Realm would  
have equal ability to influence the fallen prince. Thranduil knew  
Legolas idolized the guardsman and had since his elfling days.

_And now this carpenter joins the roster!_

Thranduil had already learned much of  
Fearfaron's background from Meril at their evening meal. It was  
surprising to note the changes showing forth in the formerly contented  
and complacent craftsman since the 12th year Edinor-en-Baudh  
[Anniversary of the Judgement]. Thranduil knew that he had withdrawn  
his complaint, claiming his son had been Released by Legolas. It was  
this testimony more than any other gossip or news from the woodsmen  
that had turned the Wood Elves in favour of the fallen prince. Now the  
carpenter had several Councilors, including Iarwain, eager to back the  
outcast and the King's own promise to assist the Tawarwaith! What  
Fearfaron planned to do with this power was completely beyond  
Thranduil's comprehension. Thus, he had summoned the carpenter to this  
very chamber at tinnu.

_How is it that I failed to observe the  
shift of opinion and the addition of new players into the game_?

Thranduil sighed and shook his head. He need  
not wonder, truly, for it was obvious what had held his interest of  
late. His preoccupation with his improved home-life had hindered his  
normal vigilance, and though a new heir was essential he should not  
have been lulled into such a complacent state of mind. It was just that  
he had not expected the domestic situation to be pleasurable in more  
than a physical sense, and barring the bitterness of Lindalcon, the  
Woodland King found his experiences with his consort to be thoroughly  
fulfilling.

Thranduil found himself hopelessly in love  
with Meril.

The son of Oropher was not of a nature given  
to lightheartedness or optimism, not since the end of the last Age.  
Although he made every effort to lessen the gloom for his subjects he  
had never been restored from the devastating loss of his father and  
kin. The profane marriage to Ningloriel had certainly not helped  
matters. Now that he was free of that encumbrance Thranduil  
rediscovered what it meant to smile for joy. In the intimate jubilation  
of their relationship he had pushed aside some of the more troubling  
situations accosting his Realm, and missed the emergence of this  
threat.

By his reckoning, it was not the disinherited  
archer who posed this menace. He had never noted anything even faintly  
resembling ambition in the unassuming warrior. Thranduil tried to  
recall some detail about Legolas that would indicate subterfuge or  
scheming, and nothing rose to the forefront of his mind. The only  
distinguishing characteristics of the outcast that presented to  
Thranduil's thought were of tireless dedication to mastery of the bow,  
a quiet and unobtrusive manner, distinctly aloof, completely bored by  
political matters.

_No, he is not the source of this dilemma,  
merely a tool, a dupe exploited for furthering the designs of other's  
acquisitive goals_.

The main competitors remained unchanged, this  
he did not doubt. Among the Eldar there remained only himself,  
Galadriel, and Elrond with even a remnant of the strength of the First  
and Second Ages. Cirdan he discounted, judging him more an emissary  
from Aman than a Lord among the Teleri. Of the three, Thranduil held  
the greatest lands and ruled the most populous Realm.

That Elrond had lusted for more than his wife  
Thranduil long had known, yet it was certainly Ningloriel who had drawn  
the Noldo's eye to the Greenwood. The Lord of Imladris had scorned the  
forest as wild and ragged, dark and oppressive until she informed him  
of the natural defenses of the woods and the innate ability of the  
Sylvan folk to manipulate these forces. In retrospect, Elrond must have  
noticed the courage and bravery of the Woodland elves as they played  
out their doomed part in the Last Alliance. The value of such an army  
at his command would not have escaped the Elven Lord's remark.

At what point in time the Noldo half-elf, as  
unofficial heir to Gil-Galad's ill-fated heritage, had decided he was  
the rightful leader of such an independent and long enduring people  
Thranduil could not guess. That Elrond wanted to annex the Greenwood to  
Imladris was blatant, having fathered an illegitimate child to secure a  
link to the Danwaith through Ningloriel.

_A bond I thought had been completely  
undermined!_

For the Peredhel, the matter was a deeply  
personal one, Thranduil knew. It was as though the High King's Herald  
desired nothing less than the absolute destruction of everything  
associated with Oropher's House. In some bizarrely warped fashion, the  
Noldo Lord had managed to twist Thranduil's loss of his brothers and  
father into an act of purposeful aggression upon Gil-Galad and Elrond's  
House.

Exactly how the sacrifice of more than  
two-thirds of Greenwood's immortal lives for the common cause of  
defeating Sauron translated as a directed attack upon Eärendíl's line,  
Thranduil had never been able to fathom. It was an irrational belief  
that spawned an inarticulate and virulent rage, and over time the  
Woodland King had come to feel the Peredhel must be under the subtle  
influence of Vilya.

_The Ring of Power wields the wearer, not  
the other way round_.

By association with Ningloriel, a host of  
spying trades-people, and various emissaries, Elrond learned much of  
what occurred inside Greenwood's borders. He constantly sought means to  
instigate confrontation between the Woodland Realm and Imladris. When  
the incursion of Orcs from Dol Guldur advanced too closely, forcing the  
Wood Elves to withdraw beyond the central region, Elrond accused  
Thranduil of disrupting trade routes and abandoning the human  
inhabitants.

_An absolute lie_!

Elrond implied that the Woodland King forced  
the migration of Orcs into the Misty Mountains where they accosted  
travelers. The Lord of Imladris just managed to suppress openly  
accusing Thranduil of complicity in Celebrian's assault.

_An unconscionable denigration made by a  
cousin to kinslayers_!

The Noldo held that Thranduil was either  
unwilling or unable to keep the Forest Road safe, thereby cutting off  
the folk of Dale and Erebor from the free lands to the west. Thranduil  
was aware that Elrond had discussed all this with Galadriel and had  
even brought these matters before the White Council, sessions to which  
he had not been invited to participate.

The Wood Elf King was incapable of determining  
which was more insulting: that Elrond considered him too dense to know  
about all this plotting or that he was deemed an ineffective leader,  
unfit to rule the Danwaith.

_And what of the reigning Queen of the  
Golden Wood, keeper of Nenya_?

Had Galadriel dared now to consider extending  
her borders as well? The Lady was not to be trusted, being part of the  
Noldo horde that invaded Alqualonde and massacred the Teleri dwelling  
there in peace. Oropher had counseled against any dealings with her,  
preferring to distance his people from Lorien as soon as she pushed  
Nenya past her knuckles. Yet, Thranduil had never found evidence that  
she looked north from Caras Galadon with avaricious designs.

It was his impression that the population of  
her lands was falling, more and more of the Sylvan folk departing for  
Valinor. What need could she have of more territory when she barely had  
troops enough to defend Lorien? Would she defy the peace between the  
free kingdoms and instigate this uprising? Was it that she did not wish  
Elrond to gain the Greenwood for himself and thus attain so sizable an  
influence in Middle Earth?

Or could the Lord of Imladris and the Lady of  
the Golden Wood be allies in such an undertaking? Would Maltahondo and  
Fearfaron cast their fate with Noldor elves, hoping to wrest the  
regency from Thranduil and place Legolas in his stead?

Thranduil drew his arched brows together in a  
forbidding scowl. That would be difficult to counteract; yet his  
instincts said this was not the case. Maltahondo might ally with  
Galadriel, but not Elrond, for he too had lost kin in the Last Alliance  
and would not look favorably on Imladris' Lord. And somehow Thranduil  
believed Fearfaron would trust neither of the High Elves.

_No, there are too many inconsistencies;  
the four are not collaborators_.

Still, the idea could not be discarded for the  
lust for power was an age-old vice among the Noldor, and even Thingol  
had fallen due to the same greed at the end. And now the Dark Lord  
returned his gaze to the forest as well.

_The Greenwood has become a much-coveted  
land of late_! _What does Sauron seek among the old trees?_   
the Wood Elf King wondered, for he was not fool  
enough to believe that the vengeful Dark Maia would desire the  
overthrow of the Greenwood for the purpose of obtaining lands and  
slaves. Why was the Sindar's adopted home suddenly so much more than a  
grove of ancient trees peopled by Moriquendi? When had his lands gained  
this wider appreciation?

Thranduil had an uneasy feeling that none of  
the factors thus far considered addressed the true nature of what was  
happening in his woods. The Wood Elves' part was undefined, the only  
clear concept the King could grasp was that his subjects were being  
surreptitiously directed, the events taking place neatly fit the  
prophecies of the superstitious Sylvans too well. Yet what could the  
High Noldo elves know of such beliefs? And why would Sauron care to  
employ such subtlety when he clearly preferred brute force? An unseen  
hand was shifting the board and altering the available moves in the  
game. Something completely different was taking place.

_Even if I suspect my old Noldor foes are  
involved, I doubt even Galadriel can foresee the role these Danwaith  
may take! If I cannot guess the turn of their hearts, who else could  
predict what these forest folk will do next?_ he wondered. Yet  
even as he walked under the center of the room his eyes gave him the  
answer. It was all around him, ingrained in the halls of the stronghold  
he had built, part of the walls and floors themselves.

The Council Chamber was one of the largest and  
most luminous of all the formal rooms in his stronghold. The high vault  
of the cavern's ceiling was intricately buttressed with beams of oak  
and beech that fit into meticulously carved slots within the wall rock  
and the stone columns that carried the overburden of the mountainside.  
These gracefully curved, complexly interwoven beams formed a  
symmetrical array that supported the bare stone and allowed secure,  
accessible anchor points for the oil lamps.

The light was kept on two levels, to supply  
the huge room with illumination and to display the very ceiling, which  
was itself a work of great beauty. The stone layer into which the roof  
was cut was a dark rock of fine-grained yet vesicular texture within  
which had grown individual crystals of clear dog's-tooth calcite. Each  
section of the rock between the arms of the beams represented a portion  
of the sky and its scattering of stars, just as it had been when first  
looked upon by the Eldar. This replica had been creatively defined by  
selective removal of individual gems. When only the higher lamps were  
lit, the facetted stones captured and refracted the light, filling the  
cavern with an almost tangible mist of twilight. Thus, many stars lost  
even to elven sight at the creation of Anor and Ithil were preserved,  
and to be in this room one came closest to understanding the sense of  
wonder possessed by the Quendi upon first awakening.

Because it was also one of the most visited  
courts within the King's fortress, the degree of artistic effort  
expended to make the room representative of the Sylvan culture was more  
pronounced here. The rock hewn walls and columns were carved in relief  
and highly polished. The natural variation in the mineralogical  
composition lent a distinctive series of colored bands that repeated  
from floor to ceiling in shades of green, golden yellow, pale reds,  
darkest blacks and bronzes, and cleanly speckled whites. Within each  
band a frieze depicted an important myth, legend, or event in the  
history of the Eldar that had dwelt here since before the First Age.  
Here were images of Cuiviénen and stories of the early encounters with  
Oromë as well as the first infringements by Melkor's thwarting will.

Painstakingly exact were the likenesses of the  
elves depicted for these were faces named and known to the Wood Elves  
and close kin to many. Some had fallen in their dire struggles with  
Melkor and his minions, and though these tales of the brave and bold  
were not recorded in letters the deeds survived fully in song. Likewise  
the growth and bearing of individual trees was documented, and the  
importance of the Greenwood as a living witness of all that befell the  
Sylvan folk was clearly emphasized. Distinct beeches, oaks, myrtles and  
ashes were recognizable; one could walk out into the forest and meet  
the progeny of these old ones upon the pathways. Where trees had met  
death at evil's doing, the ground that had harbored them in life became  
hallowed.

The appearances of the Valar were given a  
bodily form like that of elf-kind yet with eerily featureless faces,  
save only Oromë. Not even Yavanna and Aulë had walked among the First  
Born of the Greenwood, and so the Sylvan folk knew not what countenance  
to give these beings. It was no wonder the Wood Elves rarely considered  
these Powers as a part of Arda, and definitely could not feel a bond  
unto them, sheltered and hidden in Valinor.

No inscriptions or text either painted or  
chiseled accompanied the figures. Any visiting the salon would be able  
to comprehend the complexity of the existence of the Danwaith, whether  
the guest was literate in Sindarin or not. Few that entered the room  
realized that the stronghold itself was a young structure, for the  
length of the history exhibited was vast in comparison to that of the  
other free peoples of Arda. Indeed, even among the Eldar, no other  
Realm could claim so long a tale to tell; for the settling of Greenwood  
occurred at the time of the Great Journey. Long had the Danwaith  
dwelled there even before Thingol became King in Doriath.

_It is a form of worship these Wood Elves  
maintain for their forest home. They would do, and have braved,  
anything to protect what is here, for it is the very substance of their  
existence. Thus will they behave in future, and such zeal can be pushed  
to extremes. Casting Legolas as this forest champion is a clever  
strategy, playing upon their faith in Tawar to generate unwavering  
loyalty for the fallen prince!_

Upon one section of the chamber the stone wall  
was sanded smooth with no sculpting work, and here was mounted an  
ancient map inked on the thick, yellowed skin of an elk, fully the  
width of an adult elf's arm span with both limbs extended. Thranduil's  
turn around the room had brought him here, and he stopped to examine  
the artifact.

Elegantly wrought and finely illustrated, in  
addition to the principle plan there were two insets showing  
information on the three divisions of Doriath, for the diagram was of  
Beleriand as it was of old. Within the margins of the drawing, near the  
enlargement of the forest of Neldoreth, a less artistic yet meticulous  
hand had augmented the map with another picture at a later time. The  
carefully detailed depiction was inscribed with personal remarks that  
named specific points of interest and identified the route and  
itinerary of a great journey, for the tale told of the Sindar retreat  
across Ered Luin at the end of the First Age. The writing was that of  
Oropher, and marked his point of origin in the far eastern corner of  
Neldoreth.

"Today I looked for the last time upon my  
birthplace. We will never return here, for Arda is corrupted and  
Neldoreth has foreseen her demise, drowned beneath a great flood of the  
Sea. We will settle among her brethren across the Mountains, where also  
are my kin of old." Thranduil read his father's words aloud and felt  
the presence and the strength of Oropher envelope him briefly, fading  
away even as the echoes of his speech diminished.

"It was because of Neldoreth that we welcomed  
your people here," the quiet voice spoke behind him and Thranduil  
turned to find the carpenter standing at his shoulder. "Iarwain said  
Greenwood was overjoyed to have Oropher return to his Sylvan brothers."

"Iarwain welcomed my father's army! He is  
longsighted enough to have held concern for his home's defenses even  
then!" Thranduil snapped. "Let us be clear, Fearfaron; this discussion  
is to remain free of the usual religious ranting I must endure from the  
Council! I wish to know who is involved in this plot to remake Legolas  
into a challenger to my authority, nothing more!"

"I do not know what you mean by that," the  
carpenter said and frowned. "Legolas has no such interest."

"That I do not doubt!" the King scoffed with a  
deprecating laugh. "He has never shown any propensity for leadership!  
However, many others do entertain that desire, and someone seeks to use  
him to this end. You are involved! Say now who else plays this game and  
no charges will you face!"

"I fear not your charges; bring them! Better  
to face such lies openly than to bear reprisals spawned of a silent and  
unwarranted hatred! Gladly will I face the Council rather than be sent  
away to be slaughtered in battle!"

"You speak treacherous words, carpenter!"

"Can you even stand to hear your own voice?  
You are the traitor! How did Annaldír earn such a terrible end; was he  
not loyal to your commands, even when they served only yourself? What  
did Legolas ever do to you to deserve this horrendous fate?"

"Your son was a warrior and knew his calling  
usually brings death! Annaldír's valour was his undoing; he volunteered  
to contest against the goblin guards! As for Legolas, you need not any  
reply from me; everyone in the Realm and beyond knows he is not of my  
blood!"

"How easily you dismiss honour and fealty!  
Annaldír's death served a cause I doubt you even comprehend! And the  
heritage carried in Legolas' blood was naught of his design! An  
innocent you had under your protection and all you cared for was your  
exalted pride!"

"Enough! I owe no explanations to you! You  
seek to divert the matter from yourself! Who is involved in this little  
uprising?" Thranduil thundered out his wrathful demand upon the mild  
woodland craftsman, but Fearfaron was unmoved.

If ever he had felt worry for this meeting,  
the carpenter knew no concerns for himself now. He need only recall the  
last time he had seen Legolas and how close the archer had come to  
death for his anger to be fired and any trepidation squelched. He stood  
before his king calmly, arms folded across his chest, and glared back  
with confident fortitude born of his just righteousness.

"You misunderstand what is happening. None  
here are trying to take your throne away from you, Thranduil! Nor will  
any of the Wood Elves suffer a foreign ruler unsanctioned by Tawar," he  
said quietly. "As for who is helping Legolas survive, that is no  
mystery. There are but three in all of Arda that care for his well  
being: Mithrandir, Aiwendil, and myself. The real intrigue lies in  
discerning who is trying to destroy him."

Thranduil regarded the carpenter silently,  
shocked by the familiar use of his given name from so humble a citizen.  
He mulled over the carpenter's bold demeanor and candid observations;  
the implication was inescapable: Fearfaron held no respect for his  
Lord. What knowledge had precipitated this blatant insubordination? Had  
Fearfaron merely guessed the truth or was there a more potent source of  
information willing to come forward and tell the tale? The Woodland  
King decided caution was required.

"It is the Law of your own people that has  
condemned him! Again I say to you, your words hint at treasonous  
charges against your King!"

"I will do more than hint, then!" Fearfaron  
snorted derisively, for now he knew his suppositions were correct:  
Thranduil had purposefully placed Legolas in the path of death. The  
carpenter daringly pressed his advantage. "In fact, I am confident that  
Talagan would add his own account of the actual events at Erebor!"

Thranduil narrowed his eyes as an unpleasant  
smile graced the cruelty of his cold countenance, and Fearfaron knew  
the stalwart captain was not the accomplice he sought.

"You betray your ignorance of Talagan! His  
family and mine are devoted to one another! He would never stomach a  
Noldo's bastard to sit in power over his kin! You should read the  
history of the Last Alliance and find out the names of those who were  
lost there!"

"And you should open your eyes! There is not a  
drop of Noldorin blood in Legolas' body! He is a Wood Elf! Even worse,  
it is your ignorance that has created this situation. Had you bothered  
to learn more about our 'religious ranting' you would have known there  
were other means to ensure your heir was indeed your own seed. There  
was never a hindrance to taking a consort other than your misplaced  
pride! This is not Beleriand, Thranduil, and we are not Sindar! It was  
not necessary to prove faithlessness; Ningloriel's refusal to lie with  
you was more than sufficient reason to seek another mate!"

The stunned expression flittering through the  
Sinda's eyes gave Fearfaron the satisfaction of scoring a cutting blow,  
but it was an empty victory unless he could move the King, by either  
fear or honest remorse, to rescind the Judgement and admit Legolas into  
the community.

"Who?" asked the King, unable to mouth more  
than this one thought. His mind whirled in a flurry of confusion,  
anger, and grudging admiration for Ningloriel. She had so easily  
learned to play his prejudices against him, maintaining her power and  
prestige by withholding this information! Thranduil would have chosen a  
willing consort before Legolas was out of infant's cloths had he known  
this option was open to him.

Fearfaron turned his eyes away for a moment in  
disgust. Was this all the selfish King could think of, which elf  
Ningloriel had bedded in his place? How could Tawar allow so arrogant  
and uncaring a ruler to lead them; one who scorned the very people he  
sought to govern, refusing even to understand their ways and beliefs.  
So many centuries among the Sylvan elves and yet Thranduil still held  
himself distinct and superior by virtue of his Sindarin heritage.

"I cannot answer you, Thranduil, for it is not  
my place to name names. I would not betray Legolas just to satisfy your  
curiosity; indeed I would not betray the Tawarwaith if my very life  
hung in the balance, for he is as dear to me as my own child. He does  
not deserve the fate you have dealt him!"

"It is not as I intended," Thranduil responded  
quietly as he returned his gaze to the map. The carpenter had given him  
much to think on, none of it pleasant. Most galling was the knowledge  
that he could have been spared immeasurable of misery with Ningloriel  
had he consulted the Council.

It did not occur to him that this same  
knowledge would have saved Legolas from an unendurable destiny.

He could clearly see now that his disdain of  
the Wood Elves had been avenged upon him. Oropher had chided him for  
his disregard of Sylvan ways, he remembered well, yet with two older  
brothers Thranduil had never expected to rule, and thus never tried to  
temper his contempt. He had been vocal in his criticism of his father's  
adherence to local customs and openly stated what changes he would make  
were the decisions his to enact. Once forced to take command, he had  
insulated himself from the Council, seeking only the advice of the  
remaining Sindar warriors as he tried to remake the Woodland Realm into  
something more reminiscent of Doriath.

And failed utterly.

Legolas became a living symbol of his  
inadequacy, and the idea had grown in Thranduil's mind that if he could  
remove this embarrassment he could reclaim the dignity he was due as  
King.

{_Even in this I have failed_.}

"No doubt you merely intended his death!"  
Fearfaron hissed, recalling Thranduil from his bitter musings.

"I say again, to you I owe no explanations.  
What proof can you bring of your allegations that your Council would  
hear?"

"No more than you can summon to back yours  
against me!" Fearfaron rejoined.

"So, we appear to be stalemated, carpenter!"  
the King sneered. "I will not lift the rule of your Laws; Legolas must  
complete his sentence. Yet neither will I break my spoken words, if he  
survives he shall have what aid my troops can give, and need not want  
for provision in future. The better to keep him under scrutiny and  
discover who is spinning this web of insurgency!"

It was not enough, but it was at least a  
concession and offered hope to Fearfaron. He gave the Sinda Lord a curt  
nod and turned to leave, but Thranduil's words stopped him.

"How can you be so certain the Noldo Lord is  
not his father?" he demanded. "Does Legolas know the truth; has he  
confided in you?"

"Legolas believes what your constant  
accusations of his mother taught him! For now, that is an easier lie  
for him to bear than the truth!" Fearfaron snarled over his shoulder,  
not even bothering to face the King as he resumed his retreat from the  
room.

As he passed from the chamber, Fearfaron saw  
one of the guards approaching, escorting a human from a village far to  
the south beyond the Gladden Fields. The man recognized him and hurried  
forward with relief clear upon his troubled features, for it was to  
Fearfaron he had asked to be taken, having found him not in the  
customary spot by the Sentinel. Every step closer to the stronghold of  
the King had raised the man's dread to a higher level, for he deemed  
the missive he carried to Thranduil would lead to reprisals upon his  
people for accepting the aid of Imladris.

"Be at ease!" the man spoke to quell the fear  
he knew the carpenter could not name. "He was alive when I left the  
village and I have a letter here from him. But strange elves have come  
to Greenwood seeking him, and Tirno is in trouble."

These words chilled Fearfaron's soul and he  
snatched the small folded parchment from the woodsman's outstretched  
hand just for the consolation of feeling the remnant of Legolas' touch  
upon it.

The carpenter thanked the elven guard and  
hastily led the distraught messenger away across the courtyard. A sense  
of eyes upon him called his vision back toward the stronghold where he  
beheld Thranduil's cold stare watching them depart. Whatever news  
Fearfaron learned the Woodland King would demand to have knowledge of  
as well, and would not flinch at interrogating the flustered human,  
forcefully if necessary. Fearfaron sighed; it would have been better  
for him to censor the information and deliver it himself, but this was  
now impossible. Thranduil would never let this mortal return to his  
home until full disclosure was made.

Fearfaron halted and turned the man about,  
resolutely leading him to the chamber of starlight.

Tbc.  



	36. Chapter 36

Gûr Gweriant [Inner most feelings betrayed.]

'Believe! I assure you it does not benefit me to reveal to you that two of Imladris' most respected citizens are lurking about Mirkwood! I have no reason to place myself in jeopardy by granting such knowledge to the son of our enemy!'

Legolas recalled these words with the full realization of the actual events themselves. The sound of the rain, the feel of the cold water pouring over him endlessly, the marrow deep weariness and hunger threatening to subdue him, his unexpended rage and barely suppressed desire jolted to life by Berenaur's invasive, unwelcome groping. He could detect the smell of the wet earth mixed with the odor of exotic blooms, into which was woven the specific scent of Erestor's musky male allure.

I should never have taken such an admission at face value!

He could see Erestor wrapped loosely in the woolen blanket, allowing a glimpse of toned and supple pectorals, his long black hair pulled, wet and heavy, over his right shoulder. There was the stern arch of his brows, softened by mild amusement at Legolas' surprise and obvious awe in the presence of so renowned yet mysterious a legend. That dangerous glint in the Noldo's dark and bottomless eyes, so sharp and cunning and yet somehow admiring Legolas as they bore into his, demanding knowledge of the wild elf's soul. A slight upturn at the corners transformed his thin alizarin lips into an almost-smirk as he regarded Legolas. Those long and exquisite fingers so casually gripped the loose ends of the covering; healer's hands that would paradoxically cause the archer hurt and harm.

He called me full of contradictions!

Legolas instantly knew he could not give such a description without also allowing more of his true feelings to show through the words than he intended these two to comprehend. Mithrandir understood about the revelation regarding Malthen, and Legolas feared he had thought far enough into the matter to guess at the rest of the betrayal. The closeness of their bond since the night of his grieving made such perception that much more probable.

The Man, however, could have no such ability to gauge the situation. He hoped this was so; Aragorn's healing gift was strong for one not of elven blood, yet surely he could not read the hearts of those he touched, as Erestor had delved the Tawarwaith's.

No, there is no doubt the Noldo is a physician. Legolas thought, recalling how easily his hopes and fears had been discovered and turned against him, flung back upon him to inflict new strife, forcing him to acknowledge appalling doubts as facts. The healer had done this, he realized, whenever the archer had begun to feel at ease with the two spies.

That thought renewed Legolas' anger, for this was a severe perversion of such a gift.

"I assure you, Aragorn, that this elf is a healer, whatever his name is! Are there so many in Imladris that I need to detail his appearance?" the sharpness of these words sliced through the lethargic mere-fumed air with enough vehemence to cause the two travelers to exchange their concern across the fallen prince's head.

Aragorn, still crouching beside Legolas, reached out and lifted the swollen ankle to inspect it in an effort to distract his friend from the open distress this conversation was causing.

"How did you do this?" he asked quietly, gently palpating the bruises to make sure no breaks were hidden within. "The skin is seared, almost! Here is also a deep cut; I know not how you walked upon this foot!"

"Ai!" Legolas jerked under the pressure and tried to pull his leg away, but Aragorn held firmly to his calf and continued the examination. "I was caught by a silk web as I was jumping from one branch to another, and it ended my forward motion rather abruptly so that the full weight of my body was yanked to a halt in mid-flight. To free myself, it was necessary to shear it off my skin, thus the abrasion you see, and the puncture was incised because I had not the luxury of taking my time about it!"

Aragorn merely gave a non-committal grunt as this was said, reaching instead for his pack and a strip of linen bandaging to bind the ankle firmly.

"Legolas, please tell us of this healer from Imladris," Mithrandir's words were softly spoken but demanded an immediate response nonetheless.

The wizard did not think there was any use in prolonging the misery this retelling was certain to bring Legolas. He leaned over and squeezed the elf's shoulder supportively, and as before the physical contact invoked the internal merger. The mental image of the Lord of Imladris flashed across the Istar's awareness, the vision overlaid with all the wild elf's loneliness and longing, desire and despair, wrath and regret. Gandalf gasped and stared into Legolas' eyes with shock and dread, snatching back his fingers as if the flesh of the elf scalded him. And the archer turned away as he closed his eyes against the wizard's visible aversion.

"Oh, this is, that is just, it is unspeakable! How could he be this vindictive?" the wizard nearly roared as he attempted to fit the foul realization into some logical framework, stalking back and forth a few turns across the sucking muddy clearing.

"What is it, Gandalf?" Aragorn rose also, alarmed. "Who is it?"

"Ah! How can I speak the words?" the Maia was distraught, but not more so than Legolas, who was now fully cognizant of his former lover's true identity, for the open-ended communication allowed dual exchange of awareness.

The fallen prince sat still, eyes shut tight, absently fingering the wrapping on the injured ankle as the name swirled through his mind: Elrond. It was an empty acuity, devoid of any sensations, detached from all meaning, removed from his reality. Legolas found this vaguely interesting; his mind must be so scandalized that his heart had extinguished all emotions, hiding them away to prevent any reaction to this new addition to his calumnious existence.

His sensitive fingertips ran along the overlapped edges of the linen binding, revealing to his abstracted brain the comforting repetition of the pattern formed by the herringbone weave. The design faded and then he could no longer feel the cloth beneath his touch.

It seemed as though he was beyond his own being, outside of his vital flesh and bones, watching a cornered animal desperately scrambling to get away from a converging barrage of lethal arrow fire, aimed not to kill but to penetrate and incapacitate body and limbs. The creature resolved into a hazy caricature of himself, the attackers none other than his Noldor acquaintances. The futility of such flight lent the imagined scene a bizarre humour, a galling, gagging mirth caused by the frantic turning and scurrying of the hapless prey as the arrows continued to pierce and slice, for the foolish beast in its ignorance was at one and the same time running from the assault towards the very predators assailing him.

'Legolas, do you know who those two elves are?' Aiwendil's words drifted through the little play, underscoring the grotesquely mocking images.

A harsh blast of laughter broke from him as he watched the internal struggle. The sheer hilarity of the situation was all he could encompass.

'It has been five years since we initiated the contingence, and our informants lost track of him over two years ago.' Elrond's explanation for his presence in the Greenwood replayed through Legolas' consciousness. So, that was right after Naneth left for Valinor. He took time to plan out this escapade carefully.

He could imagine it, the great Noldo Lord plotting with his comrade, arguing over who would be first to taste the spoils of their victory, leaving the comfort and security of their own lands to hunt down and take possession of the last remaining shreds of Legolas' hope and innocence, immolating both in the mercurial heat of their carnal acts. It was astoundingly ridiculous that he had been the center of all Elrond's activities yet had not gained the sort of importance he had hoped to have in the noble Elda's life.

"Elrond! He hates me far more than Thranduil ever will." Legolas managed to speak, answering in Gandalf's stead, amazed with the recognition the words represented even as the sounds were formed and floated free into the still and rancid air.

"What did you say?" demanded Aragorn, turning to stare at the elf, who still struggled to contain the brash peals of laughter that kept sneaking out between his lips and past his nose.

Suddenly he stopped laughing and opened his eyes to look at Aragorn, and the next words from his mouth poured out the story of his encounters with the two Noldor elves, admitting his impassioned intimacy with both, for why bother to withhold what Mithrandir already knew? Legolas spared them only the explicit descriptions of the couplings, for he could not bring himself to admit to them his body's responsiveness to these seductions. It was enough to acknowledge that he had allowed these things to occur. He was completely debased and despoiled, better for the human to understand and thus decide if he should wish to continue his association with such depravity incarnate.

And in the speaking, the events became lacquered with the fine varnish of the Noldo Lord's deeply held abhorrence for him, so obvious now, so clearly evident in those terrible phrases and cruel caresses. It was as if the power of his own being left Legolas' body with the phrases, imbuing them with vitality and giving them form and substance. The memories took on life anew and the days he spent with the two Imladrians insinuated back into his universe, warped with the ugly veneer of his lack of intrinsic value in their world. Thus Legolas' own voice wounded him, and the full impact of the truth forced itself upon his mind, a rape of the soul far exceeding the brutality even Ailinyéro had conjured.

The Man sank down onto the spongy, peaty ground next to Legolas, unable to tear his eyes away from the feral elf's as this sordid tale unfolded, incapable of covering his ears to prevent the knowledge from becoming his own, powerless to stop his mind from generating graphic images to accompany the recitation. He simply could not reconcile these scenes with the concept he held to be Elrond of Imladris, his father in all ways but blood, kind and honourable counselor to everyone that sought him, generous and welcoming benefactor to any in need of shelter and respite from the woes of the darkening world.

Yet neither could Aragorn deny the ruthless honesty in the wild warrior's recount, so fraught with anguish, splintering the bright immortal spirit with every declaration. Aragorn glanced up to the wizard seeking some repudiation, some sense that this was not what his father had become, and failed to find it.

Gandalf looked old. It was not the physical representations of age, wrinkles and grayness, the washed out cast to skin and hair, that gave him his years this day, but the comprehension of the complete destruction of the fallen prince occurring even as he watched, impotent to stop it. When this day was done, the Legolas he knew would be no more, and he could see the fragments of the Tawarwaith's personality falling away with every syllable uttered like leaves from a dormant beech in autumn, only the stark, naked structure of the being left to survive the icy emptiness of winter's season to come.

Coupled to this loss was joined the simultaneous alteration of one the Maia had held in high regard. Never again could he look upon Elrond and see anything but the wreck he was accomplishing in this innocent's life, already so far from wholesome without his egregious interference. And what of Aragorn, for how could the Man come to terms with this aspect of his foster father's character when Gandalf, removed from bonds of affection and fealty, could not?

The Istar stood, a dim glimmer of the dynamic intensity he usually personified, considering how to treat the raw, calamitous wounds of the two in all of Arda he most dearly wished to protect, how to salvage something clean and good from the harrowing and repugnant mess. He could find nothing redeeming in this fate and silently cursed Vairë.

All was silent and Aragorn realized the elf had stopped speaking, all his words exhausted and the narrative completed. He turned back to gaze at Legolas. The mortal felt some action was expected from him, as a representative of the Peredhel House, yet paled at the idea of mouthing insufficient terms of apology and regret. Aragorn physically flinched at the tangible emptiness clothing the elf, a garment made too expertly to fit him, designed to expose all the weaknesses and vulnerabilities no one should ever have to reveal.

"Legolas, I know not what words to say; I believe your account is accurate and honest, yet I cannot bring myself to accept its conclusions," he began, shaking his bowed head.

"Well, it is not your choice to accept or deny. This is what I am," the Wood Elf responded acrimoniously, "so despicable a thing that I have lain in lust with my mother's lover; one who might even be my father, one I longed for centuries to claim me as his child!"

Both his friends experienced not for the first time Fearfaron's constant frustration: Legolas interpreted what he heard with an entirely unique set of personal definitions, all of them self-defeating.

"Do not say so!" Gandalf admonished as he knelt down next to them both. He reached again for Legolas; firmly resting his palm against his chest over the heart, knowing the elf could not doubt his sincerity if he felt it through an internal link to the wizard. "You did not know, or have any means to learn, who this Noldo truly is. The fault for these actions does not lie with you."

"Aye," added Aragorn quietly. "I meant only that my horror stems from this abominable abuse my father has done you, and I am loath to know these things, for I love him dearly."

Ah, that is an unnecessary blow! Legolas mentally cringed, as he comprehended Aragorn's admission.

The Man had been raised under the Elf Lord's care, had known his loving concern and thoughtful instruction. Elrond had shared the gift of healing with his human foster son and taught him the ways of elven lore, clothing him and feeding him, shielding him from harm through his young years, treating Aragorn with the same love undoubtedly granted to his blood offspring. A love Legolas had yearned for and been denied.

"I would have been satisfied with kind regard," he said aloud.

"You have more than that, Legolas! I have not changed in my opinion of your worth. I count you a most valorous friend," the Man protested, not privy to the interior rambling.

Gandalf knew the thoughts behind the statement, though, and encircled Legolas tightly, drawing him forcibly close. "Nay, it is not enough! Love you do deserve, and from many you have it, myself not the least of them, Legolas. Fearfaron holds you in his very center, right beside Annaldír and no less in importance; do not forget this."

"I wanted him to love me." This sentence reached decibels only scarcely within the auditory range of Legolas' friends, but they caught it none the less and knew he was not referring to the carpenter.

"When I was young," Aragorn sighed, "I often wished the same. I wanted him to bring you to live in our home."

This surprised the Wood Elf, that he had been known to the human, and it seemed odd to him for Aragorn to have been aware of his existence while he had never imagined the mortal's. His amazement must have been apparent for the Man offered a sad smile and continued.

"Yes, it is so. You were the subject of much gossip during my formative years, Legolas. My brothers and I argued for hours about what you might look like and how you would act. Elladan said Thranduil had named you his own and that was the end of it, but Elrohir was convinced you were a virtual prisoner in Mirkwood, treated more like an interloper than an heir."

From the agonized expression that passed across the wild elf's features, Aragorn discerned the younger twin's assessment had not been too far from the mark. He regretted the impromptu comment and floundered to soften the impact.

"Elrohir and I devised elaborate schemes to infiltrate the Woodland Realm's guard and spirit you away. He was quite convinced they would succeed, but Elladan would never let us act upon our wishes, threatening to tell Ad…to stop us."

Legolas could not help feeling warmly towards the human, who put aside his love and loyalty to his own father and accepted Legolas' words. The Wood Elf could sense that Aragorn closeted his disappointment and sorrow over the entire fiasco in order to attempt lightening the weight these events had deposited upon his friend's soul.

The mortal's frustration over inadvertently adding to the burden, despite his sympathetic intentions, was evident. Legolas gave Aragorn a faint smile that was more of the eyes than any facial expression. For it did help; somehow, to know that he had been of interest to someone in Imladris, and Legolas felt saddened for the hurt Elrohir would know when the Man retold this saga.

For his part, Gandalf was pleased with the distraction the Man's reflections offered Legolas. Obviously, life at Imladris had been an imaginary plane in the wild elf's dreamscapes for centuries, and he would be unable to resist having his curiosity satisfied. The wizard gave a strong comforting embrace and disengaged from Legolas, rising to gather up their belongings as the two talked.

"And the other Noldo?" Legolas needed to know, for he wanted to forgive Berenaur. He could see now that the advisor had desired to tell him everything, but could not manage it.

"That is Erestor; he has an infamous reputation for such - activities. He is one of only two my father would trust in such a plot. The other is Glorfindel of Gondolin, who would never be party to anything so base," said Aragorn and with an unpleasant jolt realized these were words he would formerly have used to describe Elrond's character.

Legolas slowly nodded. Such a clever ploy; applying truth to clothe deception.

They were all too fatigued from the physical strain of battle and the emotional turmoil of the unpleasant revelations to travel any further this day, but the wizard welcomed the limits of their physical forms. The fallen archer's raucous outburst of laughter earlier had been unsettling, for the situation was not comical in any manner. The Maia was convinced that lassitude was the only reason Legolas was yet so calm in the face of another treacherous infidelity against his encumbered spirit. It was a state he was sure would falter before very much time passed.

"Did he ever speak of me?" the elf was quietly inquiring, and Gandalf noted the refusal to utter the Elf Lord's name.

"Nay," was all Aragorn could say, and no more would he venture, for every thought he voiced served only to injure his friend more. Indeed, that single word fell as a weight of stone upon eggshells and Legolas withdrew inward, drawing up his knees and bowing his forehead against them.

"Legolas, this ground is damp and oozes. Is there any drier spot where we may set up camp and rest?" Mithrandir walked over to them, his arms full with packs, wet clothes and weapons, and looked down kindly at the elf.

Legolas lifted his head and stared at the Maia blankly. Mithrandir repeated his request with just the faintest of concern tinting both his tones and his smile. This time the archer nodded and hauled himself up, hopping a bit to steady his balance without placing too much weight on the injured ankle. His stilted lurching carried him a few paces closer to the pond and he gestured to a noble elder among the wood-clad folk of the fen, all its limbs hung with magnificent gray curtains of cloudy, ghostly moss.

"Here, there is a small talan up that hemlock, but a good ways high amid the branches. Give me those things; I will carry them up and you two may follow me. I am sure with care you both will manage well enough."

"I do not think so!" Aragorn rose also and quickly placed himself between the elf and the wizard, earning a deeply irritated scowl from the former.

"It is perfectly secure, as well as warm and dry. I built that flet myself!"

"No doubt it is a fine talan. I mean that you, who can barely stand, are not the one to be toting weapons and packs. Take your own things and we will see to ours."

"You are not skilled in this sort of climbing and the packs will hinder you. Better for me to drop something than for you to fall and break your back."

"I am not that incompetent, and Gandalf carried you down from a far greater height just hours ago. Lead, Legolas, and we will be right behind you," Aragorn said kindly and reached over to grip tightly around the elf's left arm, giving the simple words the underlying intent: his avowal to stand by the wild archer and face the aftermath of Elrond's acts against him.

Legolas gave a single nod and looked away, for he could not stare long into the mortal's genial visage without being overwhelmed by sorrow for what his life might have been. He limped his way to the tree and scrambled up with less grace and more heaviness in his limbs than was normal for one of the Eldar, and waited for them to join him. As they came within arm's length of the platform, he reached down to relieve them of their baggage and offer a hand up.

When all three were safely alite, he stood and made his way over to the little chest and pulled out a finely woven mat of river rushes and thin blankets as soft and light as silk but warm to the skin. A small wave of nausea moved through him and he sat down quickly, remembering the last time he had shared a talan with two companions, and he scurried to the edge to dispel the malignant rancor from him.

Before he could right himself and face his friends to explain, he found Mithrandir at his side, cautiously helping him sit up as Aragorn calmly handed over the water skin. They said nothing, and he was grateful, for he thought if they showed him pity he would lose all self-control and his mind would break.

Aragorn mixed another draught of the stomach cure and handed it over, but his face crinkled up in unrestrained revulsion as he did so. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand.

"I am sorry, Legolas, but now that we are up here and away from the odor of rot in the water below, the stench from the battle emitted by your clothes has become quite strong," he said apologetically. He was starting to feel the need to retch as well and grabbed the mug back from the elf, finishing the last of the tonic himself.

"Yes, it is bad," added Gandalf and affectionately patted the archer's knee as he observed the dismay clouding his eyes. The wizard took up one of the blankets, opening it out. "Wrap this round you and hand me those filthy things; I will hurry down and see what a scrub in the black water pond may accomplish."

Legolas rose unsteadily and backed away from him, stricken eyes trained upon the proffered covering, and turned to the tree's trunk, fully intent upon escape when Aragorn's firm grasp clamped round his wrist, determinedly pulling him back. The wild elf's rage swept through him in a flood of crimson from eartip to toes and he strained to rip his arm free, toppling the Man backward to the floor upon his rear.

Gandalf moved with a speed that belied his aged appearance and pinned the squirming elf to the tree trunk.

"Leave off!" the exiled prince finally shouted but Mithrandir did no such thing and remained calm, staring warily down upon his captive until he stilled, giving way to panting and violent tremors in the wake of his fleeting ire. Legolas gradually raised his eyes, feeling the Istar's upon him, and encountered there Mithrandir's generous empathy.

"I am sorry," Legolas mumbled, for he realized they did not comprehend the significance of this scenario and had only meant to make their stay in the close confines more tolerable. He allowed himself to slump into the wizard's arms, leaning his head against the soft, singed mass of the long grey beard and willed the Maia to have the understanding he could not speak of aloud.

"No apology needed, Legolas," Mithrandir pulled him tighter as he drew in a sharp breath, for the scenes were unbearable to witness even in the abbreviated form the archer condoned. He labored to control his emotions, determined for Legolas to comprehend that his disgust for Elrond was not a personal denigration of the wild warrior's character.

"Let us reverse roles then; I will have the blanket and you can wear my outer robe, at least until those leggings are clean and dried. Will that serve?" the Maia asked gently, satisfied when Legolas finally raised his head and nodded.

Aragorn watched with compassionate amusement from his spot on the floor as the two made their wardrobe exchange, and even chuckled a little to see the elf swamped in the thick flowing robe of the Istar. Yet Legolas did not smile, and when he lowered himself to the mat he stretched full out; in seconds his eyelids dropped down and he fell into uneasy repose.

Gandalf frowned and took up the leggings, leaving the blanket until his chore was finished. Clad in only his thin, thigh-length chemise and a simple loincloth, he descended through the branches. When he returned he draped the dripping breeches over a nearby branch, wrapped himself in the blanket, and took his seat next to Aragorn.

"What are we to do?" Aragorn queried. "I am torn between forcing him into a deeper sleep and fear that should I do so he would not wake again."

"I will yield to your skills in the matter, for I have no advice to offer. Aiwendil, perhaps, could confer with you on herb lore and make appropriate suggestions. As to the rest of it, I can see no other course than to bring this before the Council of the Wise. Elrond must be held accountable, even though you love him devotedly and I have up to now looked upon him with friendship," the wizard said.

Aragorn recoiled from this eventuality, for he dreaded to see his foster-father thus exposed in what he felt must be some form of grief-born insanity.

"I do not understand how no one suspected what was happening to him," he murmured dejectedly.

"Elrond is not a victim!" Gandalf said sharply. "These are choices he has made, Aragorn, not some unforeseen force manipulating him. Even if we may acknowledge the tragedies of his long life, none of those are in any way associated with Legolas. There is the one who has been unjustly punished and used!" The wizard pointed at the unconscious archer. The Maia wished he could make the truth easier for the Man, but was unwilling to allow Aragorn to excuse the Lord of Imladris.

"This is a hard fate, Gandalf!" the mortal cried. With potent clarity he suddenly envisioned the impact this disgrace would have upon Arwen, who idolized her father, refusing even to admit to knowledge of his long affair and Legolas' existence.

Gandalf grimaced appreciatively and reached for his pack. Removing his pipe and tobacco he filled the briar, offering the pouch to his comrade. Aragorn graciously accepted and delved into his belongings for his own bowl. A murmured word of command from Gandalf raised sufficient spark in both pipes to light them well, but Aragorn did not so much as blink at the wizard's highly selective use of his abilities.

Legolas shifted in his sleep, briefly opening his eyes and sounding a very unpleasant moan before curling up tightly and sealing his lids back down.

The human did not like this response and shook his head. "No, he must not dream just now, I think," he said and set aside his smoke to search for the sleep elixir he had concocted the night he had met the woodland warrior.

Going to Legolas side, he shook his shoulder carefully to wake him. "Legolas, wake up now, just for a moment," he called. He had to do this several times before the archer raised his groggy eyes to the Man's. "Legolas, drink this and you will rest easier for a time." The elf merely stared at him, disoriented in his half-conscious state, and so Aragorn repeated the statement.

Legolas' vision cleared and he glanced at the small bottle the human held out. He raised up on his elbow, reaching for it with eager hands. With a convulsive swallow he forced it all down and then thrust the vial back into Aragorn's hands, fighting the urge to cough the medicine back up.

"Thank you. If there is enough for yourselves, you might wish to use it, for I am through with this game. I am weary of manipulated paths and will bear no more treacherous infiltration of my home. No more! Tomorrow, we go to battle and finish it," he said with grim determination. He did not wait for discussion or arguments. Legolas turned his back to his friends and welcomed oblivion.

Tbc


	37. Chapter 37

**Na Falas** [At the Beach]

Anor had come to rest upon the lands of Middle Earth and all the air was transmuted, suffused with the radiant beams of Arien in the unclothed glory of her fire-formed soul, for only so could the glaring heat and searing brightness be accounted.  Legolas could not bear to open his eyes, and even with them sealed tight against the relentless gleam he still beheld the scorching brilliance and threw his arm across his face to shield it from the blinding ferocity of the sun's essence.  His wonder climbed with the ascending warmth spreading throughout his skin.  Body and soul absorbed the omnipresent luminance bearing down upon his being, surrounding and engulfing him, invading his very lungs with each inhalation of the dazzling atmosphere while every expelled breath relinquished the much cooler ether of his own existence.

Beneath him the ground was soft and shifted as he moved, gliding across his legs and slipping through his fingers when he grabbed up a fistful of the loose, unconsolidated turf.  He turned within it, rolling over onto his stomach to ease the unendurable lustre of the ubiquitous gloss.  The sensation was luxurious; the earth wrapped round his naked form, dusting his flesh with a fine coat of iridescent grains and transmitting a glowing warmth like that of a down-stuffed cover toasted at hearth-side.

Legolas wriggled his toes down into the yielding, desiccated dirt and reveled in the feel of the tiny tingling caress the sand granted each time a muscle moved.  He rested his cheek against the powdery grit and stretched, exalting in the vitality coursing through the nerves of every flexing cord and sinew.   A deeply contented murmur worked its way out from his throat to mix with the crisp whispering of wind in the high brittle grasses that marked the boundary between the strandline and the headlands.

The air smelled bitter with an unknown tang that he could even taste on his lips; he licked them to savor its unique flavor.

Legolas smiled.

Never had he heard Manwe's voice sing with such unusual timbre or blow with such a vehement staccato, buffeting about his ears and tousling his hair, whipping the strands against his bare back, lifting up handfuls of the thick tresses as if the Wind Lord was running invisible fingers through it.  This did not resemble the Song of the air under the canopy of the Greenwood where branch and leaf accompanied the ponderously understated hymn.

Indeed, he could not identify what these melodies were like other than a vague similarity to the shushing sighs made as the breath of the Vala moved across the open grasslands between the forest and Dale.  Yet, that was a soft lush sound of green life full with water and sap, scented with the freshness of new rains captured in spring.  This was a rasping, brittle rustling like the noise of a rigid arrow's flight as it razed the sky, only softer in volume and at the same time magnified by multitude.

There were layers within this Song, as with all the many harmonies of nature, but here a powerfully beating rhythm pounded in time with the subtle susurration of the skies, underscoring the undulating air and rumbling through the grainy ground beneath the feral elf.   Legolas lay utterly still, listening.  His pulse synchronized with it and he felt himself dissolving into the immensity of the sound, absorbed into the overwhelming intricacy of Arda's fullness stretched across all the Ages accomplished and those as yet obscured, undesigned, and undreamed of even to the comprehension of the Powers.

The Tawarwaith sank willingly into the hypnotic thrumming without fear or panic, for it was not so much a sense of losing himself in the unbounded flow of time as of finding his source, the nucleus of his soul.  In this state of fluidity, his disembodied spirit drifted upon the surging rise and fall of the relentless tide. Then, he discerned a tugging upon his mind, a yearning expanding within his inner most core, urging him to fly swiftly to the course's culmination. Longing for this unseen point of origin, Legolas knew a painful desolation unlike anything he had ever experienced, surpassing even the gnawing hunger of his heart for Malthen.

It was a strange thing, to feel his tears of frustration swallowed by the searing sun-soaked air before they barely wetted his cheeks.  Legolas wept in the certainty that he was barred from reaching Eldamar and the lands of Elendë, forbidden to seek the shores of Aman, held bound to his arduous reality of suffering and death by the Judgement.

A shadow fell across his silently sobbing shoulders and darkened the clarity of the caustic glare from the polished and gleaming skies.  Legolas turned his face up into the umbra and opened his eyes at last, gazing upon the golden mounds of stable dunes capped with saber grass and tassels of flaxen sea oats flagging in the warm, dry wind.  In a cleft between the hummocks of sand the curling crashes of foam-crowned waves heralded the horizonless expanse of the ocean, stretching in continuous mobility beyond even the long-sighted vision of the Eldar.

Legolas stared in awe upon the vastness of Aearon, the Great Sea.

An elf stood as the barricade between the archer and the limitless light.   His countenance shrouded in black silhouette against the hazy azure expanse of Menel, he wore warrior's garb in the green and brown of Thranduil's Realm, but was armed for war no more.  Chestnut waves of billowing hair arranged in the plaits earned by his senior rank and valorous reputation swirled across his face and drifted upon the blowing breath of the windy beach.  He knelt and laid a hand upon his comrade's shoulder, tentatively, as though to see if he was made of substance or born of some trick of air and sun.

_Legolas?  Why are you here; this should not be!_

The disgraced sniper sat up, startled, and shifted to put Anor on his right that he might see the Elda's features, for he knew the voice revealed within his thoughts.

"Valtamar?"  Legolas squinted against the glare and raised his hand to shield his vision from the blinding glory of the surfside sun.  He felt the hand drop away from his body as the elf stood.  Legolas blinked, and in the second of time that required Valtamar was gone.

Soft laughter joined the whistling air darting across his eartips and Legolas strained to see through the punishing illumination.  He rose to his knees and reached out to touch the creator of that gentle jubilance, grazing fingers against the solid strength of a well-toned thigh.  He knew this elf.

_I have been seeking you everywhere, and you were here all the time!  Foolish of me not to think of that! How I have longed for you, Laiquassë!_

Legolas caught his breath as Maltahondo moved out of the sun and presented himself before his former lover, naked and aroused, pulling at his full erection so that the cock dipped down, tempting the archer to tease and taste it.  The guardian's other hand reached out to trace a delicate caress against the outcast's jaw, gently guiding the parted lips to envelop the bulging organ already wet from his casually sensual handling.

Eagerly the fallen prince sucked in the fullness of Malthen's vigorous potency and lapped and licked its length.  Every nerve of his body awakened, singing with his desire to sample the familiar essence, inhale the heavy musk hidden in the thick auburn patch encircling the virile root, imbibe the vital fluids that would gush down his trachea.  Legolas' cock filled and its tender tip tingled with a pulsing ache, craving the contact of his lover's adroit manipulation.  He held his needy want in check and reached his arms around Malthen's waist to caress the healthy vigor of the broad back.  His palms came to rest on the firm flesh of the compact arse and aggressively kneaded the warrior's clenching muscles.

Maltahondo settled his hands on either side of his lover's head and began pumping forcefully into the archer's throat.

Theirs was a rhythm Legolas knew well and he quickly responded by swallowing every other thrust as he moaned in the glorious agony of delaying his own ecstasy to pleasure his love this way.  Malthen softly massaged the tips of his ears with his thumbs as he held Legolas' head still; it was maddeningly erotic and incited the archer to match the corpsman's pounding pace, thrusting his bowing penis into the empty air, searching in vain for any friction to ease the insistent itch.

He delighted in the growling grunts of the warrior's prelude to ejaculation and swabbed his tongue vigorously against the sensitive collection of nerves at the join of the head to the shaft. As Malthen pulled back for his final shove Legolas flicked the tip of his mobile muscle between the foreskin and the smooth, throbbing pinnacle, directly into the gaping slit.  The echoing vibration of Maltahondo's gratified yell and the sensation of the hot semen streaming across his palate and down the back of his throat nearly brought the forest champion satisfaction, but Legolas restrained his body as he struggled to consume Malthen's pungent sperm.

Maltahondo pulled out of his lover's mouth and sat down, squatting on his heels to draw Legolas close and cradle his head against his shoulder.  Malthen buried one hand into the golden mane and stroked the back of the archer's scalp, landing light kisses across the crown of his head, as the other hand sumptuously smoothed along the scarred back and down, coming to rest upon the cheek of the ripe, rounded rear.  He transferred his fingers from the thick tresses to the refined linearity of the chin and tipped Legolas' face to claim the open, willing mouth, plunging his tongue against the archer's and lapping up the detectable remains of his ejaculate where it blended with his lover's saliva.  He broke the kiss to whisper against the accelerated exhalations of sultry air escaping from Legolas' panting lips.

_Le aniron, tithenben nîn._ [I want you, my little one.]

"Avo deli nin sen!" [Do not call me this!]

Legolas shut out the screaming alarms sounding through his mind, warning of some flaw in this encounter, some fact he should recall.  Instead, he concentrated on the heavenly sensations running through his flesh as the long-absent attentions of his first love progressed.

The hand enticingly cupping his arse crept lower and insinuated questing fingers down the divide toward the center of Legolas' burning ardor, and he shook as a wave of anticipation rolled through him.  Eagerly he spread his thighs and transferred his weight, gripping onto Malthen's shoulders, inviting more than this tormenting tantalization.  Legolas reclaimed his lover's mouth and issued a pleading sigh of compelling cupidity for Malthen to swallow, pressing his tongue in a slow wet caress across the roof of the guardsman's palate.

He inhaled sharply from the corpsman's lungs as two fingers pushed inside him and began subtly probing the constricting channel, expertly stroking against the internal source of his scintillating delight. Legolas broke the languid kiss to exhale a tremulous cry of desire that mimicked the sound of pained distress.

"Alfar!  Pathro nin!" [Not enough!  Fill me!]

_How badly do you want this, Laiquassë?  Have you been neglected so long that you would beg?_

"Malthen!"

The wild warrior trembled as the corpsman nuzzled gently into the unruly golden locks and settled his lips around the inflamed tip of Legolas' elegantly crafted ear, running the edge of his tongue over it, lavishing the cartilage with lush attention.  The fallen archer crooned his appreciation as he pushed back onto the insistent pressure of the fingers burrowing inside him.  He tried in vain to thrust his cock against Malthen's belly, but the guardsman's knee held him back and Legolas wailed his disappointed groan over the smooth supple skin of the warrior's neck.

The scent of this flesh, for so long only a memory, was intoxicating, and Legolas could not fight the desire to taste it, dabbing his tongue over a spot just above his lover's clavicle, sucking the warm dermis into his lips to produce a dark red oval there.

_Ah, yes!  Only your mother has pleased me better!  Lie back, lie back Legolas!_

Legolas stilled; a black fear encroached upon his delirious enjoyment as his memory assailed him with knowledge he longed to dispel.  But Malthen dropped his hand from its tender grasp upon the archer's nape to fondle the foreskin wrapped round Legolas' protruding penis, wet with the transparent secretion of his rising lust.

The wild warrior sounded a forlorn shout as his hips pivoted to force more of his rigid flesh into those agile fingers.  Legolas could not deny his incestuous desire.

Malthen pulled his fingers free and pressed his lover down into the sand, roughly shoving open the lean thighs to make room as Legolas grabbed his legs behind the knees and lifted them apart and out of the guardsman's way.   The broad blunt brow of Maltahondo's resurgent organ bussed the archer's tightly sealed entry and Legolas wriggled his hips to increase and encourage the penetration, but Malthen held back.  A richly sex-burnished chortle broke from the corpsman's lips as he watched his lover's fervent attempts to impale himself on the unyielding shaft.

_Say it!  I want to hear it, Laiquassë!  Beg!_

"Malthen, please!"

_Nay, not like that!  Speak the words; tell your father what you need, Legolas; only then shall you have it!_

Malthen flexed his hips so that the dripping tip of his engorged cock delicately stroked across his lover's sensitized anus, eliciting a strangled gasping breath and a sharp spasm of the archer's penis.  The corpsman leaned in and kissed it with a slow wet lick and relished the exquisite affliction in the exiled prince's lowing, pining response.  Maltahondo raised his eyes to meet those of his life-long charge and found them burning with unquenched desire and bright with liquid defeat.  Malthen pressed hard against the eager body's entry and groaned in delight as Legolas' pleading expression turned fiery and wanton.

_Beg me, Laiquassë!_

"Saes!  Caro si!" [Please! Do it now!]

The archer squeezed shut his eyes and tipped back his head, unable to look upon the victorious exaltation this plea would earn, unable to stop the spill of shamed tears as he relinquished completely the last shreds of his decency and begged for his father to fuck him.

"Adar, nasto nedhnin, saes!  Saes, Ada, seron nîn, le aniron!"  
[Father, thrust inside me, please!  Please, Father, my love, I want you!]

And Malthen responded, drilling into the willing body with force enough to rip the tender flesh over the constricting ring of muscles, plunging all the way in until the root of his organ was coated with his lover's blood and there was no more of his heated flesh to embed.  Then he pulled almost completely out; allowing the motion to smear the mix of sanguine gore and pre-ejaculate over his penis before ramming back inside with a hoarse shout that drowned out the archer's cry of biting bliss.

The corpsman thrilled to the violent shuddering of Legolas' frame as he hauled hard on his legs to open himself wider and ease the intrusion deeper.  Malthen watched in enthralled ecstasy as his lover's head bent back further, exposing more of the graceful neck, and he nipped and sucked the proffered slenderness of the ivory throat of Ningloriel's misbegotten child.

Legolas struggled to accommodate the girth of the cock pounding him relentlessly; a glorious euphoria of delicious over-extension claimed him as his inner core remembered the brutal caress of his guardian's engorged extremity.  Every breath became a yearning cry of unfulfilled craving as his passion mounted towards its zenith.  His equally bulging member bounced in time with Malthen's vigorously thrusting impalement.  Legolas longed to see his lover reach for it, wrap his long fingers around it, and pump his cock until he exploded.

But Malthen would not touch him there and his own hands could not be spared.   He could feel the sudden surge of heat along the walls of his channel, as the guardsman's ducts filled with seed and Legolas knew they would not reach orgasm together.

The next instant Malthen bit down hard on his lover's shoulder and groaned as his rushing stream of semen jetted into the depths of the archer's cavity.  A few more lusty lunges and he was done, withdrawing his spent member with a relaxed and languid sigh of complacency, and rolled back to sit beside the tense and trembling body of his lover.  He laughed as Legolas let go of his legs and moaned, twisting to bring his hard, heavy penis against the guardsman's thigh, seeking to rub himself to culmination.  But Malthen got up and stood over him, smiling in amusement.

"Malthen?"

_Not yet, Laiquassë!  Do not be so impatient!_

_Aye, he is far too willful in this respect!_

A new shadow fell across the wild elf's recumbent form and the archer flinched as he recognized the voice accompanying this addition to the scene.  Elrond knelt, naked in the sand, and traced the tip of his index finger down the outcast's sleek shaft as Legolas braced himself up on his elbows, staring in confusion at the Noldo's smirking expression.

"You!"

_What is that like, Legolas?  Feeling your father's seed burn you?_ Elrond said and grabbed the stiff, salient sex and gave it a brisk yank that caused the fallen prince to collapse back into the sand with a howl.  _You are hard as iron, Pen-rhovan!  Perhaps your Ada did not fuck you long enough.  Shall I try?_

The Elf Lord did not wait for an answer but lifted Legolas' shanks upon his shoulders and plowed inside, driving his indurate penis into the oozing slickness of blood and semen still draining from the archer's rectum.

"Daro!  Baw!" Legolas cried; he did not want this.

_Shh! Peace, Laiquassë!  Let him fuck you!  Please us well and you will earn your release!_  Malthen whispered as he stretched out next to Legolas and sucked up a dark and pointed nipple, rolling the other beneath his fingertips.

In spite of himself Legolas groaned in prurient delight under the application of his lover's tongue and touch in combination with the Elven Lord's robust sodomy.  He could not avert his eyes from the Noldo's ravenous gleam of lustful hunger and a sensational current of pure exhilaration shot through him as he arched into the driving force of Elrond's cock.  Legolas squirmed, trying to shift his position to bring the incessant friction over the right spot against his prostate, without success.

Legolas reached for his erection but Malthen snatched up his hand and pressed it around his own expanding flesh, biting into the tender swollen morsel of maroon skin with a growl.  Legolas' shout of pain as he squeezed tight onto the hard handful elicited a reciprocating holler from the Elf Lord and the warrior.

Elrond leaned all of his weight upon Legolas as he hammered towards his climax, grunting with throaty vigor each time he withdrew and stuffed his cock back into the resistant confinement of muscle.  He ignored his lover's gaze and instead watched the archer's slender steely penis rocking up with each invasion.  The scrotum was pulled taut and snug up under the base of the florid column and the twin glands within looked uncomfortably full.

The Noldo's balls ached as he closed in towards a tremendous orgasm. Elrond dropped his palm to inflict a resounding, stinging slap upon the quivering bottom accepting his punishing infiltration and repeated the unkind caress in order to hear Legolas' mortified cry twice.  The Lord of Imladris shouted loudly as he abruptly pulled out and allowed his spurting organ to shoot iridescent seed all over the outcast's genitals and abdomen.

_Valar!_ Maltahondo called out as he relinquished the bruised and bleeding tit he had been savoring to lap up the Noldo Lord's essence from his lover's stomach and balls.  He ran his tongue in a long lick up Legolas' solid shaft, scooping up the salty extrusion as the wild warrior wailed in disconsolate abandon for more.  Malthen's mouth embraced the slickened head at last and Legolas desperately tried to press his primed penis deeper past the firm lips.

_Nay, not yet!  By Ulmo, you are so depraved! Can you not come without your own father's kiss upon your cock?_  The Noldo saw Legolas' ejaculation was imminent and swore, pinching down upon the ducts to halt the eruption.

"Please, Malthen! Let me come!"

Legolas sobbed and fell back again into the sand as Elrond removed his legs from their position upon his shoulders.  Malthen was laughing lightly and returned to suckling on the misused nipple.  The Elf Lord joined him and Legolas gasped as two tongues worked across the tingling nubs that suddenly seemed to be unbearably sensitive, rising hard and high.  He looked down upon the contrast of ebony and auburn hair and as he watched they both pulled up sharply and bit down severely, drawing out his blood and an anguished scream.

The forest champion wept; they were cruel.  Had he not just pleasured them both?

The Noldo's pincer-like pressure upon his aching penis slowly subsided as his body's urge diminished and the tide of his passion ebbed.  As soon as he felt the healer's hands retreat Legolas reached down to accommodate his over-stimulated cock, but before he could begin both lovers snatched his hands away and pinioned them out to the side.

_Laiquassë, you are not done! I know you want to taste him!  Look at it!  You ache to feel that shaft shoved down your throat!_  

They flipped him over as Malthen said this and the guardsman gripped Legolas' jaw, holding his face scant inches from the Elf Lord's groin.  Elrond was crouched before him, knees up and open, bracing himself with his arms behind him.  His cock with its naked, scarlet tip was already proudly at rigid attention, awaiting the outcast to gulp it down.  The Elven Lord made the organ twitch and the motion still held its erotic enthrallment for his young lover.

_Please him well and mayhap I will take you from the rear; we will fuck you to completion such as you have never known!_ Malthen's promise floated through his thoughts, an enticing mental nudge that matched the physical sensation of the guardsman's hand fondling his balls.

Legolas did want to take Elrond's shorn, aroused sex into his mouth and savor the feel and the taste of the exotic Imladrian.    Malthen's carefully compressing hand retreated from Legolas' testicles and settled on his backside with an encouraging push.  His tears ceased.  The wild warrior crawled forward on hands and knees and the healer parted his legs invitingly wider. Legolas hungrily devoured the turgid shaft with an impassioned rumbling growl of gluttonous exigency and worked with frenzied skill to extract the Noldo's pith.

Behind him, hands gripped Legolas' thighs as Malthen spread him, tilting up his pelvis to bring the torn entrance in line with his cock, unbalancing the archer and causing his nose to crash into the soft nest of black curls redolent with Elrond's odor.  Legolas groaned around the massive cock insinuated into his esophagus and flexed his hips, trying to push his penis down into the warm, yielding sand.  But Malthen held him positioned for his own pleasure, not the archer's, and Legolas' member found no purchase on the beach.

_Elbereth!  That is good!_ the Lord of Imladris shouted. _Fuck him, Maltahondo!  Hard!_  He pushed up from the ground to bury his burgeoning erection further into the talented depths of the wild elf's orifice.

The corpsman obeyed and forced himself inside the bloody channel with brutal impact, matching his pummeling coition to the Noldo's pivoting thrusts.  Together they ravaged the outcast raw from front and rear and Legolas was utterly powerless to resist.

Nor did he wish for the punishing conjugation to cease.  This was a level of exhilarated, tormented intensity he had never known before and he longed to finish the illicit intermezzo in concert with his two lovers, desperate to expel his semen at the same moment they loosed theirs.

Every thrust of Malthen's bruising cock shoved soundly into Legolas' prostate and each push of the Noldo's penis against his tongue forced the archer back upon the guardsman's rod, sending a flare of nerve-tingling shock to shiver across the very apex of Legolas' overlooked member.  Behind the creased, narrow furrows of dark, curled lashes, his eyes beheld streaking trails of incandescent glory across his brain with every dual assault.

The sound of the two elves' elated roars and bellows testified to the building tension in their loins as the healer climbed towards his second ejaculation and Malthen rapidly ascended to his third, an extravagance of sexual abandon Legolas would not have thought possible.  His euphoria escalated, knowing he was to be the cause of such gratification.

Legolas at last found the opportunity to engineer a successful climax and balanced on one arm in order to wrap his fingers around his sand-sheathed shaft and pump against the gritty grains.  He hummed out his accumulating passion upon the Noldo's penis and felt it swell against his laving tongue.  At the same time, he felt Malthen's grip tightening round his sides as the strength of his vehement pulsing doubled.

_Eru fuck me!  You love it, Laiquassë!  You are going to come with your father's cock up your arse, guzzling a Noldo's milt down your maw!_, the corpsman unleashed this obscene curse as he rode his wild lover to the cusp of completion.

Legolas winced under the verbal assault, but they were all so close and he acutely needed this discharge.  He breathed a deep breath in through his nose and held it as the first surge of his seminal fluid streamed up toward its outlet.  At that moment the Noldo pulled out from the suction of the archer's lips and Malthen yanked his penis free from the flexing annulus of ripped tissue.  Legolas was empty and the sudden loss seized his stomach in a squeeze of panic.  He cried out to his love.

"Nay!  Malthen, do not stop!  Saes, Ada!"

But only silence replied.

He was already coming, however, and could no more halt the passionate torrent of his seed than he could have captured the infinite ocean in an earthen cup.  Legolas thrust vigorously into his hand and voiced his explosive jubilation in an open-mouthed yowl of grateful relief.

_How pathetic, spilling into the sand, alone!  Malthen has left you again and the Noldo will not spend himself inside you! Perhaps I can accommodate your want!_

The voice uttering this scorn encrusted and disgusted retort froze the outcast's heart. Even as his semen flowed over his hand in a scorching flood of splendorous transport, Legolas looked behind him and screamed.   Ailinyéro plunged the blade of a dagger into the fallen warrior's rectum, burying it up to the hilt.  He withdrew the knife and repeated the attack, brutally slicing him open, stabbing deeper with every piercing thrust.

_No!  Rochendil, stop this!_

A familiar voice, female, reached Legolas through the haze of relentless pain and boiling exuberance. He vaguely heard his tormentor's reply.

_Andamaitë!_

He collapsed face-first onto the beach.  
   
Legolas felt hands reach under his arms and lift him up, away from the terrible viciousness of the merciless blade, and he was set down again carefully on his back under the blinding face of Anor.  He tried to look upon his savior's features but the brightness was as obscuring as before. He shut his eyes against the sheen-halloed agony that broke upon his lacerated flesh like the endless surf crashing down on the shining shore.  He could feel the last of his sperm oozing from him, bequeathing a lingering sense of exquisite elation even as the streaming warmth of his blood poured forth to stain the sand.

_Legolas?  You must not be here! Awaken and return to your friends!_

"Valtamar?" Legolas mumbled the name as his consciousness wavered, but when the shadow of the form loomed closer and allowed him to see he found his gaze locked upon the smoldering compassion of bottomless black orbs belonging to an entirely different being.

"Legolas! Please, awaken!  Legolas!"  Gandalf held the archer tightly trying to still the racking tremors and quiet the soul shattering shrieks bursting from his friend's lungs.

Legolas' eyes snapped open into reality and his screaming ceased in mid-shout.  He stared up into the gleam of the wizard's eyes through the darkness of night under Greenwood's canopy at the black water fen.   He registered the sensation of the wooden planks of the talan beneath him, the soft warmth of a blanket wrapped around his naked skin, and the pungent aroma of his excruciatingly erotic release.  Sweat soaked and smelling of fear and desire, Legolas was still shaking as his chest heaved to draw in oxygen and purge away the urge to flee.

He acknowledged the strength of the Maia's protective embrace, and heard the insistent beating of the Istar's heart where his ear was pressed against Gandalf's chest, the sound so reminiscent of the unending rhythm of the ocean's respiration.  A soft caress smoothed across his head and repeated as Mithrandir sought to calm the wild elf.  Legolas whimpered softly and huddled closer, making himself small inside the Istar's encompassing arms.

_Mithrandir._ He dared not speak aloud, somehow convinced that if he did so the scenery would shift again and he would return to the blazing beach and the unholy coupling with Ailinyéro's knife.  Legolas clutched compulsively at the blanket the two shared and entwined his fingers into the long silver hair cascading from Mithrandir's chin, desperate to remain in contact with the wizard.  He felt his tears well and flood down his face, one by one, in a silent progression of both shameful sorrow for the acts he had so eagerly enjoined and gratitude for their ending.

_It was real!   It was more than a dream!_

_I am not certain. Whatever has happened, you are safe, I am here._

The wizard encouraged Legolas to reach him through their mental bond and soothingly patted the windblown locks that smelled of an ocean the Wood Elf could not possibly have seen.  Mithrandir was unsure if the sensation of scent was an actual residue of the salty air or a part of the inner vision he was sharing with his friend.  The gruesome dreamscape was fully open to the Istar's awareness and he shuddered at what the guilt-ridden elf had endured.

_Andamaitë and Valtamar were truly there.  I was on the shores of the Great Sea at the Crossing.  They wait upon the beach for me to finish the Tasks and release them._

_Do not assume so.  There are ways to manipulate such visions; how you dreamed of Aearon is troubling.  Rest now, be calm; I will let no evil find you._

Mithrandir tightened his hold around Legolas as a violent trembling worked its way through the Tawarwaith.  He caressed the archer's bowed head and let his other hand consolingly linger along the marred muscular back, kneading away the tension born of the nightmarish ordeal.

Legolas stirred and lifted his tear-streaked countenance to his wise friend's and found there the stirring fervor of protective outrage the wizard felt on his behalf. Expending a ragged sigh, he nestled his head back into the crook of Mithrandir's neck and let his tears soak the Istar's shoulder.

Tbc


	38. Chapter 38

**Bronwe Talt **[Falling Faith]

The fen in the heat of the afternoon sun was a close, sticky zone of fetid odors and stagnant, foul airs. No breeze stirred the long beards and misty veils of moss adorning the arms and bark of nearly every tree. What light found a wayward path through the over hanging foliage was frail, an unnourished, depleted radiance more reminiscent of the straggling illumination from a pitch-dipped torch than any bright caress of Anor's torrid splendor.

No jingling jabber of flowing water caught the ear; absolute stillness lay upon the obsidian glint of the sterile pond. Not even the feet of a water dancer frolicking across the membranous tension disturbed the unwavering fluid. Upon the sodden, sloppy shore, a solitary toad reposed, awaiting the infrequent buzz of an insect's wings, thus to snatch a bit of dinner from the draftless space. Birds seldom broke the overwhelming solitude, and when they did the calls spoke more of complaints against the season than of praises to Tawar.

High in the canopy upon the talan Legolas had built large enough for just himself to inhabit, the three travelers were hard pressed to find any comfort either. While they were friends, the closeness one allowed one's fellows was a clearly delineated region and except in specific circumstances did not promote bodily contact. The jumbled collection of packs and weapons heaped nearby did not improve the amenities, detracting from the meagre confines by almost the same degree as would another body. Thus, with the Wood Elf occupying the majority of the square footage, the Man and the wizard were huddled in unpleasant proximity up against the hemlock's mighty trunk.

Aragorn shifted, running his hand under the hair sticking to the back of his neck and across the sweaty skin beneath it. He was truly glad he had elected not to don his leather jerkin and boots, for that would only necessitate removing them again, effort too vital to expend in the unendurable humidity. He stole a glance at Gandalf, who long ago had thrown off the light blanket and was now futilely fanning his face, eyes shut, with the wispy end of his long whiskers. Just the sight of that wooly growth made the Ranger's cheeks feel scratchy under his much less lengthy beard. He sighed; a breath filled with the irritation of over-exhaustion, unable to find comfort under the burden of late summer's final stand against the relentless onslaught of autumn's equinox.

_Perhaps the elf's advice was prudent; I will never sleep in this mire without some strong herb to assist me!_

Yet sometime during the hazy hours he did stumble into fatigue-induced slumber, as though the weight of the water-laden air exceeded his strength and sapped his awareness. But while his body remained in lethargic stupour, his mind was anything but quiescent. Aragorn was plagued by disturbing images of Legolas and Elrond, locked in passionate encounters in a variety of settings throughout Imladris.

His father, pinning the younger elf against the wall in the corridor outside the library, pumping and grinning. Elrond, spreading the wild warrior wide on the floor of the Hall of Fire, while the rest of the household merely smiled and sang a ballad of Turgon and the glory that was Gondolin. The Lord of Imladris holding council, seated before his ministers and a host of emissaries from other lands, with his hand resting upon Legolas' blond head rising and falling between his legs.

Aragorn woke with a start and realized Gandalf had shaken him alert. The Maia was staring at him with concern.

"You were dreaming," he said quietly, "and it did not seem pleasant."

The mortal cocked a wry eyebrow at this understatement and dared a look at Legolas. He could not suppress a shudder of revulsion, left over from the seamy scenes his troubled heart had produced.

"I know not how to make this knowledge bearable!" he hissed with a shake of his head. "There are some things of which it is best to remain unaware!"

"Indeed," Gandalf snorted. "I am certain Legolas shares that sentiment just about now!"

Duly chastised, Aragorn revised his perspective and rediscovered his compassion for the fallen warrior. He rose and stretched as he gazed out into the trees. Anor was done for the day and, in the cavern-like claustrophobia of the mere, dusk was rapidly falling back before the dispiriting advance of Gwain Ithil's night.

"At least that tonic has spared him any untoward memories while he sleeps!" he said and resumed his seat with a kinder gaze upon the prostrate elf.

And while his words defined a true statement, the elixir did not prevent the creation of new and even more abhorrent events from being added to the outcast's surfeit of woe.

The first indication that the situation was deteriorating was no more than a whispered sigh breathed into the darkening air and a dreamy half-smile that briefly traversed the archer's fair features. These were hardly the indicators of stress Aragorn was trained to notice. The Man was initially so gratified to see signs of tranquil reverie that he failed to realize such physical manifestations should be impossible. Given the state of oblivion into which the elixir had supposedly submerged his friend, not so much as a twitch or a tic ought to materialize until midday on the morrow.

When the wild elf grew restless the human became apprehensive. As Legolas writhed free from the Istar's enveloping robes, Aragorn's temperature climbed several degrees and ushered in acute embarrassment. The talan was much too small to share with this suddenly and amazingly aroused Silvan warrior.

"Oh no," the wizard sighed in dismay. He remembered, too late, Fearfaron describing this sort of nightmare to the healer years ago. "Legolas, awaken!" Mithrandir leaned closer and grasped the archer's shoulder and shook him, but instantly jerked away when the wild elf moaned and turned his head, plastering a slithering tongue-stroke upon the Istar's fingers. "Legolas should not have been drugged!"

"The instructions I used gave no warning of a reaction like this!" the human defended his concoction.

Aragorn's eyes grew impossibly large and round at the sight of his friend's faintly glowing erection stretched so full, vertical, and straining for contact as the elf snuggled against the unyielding floor. Accompanied by the unparalleled urgency of Legolas' pleadingly complaining growls and mutters, the spectacle was nearly enough to send the mortal down to the inhospitable but equally unstimulating dampness of the peat bog below.

The fact that he did not retreat Aragorn later attributed to his gut reaction as a physician rather than his lewd, voyeuristic curiosity. Yet, all his instincts for healing failed him. Instead of feeling moved to interfere, the Man tried to put more distance between himself and his friend. He watched in stunned enthrallment as the fallen prince engaged in heated foreplay with his phantom lover.

The elf's hands patted and stroked every inch of his sex-charged body, smoothing across his chest where they came to rest on small pink buds. The long graceful fingers quickly twirled and tweaked the sensitive flesh into plump and ruddy tits, which Legolas offered with an unbearably erotic groan as he arched up off the floor. His right hand continued to tease and tempt, alternately rubbing his firmly muscled torso and next pinching and pulling his inflamed nipples, decadently inviting a lover's lick.

The other hand traveled in a sultry serpentine slide down the firm abdomen, shied away from the prominent arousal, briefly stopped to squeeze the twin glands, then diverted across the hip and lingered in a sensuous caress over his behind. When Legolas sighed a prurient plaint and slipped two of those elegant digits inside his anus, Aragorn's mouth dropped in shocked disbelief.

It soon became obvious to both the witnesses that while Legolas' ejaculation was imminent, his apparent reluctance to touch his own cock prevented the culmination of his painfully excited state. The illusion of ecstatic license was shattered as Legolas' vocalizations became intelligible and he called out Malthen's name in tones of frantic despair. A few gasping pants later; the exiled prince sent Aragorn's senses reeling as he begged in mortified salacity for his father to penetrate him. Even in the cloying blackness of the new moon, Legolas' tears gleamed brightly against his face.

Not knowing of the archer's love for his former guardian, the mortal assumed this impassioned exhortation was directed to the Lord of Imladris and that Malthen must be a lover's pet name. Elrond's foster son felt his stomach turn over and fought back the bitter bile.

"Legolas!" Gandalf shouted, trying to get the elf's attention, but could not bring himself to handle the gyrating form again, fearing to become the catalyst for the impending release.

If the Tawarwaith heard his voice, it was absorbed and perverted within his vivid hallucination and he could not respond.

He twisted himself over onto his stomach, assuming a submissive position Aragorn had never personally seen a male display. The wild elf raised up onto his knees, bowing his golden head against one arm and lifting his buttocks high. He slid his legs apart and flexed his pelvis, exposing his most vulnerable parts and offering himself for acquisition to his lover. With a brutishly hungry growl Legolas finally reached under his belly and grabbed his dripping cock, squeezing and pulling vehemently until he poured out his passionate well-spring of illicit desire upon the wooden floor.

And then the screaming began.   

Within the span of two heartbeats, Gandalf at last reached out and gathered up the twitching elf, wrapping him tightly in the soft covers and commanding him forcefully to return to them and awaken.

Aragorn could only watch and wonder as the outcast regained his senses and folded himself up, hunkering onto the Istar's lap like an elfling. Had the situation not been so horribly grotesque, the sight of the long-legged full grown warrior clutching the wizard's beard for security would have been bizarrely amusing. But the Man found nothing worthy of laughter, for though his friend's shrieks had ceased the weeping continued, silent and unabated, and Legolas did not speak.

He assumed that the elf and wizard were communicating on the purely mental level developed between them. What the two shared he could not imagine. The carnal nature of the vivid mirage was all too obvious; the physical evidence pooled on the mat tainted the small flet's air with the dregs of Legolas' passion. Before he quite realized it, Aragorn found that he had inelegantly kicked the offensive padding over the side of the talan. He cast a glance over at the blond head cradled against the Istar's neck and could detect the violent trembling racking the archer's frame in silent testament to the trauma endured. The cause of the terrified and agonized cries was beyond any guess Aragorn could make.

_Given the players in this tragedy, I do not want to know!_

Legolas did not acknowledge the Man either by look or speech and the mortal thought it best not to initiate any discourse. He shuddered reflexively as the memory of the wild warrior's wanton exposition replayed in his mind. Aragorn understood the many varieties of sexual experiences a person might enjoy, but had never observed anything like the archer's demonstration. All the elves he knew were scrupulously discrete; public display of affection was not commonly accepted in Imladris. Mentally he remonstrated himself, for he knew Legolas had not willingly put on such a show.

The Man attempted to rationalize his distaste for what he had seen and allay the accompanying twinge of guilt accosting his heart. He had never been attracted to another male. He had not really thought much about such intimacy; having been far more curious about females and how to persuade them to accept that for which Legolas seemed compelled to beg. It was understandable that Aragorn would be disturbed and uncomfortable.

_How else might I feel, being forced to watch such vulgar actions! It is but a reaction, nothing more; I hold Legolas in the same regard as before_, but he knew these were half-truths at best.

He was trying, but it was going to be difficult to get past this latest revelation of his friend's personal life. It was not that the archer desired a male to bed him that was burdensome but that Legolas yielded himself to be used by someone who clearly had little concern for his heart. It did not help that the lover in question was Elrond.

_How could Legolas imagine that someone he had known but a handful of days could care for his well-being?_ The Man felt disgusted and angry at the elf for allowing himself to be debased. _Nay, for finding his pleasure in such depravation!_

It went so totally against everything Elrond had taught him about sexual intimacy, and the Man could not suppress his irrational acrimony toward Legolas for forcing him to acquire this knowledge.

The dark hours were impossible to track under the leafy ceiling, lacking Ithil's shifting light as a determinant. Aragorn thought it endless and found the absence of nocturnal wild life more upsetting than would be the shuffling and snuffling of night creatures. The whole bog seemed to be cringing under the Tawarwaith's pain.  

Morning brought its fuzzy gleam into the little swamp and Aragorn reawakened, surprised he had fallen into dreamless sleep after the troubling demonstration he had attended. Immediately he looked to his friends and Gandalf greeted him with a weary and pinched smile. Legolas was not there. Aragorn lifted inquiring eyebrows to the wizard, who gave a sideways nod as he dropped his gaze towards the ground. The Man leaned over and spotted the elf near the pond, redressed in the tattered leggings, busily at work fletching arrows.

It occurred to Aragorn that the forest champion might find the source for his incubus lay within the potion given him to swallow and bear the Man a grudge.

_And would I not? Indeed, I would harbour resentment toward one that caused me to display my private soul thusly!_

He had no idea how to make amends for such a grievous reaction to the sleeping tonic. With grim determination Aragorn rose and moved out into the branches, descending to the mushy moss below.

"Aur Maer, Legolas!" the mortal called as he jumped the last meter or so and landed with a squelching squish into the peat. The wild elf looked at him guardedly but said nothing. The human cleared his throat. "I wish to beg your forgiveness! The medicine was supposed to prevent dreams, not …"

"I would rather not speak of this, Aragorn, ever!" Legolas interrupted in choked and bitter tones. "There is nothing for you to apologize for; this has… this is… it is nothing to do with you!" So saying he returned to his task and refused to look at his friend again, for his shame was acute.

In the minutes that followed, neither of them spoke and the humidity was not the only component to weight the bog's atmosphere. Legolas was unable to conquer the overwhelming fear of having lost Aragorn's respect, reducing their relationship to one of polite discourse and alienating courtesy. For his part, the mortal desperately wanted to find a topic of discussion that would not lead to unpleasant reminders of Imladris and the night's activity, for his own sake as much as his friend's.

"We must move on from here soon," Aragorn said, feeling this was as safe a subject as any. "Is the ankle improved enough for you to continue?"

"It will do. We cannot afford more time; you are right to speak of leaving. We must decide now on our course," Legolas replied vehemently, gratified to have something else to think about. He raised fierce eyes to his human comrade and found the healer's piercing appraisal sweeping over him.

"I would like to have another look," Aragorn began, and was nonplussed when the elf suddenly grew bright red and tore his gaze away. "Nay! I mean only…"

"I know what you mean and it is not necessary to check the injury again!" the archer hastily interjected. "It is time to accept that the current strategy is not working." Legolas drew a deep breath and glanced back at Aragorn, who fought the urge to look away. "Even if it had done before, the bonfire you needed to deter the spiders will have drawn anyone seeking our trail."

"I am willing to concede to your greater expertise in these matters, Legolas. What may we expect?" the Man rejoined, carefully choosing his words.

"We may expect to be relentlessly driven toward the Mountains! However, the Orcs have been instructed to capture, not to kill; that gives us the advantage."

Loud huffing and a muttered curse interrupted the discussion and both participants turned to watch the wizard complete his noisy retreat from the flet. The Man and the elf shared knowing smirks; their friend was not so frail and fragile as his complaints and grumbles suggested.

"That is an advantage for what reason? It would seem only to suggest they will work together and be more difficult to fight off!" Mithrandir joined the debate.

"The smaller groups will try to gain the esteem such a feat would garner them. They will not work together, each one wanting the sole acclaim and promotion a success would bring. But even more, they will try to be clever, and this is something that generally just makes them completely predictable," Legolas answered with a very unpleasant smile.

"This area is on the edges of the regions in which I have numerous traps. However, these work because I am able to flee from danger through the trees. What we must figure out is a way to utilize the pits without the two of you being killed in the process."

"Pits?" asked the Man, worry tainting his voice.

"Aye. I am the one who made the pitfalls, but will need to scout those nearby to make sure they are still being maintained. I gave this information both to the woodsmen and, via Gandalf, to the King's guard, but have no way to know if either group has bothered to keep them set and ready."

"You are leaving again?" demanded Gandalf sternly.

"For a few hours only. I will be back before nightfall."

"Nay; this time we all go," said Aragorn and braced for the wild prince's furious reply. To his surprise, Legolas remained calm but did not speak, waiting to hear the Man's argument. "It is wasted effort; why should we sit idle here and force you to make a return trip? Your ankle is healing, but too much strain will make the mending slower.

"And, should we encounter Orcs along the way, the three of us can do more damage than one alone. If we must battle our way to the stronghold, then the quicker we proceed the faster we will get through it. As before, you can guide us from the trees and prevent us from bungling into these traps."

"Very well," Legolas conceded but did not comment that the mortal's remarks were so similar to the points he had made previous to the battle with the spiders. _At least he learns quickly._ "Mithrandir, we need to keep the link between us open while I am up in the canopy. I can thus direct the two of you around the traps," he said quietly and started to load the new arrows into the quiver. Curious, Aragorn took one up and examined it carefully.

"These are poor arrows!" he blurted out in his surprise; he was accustomed to elves taking great care when making weapons of any kind, and the archers of Imladris were known to be the most demanding of perfection. "The wood is too green, and the shafts are not straight enough. Legolas, these will hit a distant target only by happenstance."

Legolas stood and coolly held out his hand for the missile, slipping it into his quiver as he met the human's concerned gaze.

"I will not be shooting at targets, Aragorn, but at Orcs. And they will not be distant."  

They left the black water fen after this brief council. Several hours of travel had not convinced the Man and the Maia that the way was more than a blind blundering through the endless sameness of jungle overgrowth. The only indication that they were not still going round in circles was the steadily rising slope of the land and an increasingly devastating black dread engulfing their hearts. The forest seemed with every step to be more and more the Mirkwood of Mens' fables and less the Greenwood tended by vigilant Silvans.

The stallion and the gelding moved through the twisting track at a steady trot, maintaining an uneasy acquiescence to the Wood Elf's demand for progress. Upon their backs, the man and the wizard felt uncomfortably powerless, guided by Legolas' unspoken instruction to their mounts more than to the Istar. It was not a circumstance either one had previously experienced and demanded a level of trust in their feral friend that was generally granted only to those who had fought side by side for years.

The two travelers knew next to nothing of the archer's battle skills and had no understanding of combat in heavily forested terrain. Unfamiliarity with the claustrophobic lands, undetectable elven roads, and the lack of greater numbers spawned an instinctive fear of imminent attack from the untamed surroundings. The Darkness crept into them with the very air they breathed, poisoning their hopes and deadening their perception. It seemed an insurmountable host of Orcs calmly steered them, playing with them until such time as they chose to strike. How could three overcome such forces? The worry grew in their minds that the elf was leading them to their deaths.

With no warning, mental or vocal, Legolas swung down onto the back of Mithrandir's palomino and the wizard jumped in spite of himself. He did not need to look back over his shoulder to know his friend was displeased. Legolas had abruptly retreated from the Istar's awareness as the first doubt had entered in.

"Mithrandir, we have reached the area I spoke of. This is where we will take on the first assailants," he said and gave the Istar the mental image of the precise location of each pitfall. The extent of the delving was vast and in the trees above were several flets at various heights in the canopy, overlooking the altered ground.

"You are not going up to the flets, then?" asked Mithrandir.

"No," came the curt reply. "Traps require bait."

Mithrandir needed no internal link to comprehend this strategy and scrunched his brows together in response to the vivid image Legolas sent of a previous skirmish conducted in this way.

"That is foolishly dangerous!"

"Nay, not foolish for it has always worked. They cannot resist the urge to get their filthy hands on an elf, and I do make it seem as though they might succeed! Believe me, it is a method I have employed more times than I care to recount."

"Right. And what are we supposed to do?" demanded Aragorn, also grasping the gist of the plan. "We cannot get high enough into the trees to avoid them when they pour upon us, nor do we have arrows to shoot at them even if we man the flets!"

"You must do whatever you can do with that great sword of yours! You are a warrior, Man, and surely know how to kill!" Legolas replied caustically; their lack of confidence in him was upsetting.

"The horses must be set loose; for we will need them and I would not have them destroyed even if we did not. You two can find cover ample to conceal your location, can you not? Mithrandir knows where the pits are; you need to get within the field of holes and cut down any Orcs that do not tumble to their deaths.

"This first group is small; we should be able to kill them with no difficulty. Do not worry; I will reduce the troop to a manageable size for you! I have no sense of greater numbers awaiting to aid them; but then again not all the trees here are inclined to share information. If I am wrong, we will have to fight our way to the river.

"Should this be the case, Thranduil's patrols will likely be near enough to discover our difficulty and assist you. They are not permitted to aid me; however, those orders do not include you two. I can come up with no other ideas. Had we not met, how would you deal with this threat?"

"Peace, Legolas, we did not mean…" began Mithrandir.

"Nay! The Shadow has used you as a lure, and now I will turn the concept against itself! I have said I will not allow you to be taken by the doom that plagues me, and so it shall be. If you cannot trust to that at least rely upon your own abilities to fend for yourselves. Willingly you entered these lands, though I wish it were not so, and you must have been prepared for such troubles before crossing the borders!" He did not wait for any more talk and jumped down from the gelding's back; a quick sprint took him beyond the sight of his companions.

It stung, their failure to believe him capable to guard them. Legolas felt his throat tighten up as he tried to turn the sorrow into hard rage. Two voices warred within his mind, one stating that his depraved sexual desires had earned their disgust and consequently their mistrust, while the other reasoned that it was the subtle influence of the Shadow infecting their attitudes. He decided neither reason was inaccurate, but this did nothing to diminish the sense of isolation or its concurrent pain.

He vaulted into the arms of a large oak, rapidly scaled to the pinnacle, and pierced through the verdant crown to gaze upon the vastness of the forest. The Tawarwaith inhaled deeply and allowed the pain to flow back out of him as he blew the breath back upon the sky. He watched the newly unfurled leaves quiver under the passing of his grief weighted lung-full.

Up this high, Darkness did not exist. He was never disappointed in the effect of this sudden exposure to the open light and freely flowing wind on his spirit. Whether he encountered the glare of a searing sun, the bluster of a stormy, cloud-scudded sky, or the crisp clarity of frost filled atmosphere, he always reveled in the unchanging nature of his woods. From the roof of the Greenwood, he could see his green world stretching to meet the boundaries of the horizon, obliterating that tenuous delineation between empty space and solid ground.

He turned his vision north and saw the peaks of the Central Mountains riding upon the billowing foliage like islands adrift in the Great Sea. It took a second for him to receive the shock this introspection generated; Legolas had never been on the sea, had no means to visualize the concept of an island much less create such a comparison.

It was a frightening thing at first to recognize thoughts spawned by knowledge not of his own gathering. _Surely, this image came from Mithrandir's experience in his crossing from Aman,_ he reasoned. Legolas shook his head, wondering what else might be in it now that had not been there before, but put the curious concept aside and focused on the task at hand.

Not much effort was required to seek the counsel of Tawar, and he was able to dissolve deeper into the massive mind freely. He had come to understand that he was never really separated from this connection, and merely allowed more or less of his awareness to be absorbed into the great entity, depending on what was required. His desperation during the search for the spiders' lair had taught him well how to see the design of the Greenwood's natural strength. A terrible pattern of light and dark had flashed within his soul then and all the locations of the darkest pockets of gloom were revealed.

Legolas searched carefully now for the shifting smears of black emptiness stealing over the ground for at such points were found Orcs. From these the Great Wood barricaded itself, closing off the bright perfection of Eru's Making from such mobile infestations of evil, and soon Legolas' comprehension received news of the closest group.

They were moving with slow deliberateness, not yet on his scent, but drawing ever closer in a loosely defined arcuate formation. He smiled at their crude tactics; the semi-circular advance was supposed to make it easy for them to flank and surround a lesser force. It worked perhaps with humans, but never had this configuration succeeded when elven warriors were involved. Legolas wondered about that; had not the Masters of Dol Guldur taken note of this fact?

_Unless the creatures are incapable of learning any other way._

He thought, perhaps, it had more to do with the Wraith's utter contempt for the loathsome miscreants. There were no poorer fighters; not even close to the discipline of goblins, and the Nazgul could afford to spend them recklessly. _In this I thoroughly agree with the shadow-slaves!_ Legolas smirked at this idea and descended lower to intercept the battalion. It took little time moving through the branches to get close enough to alter their course.

Fewer than ten meters separated him from his quarry now, and the forest warrior listened to the raucous quarreling and heavy trampling of the beasts as they converged upon his position. He pulled his dagger from his quiver and made a quick shallow slice across his forearm. With vigour he rubbed the muscle to encourage the flow and soon spilled a thin line of precious drops down upon the leafy debris. Not bothering to bind up the wound, he darted through the lower hanging branches with much more clatter and motion than an elf, even a dying one, would ever make. As he moved, the knife cut bled, spreading a vivid smear across his arm, and dripped onto the branches and leaves as he passed.

Behind him, an excited shout arose from within the Orc host as his blood was discovered. In seconds the foul things were in eager pursuit and the Tawarwaith stilled to let them draw nearer. He shot three of the hastily made arrows into three of the monsters that passed beneath his perch and had already darted away before the bodies hit the ground. An answering hail of missiles and vulgar shouts of rage followed him.

Tbc


	39. Chapter 39

**Tadui Dagor: Maeth dan Yrch **[Second Battle: Fight against the Orcs]

Legolas paused in his game of chase long enough to snatch up an arrow as it sung through the air past his body, a necessary skill he had learned through long, unpleasant practice. With care he clutched it and darted up higher into the leaves, reverting to his natural stealth and agility so that he was four trees to the left of the current target of the Orcs' barrage of missiles. The Tawarwaith smirked; it was so easy to throw them off.  The ferine fighter examined the arrow's metal tip cautiously, seeking any indications of poison residue on the point.

He had begun to worry about this after reflecting on his last encounter with Darkness on the day of the Heaving Earth.  Those arrows had been subtly tainted, enough to kill him or, at least, to render him weak and vulnerable.  Three tours of Ithil through the blackened night had been required to shake the ill-effects of the small wound he had received that day.  With two earth-bound companions to consider, that was not the sort of injury the archer could afford to endure.

No toxins appeared to be coating the weapon and Legolas sneered as he ran his thumb against the metal barb.  A small scarlet welt raised and opened, and he quickly licked away the welling fluid.  He scorned the use of iron for arrows, though he would use that if need demanded it.  Obsidian was far more durable and could be worked to an edge so sharp that it would slice a single elven hair into three transparent slivers.  Attached to a straight shaft of ash or cedar, launched from his well-crafted bow, such a lethal vertex would puncture flesh and bone, leather and chain-mail, with equal ease.

Relieved that he would not need to worry about the lingering death of polluted blood, the Wood Elf moved quickly through the upper branches until he was beyond the circle of frustrated Orcs.  The thought occurred to him that the Masters of Dol Guldur had changed their orders; he was to be brought down by any means possible, preferably dead. 

_The Chief does not want me to get back home; if he cannot have me in his dungeons he would have me perish.  Poison is too slow for his purpose now!_

Legolas did not take time to reflect on the situation, however, for it made no change in his plans.  It was not information that he felt needed to be shared with his comrades, waiting in the pitfall zone ahead.  He looked down at the milling, quarrelling Orcs, who had ceased loosing their arrows and were re-examining the last available traces of blood upon the ground.  The Tawarwaith chuckled and made a loud rustling as he descended low enough to poke his head into view and smile at his assailants.  A low whistle gave them his position and the wild elf sped away again, leading the angered beasts closer to the hidden traps and his companions' eager swords.

The bark of the bole was sleek and smooth, mottled charcoal and pale grey in colour so that in the subdued, filtered gleam that passed for sunlight under the canopy it appeared as unpolished or tarnished silver.  The tree's body was broad and unmarred, no claw or hoof had scratched its wooden hide, nor falling branch or stray cast stone found a way to breach its pristine perfection.  The great tree dominated the region, soaring high above the forest floor, surely the eldest denizen of this locality and among the oldest amid the plant life inhabiting the Greenwood.

It held its thick, robust limbs up and out nearly parallel to the ground, yet far from the reach of even the nimblest elf to grasp and swing from the earth to the heights. So vast was the spread of its leafy shade that no brush or bramble crowded up around the trunk, allowing anyone located near its tethered base a clear view throughout the vicinity.  The girth of the majestic birch was more than ample to conceal one lone human from seeking eyes, easily two Men might hide behind its magnificent expanse, and here Aragorn waited with fidgety impatience for Orcs to slay.

Sword drawn and held tight within his two-fisted grip, the Man admired the ancient wood around him and gazed dizzyingly into the towering crown of the old ones clustered together in this place. He had not really noticed before how certain areas of the weald held such groups of these long-lived trees while other zones seemed crowded with more youthful, slender trunked individuals.  There was a flet spanning the lowest limbs of his tree.  Simply constructed and easily visible, the small platform was clearly not an outpost.

_One of the scaffolds Legolas built for shooting Orcs._ he realized as he scanned the neighboring trees and spotted more of the sturdy perches scattered about.

Aragorn shifted from foot to foot, relieving the tension in his calves, shrugged and rotated his shoulders, and turned his head side to side, cracking the joints of his spine and neck.  He did not tolerate waiting very well, especially in the steamy heat of the late summer's day, and sighed in frustration.  But he was a disciplined soldier and knew how to use his time, noting all the possible routes the enemy might employ when entering the scene, listening carefully to the sounds of the forest for changes in the normal pattern of the diurnal chatter.

With an abruptness that startled him, all the background noise of the woods ceased and it was thus the silence that alerted him of impending battle.  Aragorn strained his ears to try and pick up any faint indication of the enemies' direction, and finding nothing threw himself down to the ground to press his head against the leafy bosom of the earth.  He smiled and rose, rewarded for his effort by the knowledge that the horde was approaching with rapid strides from the east and south of his position, the bearing upon which Legolas had disappeared hours ago.

He need not have gone to such lengths, however, for shortly thereafter he could clearly hear the terrible beasts tearing their way with avid hostility through the trees.  Their cries, grunts, and strange guttural speech, accompanied by the distinct sound of blade against wood and the cracking of branches still green with sap, became an eerily echoing cacophony that grew in volume and pitch as the pack neared.  Before they burst into view, Aragorn noted the unmistakable twang of an elf-made bow and the disturbing sound of a fair voice ridiculing and taunting the vile creatures.

When the troop made its entrance, Aragorn braced for assault but held his position, as he had no desire to become the first victim of the traps.  The elf flew through the trees ahead of them, just out of reach yet not so high that he was beyond the range of their weapons or their sight.  The mortal had never seen one of the fair folk make so much clatter and clamour in motion as Legolas produced. It was an uncomfortable observation, for he had always been taught that the Wood Elves were fighters of stealth and subterfuge rather than strategy and shrewd cunning.

The wild warrior leaped upon the very flet above the mortal's head, smiled down at him for a second, and with blinding rapidity fired off three darts before tearing away again.  The cries of death and outrage that followed left no doubt in the Man's mind that the misshapen arrows had burrowed deeply into Orcish flesh.

Then the huge herd was trampling in a thunder of crushing feet past him, never even catching the scent of the Man as he crouched behind the tree, ready to stand and fight.  His vision followed their progress among the trees and noticed with alarm that the elf was now on the ground, just meters from the advancing throng, calmly firing arrow after arrow into the advancing host.

The Orcs were torn between answering with their bows or rushing forward with swords to carve him up, and seemed nearly evenly divided over the dilemma.  Those that stopped and armed their bows created barriers the others had to get around, and some of their fellows were too impatient to pause in their charge and would hack at these archers even as they tried to target the Wood Elf. Legolas laughed in delight at these antics, a cold sound that chilled Aragorn's soul a bit.

"That is well, do my work for me!  Come on, maggot fodder, I will use your rotting bodies to feed my trees!  This day is the last you will look upon the fairness of my woods, and for the rest of your damned existence may your black spirits roil in the torment of the Void with your faithless master!"

This taunt from the Wood Elf enraged them and any pretense of order vanished at once.  The creatures disregarded whatever knowledge of the traps they might possess and rushed headlong for the fallen prince.  Legolas just smiled and continued to shoot them down.

Three traps were sprung at once in a sundering shuddering of branches and forlorn shrieks as the demons were pierced through, falling to their dooms. Panic ensued.

Legolas ceased firing to return to the branches above, climbing the trunk behind him with easy grace.  He stood upon a flet and watched with satisfaction as the Orcs scattered and ran off, only to find the deadly holes opened beneath them no matter where they turned, for their adversary had learned their pattern of behavior well.  As for the few that managed to evade the traps, those the forest champion felled before they left the scene, and as he had predicted every one of the monsters died within minutes.

Silence returned and with it the stinking reek of draining blood from opened bodies.  Aragorn emerged from his hidden vantage point and surveyed the carnage. He undertook a quick count as he walked carefully among the carcasses and the pits, mindful of any not yet deployed.  There were forty-two Orcs dead amid the trees, and he had not even had to raise his blade once.  The Man had never felt so utterly inconsequential in all his days, and gazed up at the quiet archer above.

Legolas sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the wooden platform, swinging them lightly, and lifted his hand in acknowledgement.  Before the mortal could speak, the elf rose and moved into the branches, joining the Man on the ground as the wizard emerged from cover as well.

"I told you it would work.  However, this was not really a battle.  There will be harder fighting with a real troop of them; too many for traps to do more than offer minor help." he said softly.

Mithrandir did not reply, only watched the outcast warrior cautiously.   Legolas seemed curiously detached from the events.  The Istar did not like the means his friend had chosen to draw the foul demons in, yet knew not what to say, fearing Legolas would hear only criticism and disapproval on a more personal level.  He moved to touch the Tawarwaith hoping thus to convey his worry for the elf's safety; but, the archer quickly shied away.

Legolas gave him a furtive glance as he did so and then inspected the corpses upon the ground, calmly taking two nearly full quivers of arrows and slinging them over his shoulder.  He continued to steal arrows from any corpse so armed that he could reach, packing the missiles into his own and the Orcish quivers.  Examining and discarding several war bows, he finally found one that met his approval and slipped that over his head as well.  He began dragging the remains into the empty traps and Aragorn moved to help him.

"I admit I am surprised this ploy succeeded.  I was certain they would know of the pitfalls and find a way to circumvent them," he said and then pointed to the clotting slash across the wild elf's arm.  "Allow me to treat that for you."

"Nay!"  Legolas forced a laugh as he flexed his arm.  "It is very shallow and will close quickly."

"Do you not fear poison?"  Aragorn frowned thinking the elf distrusted his talents as a healer after the effects of the sleeping draught.  "Even a slight wound from an Orcish weapon may be deadly!"

"Ah!  I see; no, there is no need to worry about poison, Aragorn.  I already tested their arrows for such vile deceits; there was none.  In any case, this cut is not from any foul devise of those demons."

Aragorn stared in consternation a moment and turned to Gandalf to confirm what he believed he had been told.  As the Istar nodded, the Man hissed out a strong expletive and looked at the elf in disbelief.  "You cut your own flesh to lure them," he said, outraged that anyone would have to do such a thing, much less an immortal.

"Yes, they cannot resist," Legolas simply shrugged.  "Here, these may be needed in the fight that awaits us."  He handed over the plundered bow and a full quiver of arrows to the Man.

"I am not nearly as adept with such a weapon as I am with my sword, Legolas," Aragorn said in confusion as he accepted the offering and tested its draw.  He raised his brows appreciatively; it was not the sort of quality one expected an Orc's weapon to possess.  A second later realization dawned; the bow was of elven make, stolen from an archer killed in the constant conflict that defined the Wood Elves' existence.

"Earlier you remarked upon the lack of arrows to fight from the trees; now you have that option.  You can shoot from horseback?"

"Aye, if need be.  You speak as though you expect us to be in flight!"

"We are in flight, Aragorn!"

With that assertion Legolas resumed toting the carcasses into the traps and nodded gratefully when the Man rejoined the task.  All the offal was quickly deposited below the forest floor, and the human wiped his brow as the elf searched a last time for anything serviceable to their cause.  He scavenged two daggers and slipped them into his quiver with a wicked leer; killing the creatures with weapons of their own making always seemed so appropriate.

They had not time to fire the pits, which bothered Legolas.  He knew it could not be helped and sighed dejectedly.  The brief encounter had only darkened his mood for while he had now proved himself a capable warrior the tension between the travelers remained.  He stole a fleeting look in Mithrandir's direction, finding the Istar's eyes regarding him with an expression of remorse that made Legolas' heart contract.  Absentmindedly he massaged the ache, simultaneously longing for the wizard's comfort and dreading to resume the connection, reluctant to again feel the doubts Mithrandir could not repress; however valiantly he tried to conceal them.

Noisy movement amid the trees beyond the traps alerted Gandalf and Aragorn, both immediately drew swords and assumed a defensive stance.  Legolas just waited calmly as the two horses emerged from the foliage beyond the pits and daintily picked their way with careful distaste around the malodorous graves of the gross abominations of Eru's design.

Legolas spoke softly to them in Sindarin words only they could hear and gently soothed the nervous gelding.  The frightened palomino was not a war-horse, and the terror of the journey across the Shadowed terrain had become a visible lather of sweat upon its whithers and flanks, darkening the honey-coloured coat to a rich, shiny bronze.  The horse snorted loudly through its velvet-skinned muzzle and rubbed its weary head against Legolas' shoulder.  The Wood Elf instinctively leaned against the broad equine forehead, both receiving and lending comfort.

"It is no good waiting; that only allows more time for the Orcs to get closer," he finally said and looked to his friends.

"Nay, this will not do!" Mithrandir at last found his tongue.  "Legolas, I must speak!"  The Istar drew himself up as the archer faced him warily.  "Well done, my friend, well done!" the wizard said from amid a face all crinkled up with lines of warm regard.  "Accept my apology for doubting your oath to me. I plead ignorance and the influence from the creeping defilement of the Shadow upon these lands. We must be able to depend upon one another, and I do not wish to add to your burdens by allowing this distrust and dread to fester!"

"That is right," added Aragorn.  "I also stand humbled.  I have disbelieved you and disregarded your greater experience in this sort of fighting.  These tactics bear no resemblance to riding within a company of well-armed elves or men, for which I am amply trained!"

Legolas' brows rose in surprise as he gazed from one to the other, for it was not what he had expected to hear.  He did not draw back when Mithrandir came forward and gripped his shoulder firmly, staring hard into his eyes.  The Maia was asking for the connection to be restored, and Legolas relented only to find himself swept into Mithrandir's embrace, his spirit awash in an outpouring of fond goodwill and his face crushed against the shaggy beard as the wily wizard chuckled joyfully.

"Here now, let him loose, Gandalf!  I will not let that gash go untreated, no matter what you say, Legolas," Aragorn said and pried the two apart, beaming happily to find the tensions between them reduced and the unseemly events of the night if not forgotten then at least pushed aside.   He lifted the wild elf's arm and, holding on, guided him over to the charger's side.

The Man quickly located what he needed in his pack and cleaned the cut, dressing it with more of the healing ointment that had proved so effective against the scrapes and slices from the spider battle.  He glanced briefly at the bound ankle but thought better of bringing it up, considering any reference to their previous misunderstanding unwise.  Besides, Legolas was clearly not hindered in his movements any longer.

"Thank you, that does feel much better now," Legolas said and flashed his brilliant smile upon them both.  "Yet, this delay will be costly if we prolong it further!"

"Very well, Legolas.  Will you ride or take to the trees?" asked Mithrandir as he approached and mounted his steed.

"I will ride for now, we require some semblance of speed to get ahead.  There is a very large group moving in from the fringe of the Greenwood, dwellers of the caves in the Misty Mountains, they are.  They seek to cut us off before we reach the river, planning to keep us occupied while the company from the mountains advances.  That will be quite a large force, and I would rather not have to face them thus combined."

"Indeed!" Aragorn concurred as he pulled himself up onto his charger's back. "Lead the way, Tawarwaith!"

In silence the group rode forward again, if such an irregular course could so be called.  The remainder of the day dwindled away with no further encounter with any enemy yet neither Legolas nor the horses relaxed.  The palomino paced along in stiff-legged dread, trusting himself to the care of the elf who had protected him thus far, when all instincts would have the animal bolt for the wide meadows reaching down to the Anduin beyond the eaves of the darkening forest.

 The golden gelding moved with its head high on an elegantly arched neck, nostrils flared, huffing noisily with every step as its hooves pounded out a relentless, mile-eating percussion against the leafy mould.  With ears cocked, one trained back to catch the soft speech of the Elda and the other scanning side to side; he searched for any signals of danger.  He was in the lead once more and summoned the confidence to maintain it from the unspoken reassurances of his immortal passenger.

The wild elf serenely sat astride its withers, in front of the wizard again.  Legolas occasionally whispered praise to the compact equine, impressed with the strong heart and brave spirit of the smaller horse.  He wondered briefly why the Noldor of Imladris had chosen to castrate the valiant steed, for such a determined and loyal bearing would do well to be encouraged in the bloodlines rather than diminished.  The woodland warrior was momentarily overcome by sadness at the thought of this creature dying and leaving no progeny behind, but he quickly stifled such emotions for the gelding sensed his sorrow and faltered in its step.

"What is our friend called?" Legolas suddenly asked the wizard, the first words he had spoken to Mithrandir since the skirmish.

Mithrandir opened his mouth to speak and hesitated.  The horse was named Pôdvallen [Goldfoot] but he did not wish to say this word; it would only make Legolas think of Malthen [Golden].

"You have noticed I have not used his name, I see," the wizard stalled, but his statement was true.  Gandalf waited until the archer affirmed this, looking over his shoulder expectantly.  "The stable master calls him Pen'irith [Shuddering One], but that is hardly fair!" he continued, and this also was no lie.  "He has proven to be quite reliable, and what creature would not be skittish confronted with the overwhelming dread of Mirkwood?"  Gandalf smiled inside and out, pleased to have kept the real name secret and thus spared his friend an unpleasant reflection.

"I agree," said Legolas, "and never could I call him that.  He shall be Hûnchim [Steadfast Heart] as long as I have a mind with which to think of him."  He patted the gelding's neck and smiled as the horse tossed its head proudly.  The archer leaned sideways and gazed back amiably at the mortal.  "And your steed?  How is he called, Aragorn?"

"Maranwë [Destiny]," the Man grinned as the charger twitched back an ear at the sound of its name.  "I have noticed the terrain has altered; we must be near the borders now for I have seen many signs of elven work among these trees."

"Aye, we will be upon the Road soon.  We will not cross it yet, and this day is too far spent to make much further progress.  There is an outpost a league ahead where we will stay the night," the elf replied with more of the ease he had formerly managed, but the silence returned as they continued their trek.

It was not his guilty shame and hurting heart that made the wild elf go quiet now, however.  He had thought much on their reactions to him and decided that it was no more than he should have expected.  He reproached himself for his self-pity; he should not have allowed his personal faults to sully the vow he had made to them.  The pair's kindness and aid to him during the night of grieving incurred a debt that transcended the reduced esteem they now held for him, for which he had only his base desires to blame.  Their apologies and spontaneous assertions of faith, despite all they now knew of his character, were beyond any good graces the archer had hoped to recoup.

His current reticence thus had more to do with their situation.  He was becoming increasingly aware of the alarm throughout the trees due to the very large band of Orcs marching their way from the western most eaves of the forest.  The travelers were now engaged in a desperate race to prevent the creatures from gaining enough ground to intercept them before they reached the Forest Road, though the Man and the Maia did not realize the nearness of the pursuit.  Legolas kept this news to himself and pressed Hûnchim for a longer stride.

Night had drawn down darkness upon the forest over two hours hence before the Tawarwaith finally halted the gelding and stood upon his back to climb into the trees.  Mithrandir watched as he scampered up until the leaves and the gloom obscured him from view.  The wizard frowned, but before he could speak the Man verbalized his concerns for him.

"Legolas, we cannot see where you are going nor climb unaided through this pitch!  Come back down!"  Neither reply nor motion greeted his demand and the mortal muttered something rather unpleasant regarding impolite behavior as he guided Maranwë next to the palomino.  He was about to leap down and attempt to scale the tree when a muffled whoosh sounded and he felt rather than saw something drop down from the branches and hang swaying in the momentum of its fall.  His first thought was of spiders and his sword rang loudly as he drew it forth, but muted elven laughter halted his arm from further exercise.

"Do not cut through the ladder, Aragorn, or you will find it much more difficult to ascend to the talan!" Legolas cheerily warned as he landed softly on the ground next to the charger's nose.  He reached up and grasped the end of a sturdy rope ladder and held it taut, inviting them to climb up.

Somewhat sheepishly, the Man sheathed his broadsword as he turned toward the wizard with a look of longsuffering resignation over the capricious ways of elven folk, realizing belatedly that Gandalf could see no more clearly in the dark than he, and would thus fail to appreciate the expression.

"You might have warned me!" Aragorn grumbled to Legolas, shouldering his pack, the bow, and the quiver.  He grabbed the silky twine the elf held down and easily pulled himself up through the inky air to the platform, passing within a small trapdoor in the floorboards.

Once there, he hesitantly felt about, toes edging forward and hands before him, and discovered that Legolas had already set out the mats and blankets.  In the dim drear, the Man could scarcely see and his eye was drawn to a faint gleam of wan moonlight on glass.  A bottle and some cups waited on the closed lid of the wooden chest and as he reached for it, he heard Gandalf hauling his weight up through the floor.  Aragorn leaned down to give him a hand but the gnarled staff appeared first and nearly caught the mortal a sharp rap upon the forehead.  Aragorn dodged the blow and grasped the rod firmly, pulling the wizard up with it.  Both waited by the opening, expecting the elf to appear next, but minutes passed and no golden head popped through the square of empty air.

"Pull up the ladder and shut that now," the Wood Elf's voice from behind and above them made both startle slightly and Mithrandir made an exasperated 'tisk' to accompany the scowl neither of his companions could see.  He obeyed the elf, however, and then turned toward the direction from which the words had sounded, but still their friend did not join them.  "You will be safe here; I will wake you before dawn," he said, and already they could tell he was no longer in the tree with them from the distant quality of the speech.

"Where are you going?" called Aragorn, concerned.  

"Hunting," the answer came back through the cloying night.

The two travelers shared a simple meal of dried fruits, lembas, and wine; for the bottle was a fine vintage, no doubt left by Thranduil's guard to enjoy upon their return.  Aragorn scowled as he set aside his empty cup; it felt wrong to enjoy such luxury when Legolas was abroad among the dangers of the Darkness, and he said so.  Gandalf agreed, but there was no way for them to follow and assist their comrade.

In silence they waited for the elf to return, smoking pensively after the humble repast.  Soon their weariness got the better of them and they stretched out to sleep.  Secure though they were upon the heights of the outpost talan, the Man and the wizard slept lightly.  At one point, both woke at once, staring at each other in alarm, uncertain what had prompted their alertness.  Nothing unusual seemed to disrupt the peaceful night, and yet the uneasy feeling would not desist, and the pair only dozed fitfully thereafter.

A soft thump and a subtle clattering roused Aragorn some time later.  He bolted up, staring through the darkness at the shadowy figure kneeling on the wooden floor, and exhaled a relieved breath as he recognized the lithe form of the Wood Elf.

It was not yet dawn, Legolas having returned as promised, and the Man yawned as he stretched, trying to figure out what the fallen warrior was doing.  Nearby, Gandalf stirred as well.  Gradually the mortal's eyes adjusted and he could observe more easily.  Legolas was busy removing arrows from an Orcish quiver, filling his own with the black-fletched darts as he breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath.  Aragorn's healing senses came alert; it took a great deal of activity to make one of the fair folk short of wind.

"Legolas?" he whispered and saw the archer's shadowed head tilt in his direction.

"Quickly, gather your things up!  We must make haste, for the Orcs have not slept all night and are upon us!" the agitated reply softly reached his ears.  "Use the ladder, hurry!  The horses are below!"  With these words he leaped over the side of the platform and made not even a rustle of leaves in his descent to the floor.  Legolas was already mounted and impatiently waiting when the Maia and the Man joined him.

As soon as they were up, Legolas spoke softly to Hûnchim and the gelding leaped froward through the trees at a run.  Maranwë sped after him, covetous of the lead, smelling the odor of battle on the elf and in the air.  An hour's hard riding brought them into less densely treed forest and then suddenly they broke onto the broad, hard-packed dwarven road that transected the woods and formed the southern bounds of Thranduil's Realm.  Legolas urged the palomino again, and the gallant little horse charged forward at a desperate gallop down the clear pathway.

Precariously perched on the gelding's rump, Gandalf clutched tightly to the wild elf's waist, leaning close to the warrior's shoulder as both bent low over Hûnchim's neck.  The Maia heard a whistling whine sweep past his head and flinched from the unmistakable wind of an arrow's flight.  Legolas cursed and shifted more upright, reaching for his bow and elbowing the Istar's chest as he snatched out an arrow and sent it flying.  He fired thereafter in a continuously fluid motion, aiming into the trees lining the elven side of the roadway.  Behind them, Gandalf could hear Aragorn releasing darts as well, and all around the sounds of barbaric grunts, shouts of enraged anguish, and groans of rapid death filled the ebbing night.

Abruptly, the sortie was over and the wild elf spoke once more to Hûnchim, sending the brave steed barreling into the brush and boles of Thranduil's borderlands.  Maranwë made a great deal more disturbance, crashing his greater bulk through the undergrowth for there was no pathway here.  Legolas let the golden gelding slow to a trot again, but did not allow a halt even though the horses were weary and alarmed.  A soothing caress of the palomino's neck calmed the frightened beast somewhat, and this in turn eased the charger's senses.

"Are you whole?" Legolas worriedly asked and glanced back through the filtered dawn's light first at Mithrandir and then beyond him to Aragorn.

"Aye, no injuries," said the Man grimly as the wizard concurred.  "Are you well?  What is happening, Legolas?  Is this the troop from the Misty Mountains?" He saw the Tawarwaith's head dart to the side and caught a flash of those brilliant blue eyes, alight with irritated exasperation, before the elf turned back to the terrain ahead of them.

"I am well enough!" _Healers!_ "Yes, these are the very beasts dogging us that I have feared would overtake our progress.  All night I worked to reduce their number, yet more continue to join their ranks!  I am not sure if they are all from beyond the Anduin or a mix of local and foreign vermin."

"He is injured, Aragorn, and even now bleeds.  I am not certain where the wound is, but Hûnchim is quite disturbed by the smell of the flow!"  Gandalf interjected and lowered his brows in defensive menace when Legolas turned betrayed eyes upon his.

"I am well enough!" Legolas repeated angrily.  "You promised not to cast doubts on my ability, then trust that I know when I need to stop!"

"Nay, you will halt when we are safe, not when you require care!" countered Mithrandir.

"And how will you fight weakened by blood loss?" demanded Aragorn, trying to find a way to get Maranwë alongside the gelding, though the closeness of the trees did not allow it.

"There is no choice in this!  One fights or dies, those are the only options available, and so I will fight.  I am not so weakened that it will hamper our retreat, I assure you!  Last night I bound up the injury; it will be fine until later.  I will stop when we reach the river!"

"That is another thing, Legolas," the Man continued.  "Why are we running for the river at all?  Then we will be forced to halt and face whatever numbers converge upon us!  Are you looking for the King's troops to be stationed there?"  The mortal simply could not abide being ignorant of the plans for their struggle and had difficulty relinquishing control of such a dire situation, unable to get beyond the sense of the numbers approaching them. Knowing Legolas was injured certainly did nothing to inspire confidence in successfully beating such odds.

Legolas sighed quietly. _How does he think I have endured this long with as little skill as he credits to me?_ He thought of explaining to Aragorn that they yet had a small advantage granted by the forest itself, for the Orcs could not advance in a coherent force but had to run amid the boles and find their quarry piecemeal, a few at a time.

He felt he should not have to explain that his senses alerted him to the enemy's presence early enough to forestall any surprise attacks. Raised by elves, trained by elves, and having fought with elves, Aragorn should know these things even better than Mithrandir.  If the three kept moving, they could hope to avoid being overwhelmed and boxed in, or separated from each other and individually surrounded.  Instead of speaking any of these reproaches, Legolas merely answered the Man's question, for he heard the advance of seven of the beasts just to the right and ahead of them.

"At the river there are boats.  The King's guard I have already seen, though I do not think they are aware of us yet; they are chasing the Orcs that are chasing us.  They will force the Orcs to slow down, and that should be enough to aid us."  As he spoke he stood upon the horse and pulled up into the trees, and the next instant he disappeared from sight.  Minutes later the sound of his bow and the successful conclusion of the arrows' flights was confirmed by the surprised cries of the Orcs, which died never having set eyes upon their prey.  Legolas returned to his friends and reseated himself on Hûnchim's shoulders.

Aragorn caught another fleeting glance from the feral fighter's eyes and grinned back, for there had been something in that look that conveyed a stronger reprimand than any words might express.  The Man was reminded of Elrohir, who often sent such reproving glares at Elladan for continuously cautioning and advising the younger twin during battle, as though Elrohir had not noted exactly the same signs at precisely the same moment.  The Man wasted no more thought on such reflections, however, for Legolas suddenly switched directions and picked up the pace of the palomino.  In a few heartbeats they were set upon by a large number of Orcs, and Aragorn was certain Legolas had deliberately turned them into this throng.

Again the archer leaped to the trees and proceeded to inflict a rain of death into the foul army.  He was not indiscriminate in his selection of targets, however, and sent every Orc bearing a bow to its death first.  And that is when the creatures attempted to be clever and earned for themselves a most gruesome death.

The Orcs decided to concentrate on the little gelding, for the animal was clearly not trained for combat and knew no techniques for warding off danger and protecting its rider.  Hûnchim wheeled and reared, darted and whirled this way and that, yet each movement seemed to bring him into closer proximity to the beasts.

Mithrandir brandished his broadsword and his staff and was able to keep them back for a time, but more of the demons turned to engage him and he could not guard every point at once.  Aragorn was occupied with four combatants himself and could not break away in time to assist.  Legolas was firing furiously from the trees but his supply of arrows was nearly spent and still the beasts converged upon the wizard.

At last the elf shot his last arrow and even as the Orc fell another beast instantly replaced it, and this one managed to reach the terrified gelding.  Hûnchim's high-pitched whinny of pain and fear sliced through the half-lit morning as easily as the Orc's blade slipped between his ribs and into his lungs.  The poor horse instinctively leaped away and was met by the blade of another Orc.  The sword bit deeply into his shoulder and the horse staggered and collapsed with a heaving groan, pinning the Istar's leg beneath his bulk.

The enraged shout that preceded the Tawarwaith's descent from the trees was deafening and held all the promise of annihilation he intended for his adversaries, and for the briefest of instants they paused.  It was hopeless, really, and they knew it.  Every one of them would die, and not with a clean and simple arrow shot through the head.

The wild elf landed next to his fallen friends and wasted no time fulfilling  this promise, and set upon the first Orc with dagger in hand. Ducking beneath its sweeping scimitar, he stabbed through its neck and snatched the long bade from its clutch as he shoved the bloody monster away.  A quick leap to the side and a sharp upsweep of his arm brought the blade of the Orc's weapon cleanly through its gaping throat.  Legolas turned from its body with its head in the other hand and this he swung by its greasy matted hair, using it to parry the sword of his next victim as his dagger darted into the breach created and sliced a gaping gash through the demon's abdomen.

Legolas took the sword from its twitching hand and used it to gut an Orc attempting to attack him from behind and snaked his dagger through the wrist of another advancing on the left.  The elf took a small cut across his hip as that blade's edge thus dropped still clutched in the severed claws, but he barely felt it as he glared into the yellow eyes of the loathsome beast and then let the dagger put those out as well.  He kicked the mutilated Orc into the path of another attempting to reach him, and both went down.  Legolas quickly approached them and knelt.

The unharmed monster raged and snarled, trying to get from under his blinded comrade whose lifeblood was rapidly draining through the dismembered wrist.  Legolas planted one hand firmly on the sword arm of the pinned one, rolled the disabled Orc away, and plunged his dagger viciously into his captive's chest, snapping ribs and sinews as he hacked his way to the creature's blackened, shriveled heart.  This he yanked free and rose with it from the steaming carcass.  Just as he lobbed it into the face of another opponent and followed that with one of the plundered Orcish daggers, he heard the arrival of reinforcements nearing their position.

This cleared his fury enough to see to Mithrandir, pushing and lifting the expired palomino off the wizard even as arrows began to pierce the animal's body and embed in the bark and ground around them.

Aragorn shouted to them, encouraging his friends as he maneuvered Maranwë closer. The war-horse proved his value and courage, flailing with hooves and teeth, leaping and kicking with unerring aim to catch ringing blows upon Orcish skulls that cracked under the impact of such force.  The brave steed incurred a number of small wounds but let not the flow of his blood deter him from the fight.  All the while the Man's sword bit into the necks and arms of the dastardly foes, and often the charger had to jump to clear his footing in the accumulating debris of bodies upon the earth.

Once his comrade was up and hacking his way through the oncoming Orcs to reach Aragorn, Legolas raced amid the hail of arrows straight into the soldiers, sword in one hand and dagger in the other.  He reached his goal, an Orcish archer still fumbling to fit an arrow to shoot him down, and slit its throat as he buried the sword into the next nearest's stomach, leaving it there and taking up his bow as the Orc went down.  He bent to take the creature's quiver and when he straightened was astonished to feel himself thrown back upon the ground.  A sharp searing flare of pain erupted in his side and the feral fighter shouted in anger, for he knew he had taken an arrow.

Aragorn, with the wizard now perched behind him on the stallion, saw this and turned to give his comrade aid.  Even as he battled to reach the elf, he watched as Legolas got to his knees and put the bow to use, clearing away the other archers first and then targeting the warriors converging upon the irresistible sight of one of the fair folk, wounded and bleeding and earth bound.  The human did not need to instruct Maranwë to create a barrier between the downed warrior and the enemy and soon the horse was pivoting and kicking with powerful grace, lashing out at any Orc that tried to reach Legolas.

"Legolas!" shouted Mithrandir.  "Get into the trees!"  He was exasperated to see the Tawarwaith thrusting his dagger blade into the ground as though to clean it before continuing the fight.

"A moment, if you do not mind!" shouted back the elf, and as the wizard watched Legolas took a breath and held it, then carefully placed the point of his knife against the arrow's shaft and slid it down into the wound slowly.  A minute later he gave a quick twist of his wrist and a rapid yank and drew back both the dagger and the arrow from his flesh.  With a stifled gasp he swallowed back a cry of pain and hastily snapped off the point of the missile, tossing it into his quiver as he pressed hard over the gush of blood that poured from the aggravated injury.  There was no time to waste, however, and with a quick swipe of his red-wetted hand against his leggings he rose and bolted for the nearest tree, making its cover in a flash of swaying golden tresses and a grunt of discomfort as his battered body protested the exertion.

Once Legolas was in the branches, the Orcs were doomed.  With efficient accuracy he used their comrade's arrows to deliver them death, calling for his friends to turn west and work back towards the rising of the land.  A rapid swish of a black flowing mane and dappled-grey haunches caught the feral Tawarwaith's eye and he rejoiced; the King's troops had caught up and were harrying the Orcs from the rear, preventing more of the demons reaching them from the south and east.  Soon their arrows were singing through the morning, seeking silence in the hearts of the enemy.

And it was well for the three travelers that this assistance was at hand, for they were beset from the north with equal force as they strove to reach the shores of the Forest River.  Already Legolas could hear the gurgling voice of the water surging through its channel.  But they were yet too far for the Man's hearing to detect this sound when the noise of Black Speech and trampling feet, ringing steel and whistling arrows was so close at hand and demanded all his attention.  In no time they were surrounded again, battling courageously as they fell back, Legolas shooting from the trees while Gandalf and the human struggled to stave off the onslaught from the charger's back.

Carrying two full-grown males was a great burden to Maranwë, and his speed and agility suffered under the stress.  In addition, the proximity of one to the other hampered the movements of the fighters as they attempted to defend themselves against the enemy.  Legolas saw this and became alarmed when the Man's sword arm took a glancing blow that drew out a bitter curse and a crimson stream from the Man.  At almost the same instant Mithrandir hollered in agony as a sword found a way to his knee and left a gaping rend in his flesh that bared the bone, white amid the ruby flux.  They were tiring, horse, mortal, and Maia, and that would seal their doom.

Legolas leaped down from the trees into the mass, for he was out of arrows again and still the beasts continued to advance.  All of the caves of the highlands must have emptied to do battle with the Tawarwaith.  He killed two Orcs quickly, one an archer, and snatched up its quiver as he threw one of the fiendish dirks he had scavenged from his earlier victory into the back of a huge beast charging towards Maranwë.

"Here, hideous and misshapen slaves of Melkor!  Why do you waste your time with those two?"  He fired off an arrow that embedded into an arm raised to strike the wizard.  "I am the one you were ordered to kill!  Look at you, worthless as shite, useless as vomit!" Two more arrows felled the first beast to turn toward him.  "So close you are, your farts foul the airs and the stench from your lungs makes me want to heave, yet still you cannot catch one lone and wounded elf!" he shouted at them and by this time nearly every Orc in the vicinity responded to the challenge.

Legolas laughed, making the sound as light and lyrical as his fair voice could do, knowing his careless seeming demeanor would only enrage them even more.  As the Orcs came for him, he rapidly shot them down, moving toward a likely oak as he did so.  The creatures knew he was taking to the branches and tried desperately to prevent it, but his aim was fast and sure and none closed the gap in time to halt his ascent.

Once there, he stayed low and moved slowly, taunting them boldly to follow if they dared.  Of course they could not resist, and if they hesitated he came out of the trees again and stood still a minute or two to present them with an easy target.  In this way, Legolas was able to divert the majority of the Orcs from Mithrandir and Aragorn, and the numbers remaining to fight them were not more than the two could handle.

As he fought further and further from his friends, Legolas sent Mithrandir urgent orders to run for the river, and the wizard did not disregard these instructions.  A few words to Aragorn made him understand the plan, and though they were now divided the three travelers made their way in accord toward the rocky banks that Legolas had given knowledge of to his friend.  When at last the shore was reached, the Orcs became wild with fury and redoubled their efforts, seeing their prey on the brink of escape.

Had the King's troops not been dogging them so thoroughly, the beasts might at least have claimed the lives of the wizard or the Man, and perhaps the Wood Elf as well.  As it was, Gandalf jumped down and hobbled for the spot where the canoe was beached upon the shingled shore. Aragorn leaped from his loyal steed's back and smacked the charger's rear, intending to send him to safety.  But Maranwë would not desert them and made his body a bullwark.  Legolas defended them from the trees as the boat slid into the stream.

The fighters splashed through the icy water and scrambled into the craft as Legolas dropped to the ground and retreated to the bank, firing as he proceeded, amid the cries of his friends and the outraged clamour of the disappointed Orcs still trying to get past his lethal skill.

With a final shot, the wild elf slipped his bow over his shoulders and ran through the shallows, aware that the valiant war-horse had again positioned himself between the retreating elf and the barrage of death.   He dived into the liquid, slipping under the surface until he reached the canoe.  Arrows and blades, from daggers to swords, hurtled towards the little kayak as the Orcs made their last attempts to kill, but only Maranwë did they take and none struck the weary travelers.

Legolas shot to the surface and Aragorn leaned over, hauling him in while Mithrandir held the boat steady, using his staff to anchor them.  In dismay the three looked upon their four-legged comrade, stretched upon the bank as the grotesque horde plunged swords and fired arrows into the dying horse, spending their futile rage.

Finally they were away; the boat was caught by the current and whisked downstream, and the last the trio saw of the Orcs, the Greenwood's warriors had broken through the trees and were almost casually moving among the beasts, slaughtering them all.

The Forest River sequestered its true nature while rolling sedately past Othronnen Thranduil, as though in submission to the ruler that lodged there.  Closer to the Central Mountains, it roared with its most powerful voice and writhed in vehement turbulence in futile defiance of its subjugation further down stream.

The river twisted through the narrow gorge cut solely of its own design, smoothed and shaped as slick as glass with the flailing tongue of its forceful liquid body.  Foam and spray it cast up into the air around it from bank to bank, waves standing and flowing back up stream over the boulders and outcropping stones in its bed.  With relish it delved potholes and loop ways using small stones and cobbles against the massive rocks, so that if ever it were laid bare the stony bottom would have the appearance of a gargantuan ants' nest exposed. 

Here was no need for the Enchantment that marked its lower courses, for it had anger and wrath aplenty to claim the breath and life of any that wandered within its domain.  Here was a stream not eager to submit to the counsel of Ulmo, or perhaps that was exactly what it did.  Perhaps Ulmo, in his wisdom, left this river to its own mind, flowing dangerously wild from the modest peaks in the Greenwood's heart as a first defense for the Wood Elves' kingdom, preventing easy access from the southern and eastern borders.

In the small canoe, the three travelers rode the untamed courses with growing trepidation, Gandalf in the prow and Aragorn behind him with the prone elf in between.  Aragorn was hindered in the use of his paddle, for his arm was still bleeding, weakened from the attack.  Gandalf looked ready to pass out as he knelt upon his mangled knee and strained to help the Man with the other paddle.  Legolas' wounds had opened again.  The wild elf lay, soaked, gasping and shuddering, upon the floor of the boat, fighting to remain alert.

Now in the full, clear morning's light of the open sky over the river, the seriousness of the injuries could be seen.  It was apparent that the feral elf had used the binding from his ankle to bandage up a deep puncture in his thigh, and the blood oozing from this was quickly mixing with the puddle of water shed from him in the bottom of the canoe.  Aragorn could not tell whether both injuries were from arrows or not, nor could he halt his paddling to try and stop the bleeding.  He silently sent a prayer to Varda to preserve them all and focused his attention on the grueling task of steering the kayak.

The speed of their progress increased as the river turned towards the dropping chasm. A standing wave tugged at the sleek, smooth skin of their elven made boat and its pointed prow dipped precariously down into a hole, spilling a massive wave of water up over the craft and dowsing Legolas as his head plunged briefly below the river's churning surface.  The boat popped back up; leaping into the air at a strange angle as the natural buoyancy of the wood, its elongate shape, and the weight of the passengers prevented it from capsizing.

Legolas coughed and sputtered as he tried to draw breath but his noise could scarcely be heard against the crashing and grinding of the churning stream.  The archer attempted to sit up; rocking the little boat precariously as the rapids spun it round.

"Legolas!" Aragorn yelled over the deafening thunder of the river's wrath, and the wild elf looked up at his friend.  "Be still, stay down!"  The Tawarwaith gave a quick nod and hunkered low again.

Gandalf had not time to try to call out a warning as the rapids played with the kayak as though it was less significant than the smallest pebble dragged within its raging power.  Desperately the Maia attempted to paddle away from the obstructions barring the way, yet his efforts were virtually ineffectual.

The river cast the canoe up over a sharp toothed exposure of granite, scraping loudly against the hull and slicing a long gouge in the thinned bark, but the wood held.  The torrent was relentless, grasping the boat and spinning it through the surging flow like a leaf through a drifting brook, sending the freezing water up from the rear as this time the back end tipped under.  Aragorn was nearly thrown into the freezing fluid and Legolas gasped as the foaming whitewater coursed across his injuries, his cry echoed by Mithrandir's shout of anguish. The deafening crescendo of the raging river swallowed their raw-throated groans.

Aragorn could do nothing beyond fighting to keep from being washed into the crashing turmoil, and a glance at the wizard confirmed he was little better.  The Istar was struggling to stay upright, dangerously leaning against the hull as he worked to compose himself and master the tearing agony shooting through his knee.  Another jolt against a stone caused the Man to yell out, and his weakened arm could no longer fight the pull of the water.  The paddle was torn from his hands and in dismay he watched as it preceded them downstream in the hurrying tumult of the cataract.

With a shuddering thud the canoe again struck the rocks that were attempting to shatter the craft.  Gandalf fell forward at the impact with a muffled shout and his paddle joined its twin in the stream.   Legolas was now motionless in unconscious oblivion, face down in the red-tinged water.  The situation was desperate; if they lost the boat it meant their deaths.

Aragorn grabbed up the Istar's staff and shoved it against the boulders with all his remaining strength.  With a loud report the stone bit another chunk of wood from the hull and spat the boat over the barrier as the current tugged it greedily out into the stream.  Within minutes the flow calmed and the travelers sighed away their fears in exhausted relief.  Aragorn turned the elf over and was relieved to find him still breathing; he pulled Legolas' head upon his knee to keep him above the flooded bottom.

Drenched and shivering against the cold of the water, the exertions of battling both Orcs and the river, and the pain of their injuries, the two travelers slumped against each other and drifted between consciousness and oblivion as the sedate stream eased them along towards the stronghold.

Tbc


	40. Chapter 40

**Trenared Teithannen **[Written Testimony]

_'Fearfaron,_

_'I have not time for pleasantries and so I beg you to forgive the brusqueness of this correspondence.  Know that as I write I am well, though weary with sorrow and burdened now with great fear for our forest.  Too much has happened to tell all here, and I will be home soon at any rate.  Yet, in these times it is wise to have a fail-safe, and thus I want you to have this news from me and act upon it should anything prevent my return to the stronghold._

_'There are Noldor here, in this village, in our Greenwood.  One Erestor of Imladris, no less, and his associate, Berenaur.  They came specifically to make me a spy against my own, on instructions from their Lord, and you may wonder at my restraint in not abandoning them to the Wraiths, which fate would surely have found them had I not intervened._

_'What value they would find in my limited knowledge of Thranduil's plans, I have not discovered.  I suspect there is something more underlying all their subterfuge and hope to figure it out before I return.  They are very curious about my understanding of the Wraiths and what the foul things are doing here._

_'How I long for your counsel!  I know not how to treat with them, particularly Erestor.  He is a healer and has tried to help the villagers.  A horrendous tragedy has befallen them due to the trouble I stirred up in these regions, and the two little babes I spoke of in my last letter have suffered.  Alas, Carnil expired in Ithil's hours three days ago, though Erestor tried diligently to prevent it and continues to labor for Cemendur's recovery._

_'Yet this Noldo has equal capacity for cruelty.  How is it possible to spend such great effort to cure one after having worked comparably hard to wound another?  I fear you will be disappointed in my foolishness, for I admit I did trust him, and thought I recognized a common dilemma between us, for which I sought and offered consolation.  I will explain when I arrive, but if I fail to return do not think too harshly of my indiscretion, nor hold me away from your heart because of it.  That I could not bear!  In any case, I have paid heavily already._

_'I have not time for more now, as a meeting has been arranged between the Noldo, Berenaur, and me, and Aiwendil is to be present as well.  If able, I will write again before leaving for the stronghold and give you news of it.  Otherwise, look for me in the Sentinel at Gwain Ithil._

_'Devotedly, your son,  
'Legolas, Tirn-en-Tawar.'_

In the starlit Council Chamber, Fearfaron read the letter through for the third time and dropped heavily down onto the step of the dais, unable to shake the feeling of overwhelming dread the words aroused within his mind.

The woodsman who had brought the messages was waiting out in the courtyard where the King had bid him stay.  The carpenter and the Woodland ruler had returned together to the empty room, each bearing their respective deliveries, each learning the information in them as the other watched.

Fearfaron sighed, a habit that had returned to him since Legolas' departure for the Southern Regions of the Greenwood.  He had never received the previous letter mentioned and knew nothing of these human children, but he could feel the sense of despair in the Tawarwaith's words claiming responsibility for the evil disorder disrupting the villager's lives.  And he all too clearly understood the sort of trouble his foster-son was in; it tore his soul that Legolas worried these 'indiscretions' would change Fearfaron's feelings for him.  He feared to know what manner of payment had been extracted from the wild elf for his errors.

Most worrisome of all, Gwain Ithil had already passed, several nights ago, with no sign of the archer's return.  Fearfaron folded the parchment and kissed it, intending to store it away in the pocket of his tunic, when the Woodland King stepped forward and stayed his hand.

"I would like to read it, though I see from your expression that it holds ill words," he said seriously as he met the carpenter's troubled gaze.   Thranduil's countenance was pale and tight around the corners of his lips and eyes, as though some unforeseen shock had just been revealed to him.  He held in one hand an unrolled parchment, its seal broken, and in the other a small square of fabric, mottled with dark brown stains that bore the unmistakable odor of dried blood.

The more sour scent of semen just as easily identified the paler marks ingrained into the fabric.

Fearfaron's eyes grew wide in alarm as the smells reached him, for he was quite familiar with the particular aroma of each of Legolas' fluids.  Only the blood belonged to the archer.  The identity of the other male donor was unknown to Fearfaron, and the acrid blend of the effluvia made his stomach churn.  The carpenter's vision fixed upon the dirty rag clutched in the King's clasp.  He reached out his hand for it and at the same time extended the folded letter to Thranduil, and they made their exchange.  Unasked, the King offered the small scroll as well, which Fearfaron dazedly accepted.

Balling the revolting cloth up in his palm, the carpenter opened out the parchment and ran his eyes over the gracefully meticulous handwriting, instantly struck by the contrast between the beauty of the script and the vulgar obscenities detailed.  The vehemence of the hatred inked upon the page made him flinch, while the vile slurs aimed at his adopted child caused his hands to quake in silent wrath.

The identity of the other male was in fact the Noldo Lord, Elrond of Imladris, and Fearfaron was disturbed that an elf considered intelligent and wise could stoop to such base deceit and betrayal of another.  And then boast of the deeds.

_'…even more wanton than his mother, I have never had a lover take such lascivious delight in the taste, the sensation of my cock upon his lips and tongue…'_

_'…undoubtedly the best fuck I have ever known.  Have you sampled the sweet syrup he secretes, Thranduil? He begged me to suck it…'_

_'…enjoys pain; I doubt there is any torment he would refuse if you promised to fuck him thoroughly…'_

_'…amazing vocal range; it was especially gratifying to feel him squeal around my penis while I came down his gagging throat…'_

_'…if you are the mentor who tutored him in pleasure, then I owe you a debt of gratitude.  I was buried up to my balls in his arse the third day after meeting him…'_

_'…milked his tits raw…'_

_'…quite the whore, Maltahondo has had him, according to Erestor. Oh yes, Erestor took him a time or two…'_

_'…fucked him senseless; he lost consciousness with my cock plugging his ripped, bleeding hole…'_

_'… take him in your throne room with a full audience so everyone may enjoy the sight of Hecilo spurting his glistening essence …'_

The entire page was filled with similar remarks, each extolling the delights of the fallen prince's flesh and describing his eager responses to various stimuli.  Or rather, praising the wild elf's lust for degradation and punishment, describing graphically his reactions to various levels of torment.  Every other line exhorted the Woodland King to partake of the outcast's carnal charms, each suggestion more obscene and demeaning than the one preceding it.  
   
"Ah, Legolas!"  Fearfaron groaned aloud.  He stopped reading half way down the sheet and rolled the parchment back quickly for even the sight of the written words was offensive. "I should not have let you go!  How did your life come to this?"  

With a slight sigh the Wood Elf King lowered himself to the stone step next to the carpenter and handed back the letter from the Tawarwaith, reclaiming the rolled message of the Noldo Lord but declining to receive the soiled square of linen.  He nodded toward it.

"It is his blood?"

"Aye."

Another sigh escaped Thranduil's lungs.  Truthfully, he had no idea how to respond.  It was shocking, to say the least, but he knew not what Elrond hoped to gain by revealing such depravity.  He was naturally suspicious of anything from Imladris that appeared beneficial to him.  This communication certainly gave him all the evidence he required to brand the dispossessed prince as a traitor and confederate of his staunchest enemy.  Why would Elrond choose to provide such damning testimony?  The King glanced at the distraught carpenter, who had silently begun to shed tears for his adopted child's humiliating defilement.

"Your reaction, and the forest champion's own words, would seem to corroborate the Noldo's claims."

Fearfaron only nodded and they remained silent for some minutes; the carpenter lost in his sorrow and the King struggling to comprehend the significance of the revelation in terms of the welfare of his regency.

It was illogical; why would Elrond wish to reveal his own depravity to his enemy?  The Noldo Lord had bedded his own child.  It was disgusting, but it did not touch the King personally, as had Elrond's involvement with Ningloriel.  Thranduil had accepted Legolas' Noldo paternity prior to the child's birth.  In fact, Elrond had made certain to remove all doubt.

Thranduil recalled another small, rolled scroll from the Noldo Lord that had arrived seven days before the nativity, offering congratulations on the new arrival.  He would have dismissed such accurate knowledge of the due date as a product of spies had the Lord of Imladris not enclosed a silk scarf belonging to Ningloriel, stained with the residual smear of their intercourse.  The Queen had returned to Thranduil from a long sojourn in Lorien almost a year to the day of this message's timing.

Legolas had heard the explosive, inaugural altercation between the couple before he inhaled his first breath.

But in those early days, Thranduil had never considered this would be the only child Ningloriel would bear.  He had been confident of producing a son and so had allowed his pride and fear to rule his actions.  He forgave the faithless Queen and kept the babe's heritage secret, announcing the birth of an heir.  After all, each son would be an heir; he was free to name any of them as inheritor to the crown.  Ningloriel's refusal to share his bed again was one of the defining defeats of Thranduil's sovereignty.

 Yet none of this answered the question in his mind.  Why would Elrond expect Thranduil to care that Ningloriel's bastard child was so flagrantly wanton?

_Like mother, like son._

"This makes no sense.  What does he gain by this?  He has known I was aware the child is his for more centuries than I care to count!  Why would it matter to me if he takes perverse sexual pleasures with his own offspring?" he wondered aloud.

"Perhaps because Legolas is not his child."

"So you said before, but it matters not for he surely is not mine!"

"Truly, it does not matter, but you cannot be sure of that claim."

"Does not matter?" Thranduil mimicked.  "How so?  The Wood Elves have no assurance of continued leadership should I die. Why have the Danwaith cared so little?  Not once has the Council exhorted me to take a consort and ensure the continuation of my line!"

"What concern is your bloodline to us?  It is Ningloriel's ancestry that matters.  Sylvan heritage is bestowed by the mother; none can dispute the parentage of the body that gives life to another."

Thranduil was speechless.  The forest dwellers did not care who Legolas' father was!  They would have accepted him even if the Noldo Lord sired him, as long as Ningloriel was the life-bearer.  The Woodland King gave a short, soft laugh at his own expense, and wondered if his father had known this fact.

"Why did the Danwaith accept Oropher as their king; he was Sinda was he not, by virtue of both his parents' heritage?"

"His mother was a Sylvan, she was a Green Elf from Ossiriand.  Did you not know this?"

"Nay, she was a Grey Elf from Doriath; from the southern part of Region."

"She may have dwelt in Region, but her people came from Ossiriand."

"I think I am aware of my grandmother's ancestry!"

"Perhaps not," Fearfaron shrugged, "since your culture did not teach you the importance of such knowledge.  By your own admission, you have concentrated only on recognizing who your grandfather was."

Again Thranduil could not find adequate words with which to express his amazement at the opposing views under which the Woodland Realm had been operating.  He was in his own stronghold disputing with a common Wood Elf regarding the heritage of his grandmother's people!  He could not repress a loud snort of laughter over the incongruity of the scene.

But Fearfaron did not consider the situation amusing, for Legolas had suffered horribly due to this selfish elf's pride, ignorance, and bigotry.  He saw no purpose to their discussion unless he could discover a way to lift the ban from the archer's shoulders, and this now seemed unlikely at best.  As his ire rose so did he, lifting the foul evidence of Legolas' debauchery clenched within his fist.

"You dare sit and laugh about this?  You are the cause of all of these atrocities!" he shook the tainted rag in Thranduil's face.  "Each of the elves that abused Legolas has had your sanction to do so!  Your loathing marks his entire existence! How could you hate a child?"

"What?" the question caught Thranduil by surprise and he stared at the softhearted carpenter's rage contorted features.  "It was what he stood for that I hated."

"He is not a concept; he is a living being!" Fearfaron shouted in exasperated indignation.  "And you are a fool!  This Noldo Lord has been playing with you. The only way any of his actions make sense is if Legolas is really your son.

"If that is the truth, as Ningloriel swore, then Elrond has had the satisfaction of seeing you disown your own child after failing to effect his death in battle. This was still not enough; the Noldo wanted to personally crush him, for Legolas believes what you so vocally propounded: that Elrond fathered him.  What do you think this will do to him?

"Yavanna forbid it; this will destroy him!

"Why does Elrond want this, Thranduil?  What would cause him to enter your lands and risk his freedom?  Just to despoil a single elf?  Why does he hate you this much?  These are the questions you should be asking!  These are the questions I will demand you answer before the Council!"

Fearfaron completed this tirade and turned from the dais.  He did not bother to wait for the King to reply for he truly felt there was nothing Thranduil could say that would benefit the wild elf.  He stormed toward the open archway to leave but as before, Thranduil's words halted him.

"The evidence I hold will serve to condemn your archer!" the King bellowed as he rose and placed himself nose to nose with the defiant Wood Elf.  "His own words admit he was more than willing to couple with my bitterest rival.  Do you think the Council will believe he is still loyal to the Realm?  You will merely expose more of his weak character thus.  First his failure in battle dooms his comrades and now his immoral appetite grants a foreign ruler access to our lands.  Do you believe the Council will place this corrupt hecilo on my throne?  You are the fool, carpenter!"

Fearfaron glared at the Woodland King coldly, for he had never known any elf so wholly consumed by his own importance, so assured of the superiority of his personal worth.  How little this Sinda understood, and even less did he care to learn, of the Danwaith.  Thranduil was still utterly missing the point.

"As I told you before, Legolas cares not for the sort of power you cherish.  Nor does the Council, for that matter.  The 'Realm' of which you speak exists only in your mind, part of a world your father sought to leave behind when he emigrated here.  Oropher understood us, even if he could not truly be one of us.  But Legolas is ours, and none in the Greenwood would doubt his commitment to Tawar, whatever his failings in more personal matters may be."

"Perhaps, yet I wonder if the Danwaith will see it your way. You have convinced yourself that the majority of the population supports your view.  Mayhap they will not see your forest champion, but instead envision a bitter elf willing to cast his lot with a foreign Lord in order to retaliate against his just punishment.  Legolas is still a condemned kin-slayer by your own laws."

"That is due to the battlefield denouncement of Talagan, whom you have named a loyal confederate to the Sindar rather than a faithful warrior of the Greenwood!  I think it is time to hear more of the events that occurred at Erebor.  How many of the warriors in Talagan's company still live, Thranduil?  Only the Sindar?"

Before the King could respond to this allegation, a shout from the courtyard and a great clamour of commotion caught their attention.  Both hurried to the archway and watched as the postern was thrown open and a company of archers came thundering into the compound on horseback.  In minutes the grounds were swarming with bloody, dusty warriors and their lathered, blowing mounts, milling in energetic exhaustion as the soldiers alit, shouting for water and aid, talking of their deeds all at once.

It was none other than Talagan's patrol from the South, and the Sinda veteran of the Last Alliance came last through the gate, reined in his steed amid the clutter of his battle weary troops, and dismounted.  As he strode across the quadrant toward his King, he called orders for fresh horses, more arrows, additional warriors, and medical attention for the wounded.  He halted three paces out from Thranduil and bowed from the waist, eyes drifting to Fearfaron with evaluative scrutiny.  He gave the carpenter a brief nod of recognition.

"My Lord, I have news of Orc activity pressing upon us from both the South and the Central Mountains.  An unusually large mustering of the foul fighters converged just beyond the borders across the river.  We have just returned from the highlands, having pursued one band of the demons all the way from below the Forest Road near the Gladden Fields.  They combined with fresh forces and thus amalgamated pressed on toward the river.  Unknowingly, we drove them straight upon a lone band of travelers, already beset by yet a third company.  These folk were thus driven under great duress and exigency to take to the boats above the second cataract.  Even with the aid of my archers they barely made the launch."

Thranduil's brows drew down in a threatening frown; that the expected cause of the Greenwood's agitated thrashing was revealed as he predicted did nothing to lighten his rage at this unprecedented attack upon his Kingdom.

"Come inside, Talagan; I need your full report."

Together the Sindar warriors turned from the chaos of the courtyard and left Fearfaron standing in the archway of the Chamber of Starlight.

"Fearfaron!" the carpenter turned to see Lindalcon running toward him from the garden entrance to the stronghold.  "What is happening?"

"Trouble, young usurper!" the woodsman intoned dramatically and both elves turned to regard him with alert apprehension.

"This we can see for ourselves, human!  If you have other news then speak," chided the carpenter brusquely and the Man frowned in disapproval.

"You have no need to find fault with me, Fearfaron!  I did not tell this to the King and am not sure I should repeat it to anyone.  I do not trust the source of the information, and worry I may do some damage to Tirno in spreading such gossip."

That was certainly sufficient to grab the carpenter's complete attention.  He took the Man by one arm and Lindalcon seized the other and hurriedly they escorted him out of the courtyard.  Neither spoke until the three of them were safely sequestered in Fearfaron's talan.

"Now then, start again, my friend!  Who gave you this hearsay; what has it to do with Legolas?" he demanded from the unsettled woodsman.

The Man did not fear the carpenter, for he had served as messenger for his village many years and had come to know the mild-mannered Wood Elf well.  Only his concern for Tirno could move the complacent craftsman to such vehement words, and in this the Man was in complete accord.  The mortal rapidly outlined the knowledge the Noldo had 'accidentally' allowed to get out regarding the Ring of Power and the locked vaults of Thranduil's hoard.

Lindalcon could not suppress a severe shudder at the idea of so deep a well of evil abiding this close at hand, and looked to Fearfaron for reassurance.  To his surprise, the carpenter was grinning with unrepressed delight.

"Fearfaron?  Whatever are you pleased about?  All of the darkest powers on Middle Earth must have their eyes upon the Greenwood.  No wonder we are under constant attack from Dol Guldur!" he said.

"I am sure what you say is true, Lindalcon," the carpenter nodded sagely, "but your were not there to hear the other news from this accursed Noldo Lord.  He seeks to have Legolas defamed and permanently sundered from Tawar by naming him a collaborator.  Thranduil is quite ready to agree and wishes to present that evidence to the Council.  I believe this Man's testimony may just force him to withhold his presentation."

"Aulë's offal!  Had we known this was their intention we would have run those foreign elves out forthwith. Tirno never said a word against them, but we knew there was trouble between them.  The Elder and Aiwendil, and Tirno too, I reckon, allowed it to pass unmarked so that the healer would give us help for our injured.  Deeply do I regret carrying that Noldo's lies here to the King!  Not willingly would I harm our Tawarwaith."  The poor human was beside himself with remorse upon realizing he had assisted in the underhanded scheme.

"Do not feel any guilt, for you have actually done Tirno a service.  I believe the King may be moved to rescind his Judgement rather than have his Realm dissolve into the chaotic panic your revelation would engender.  Come, we should return and seek another audience with our Sinda Lord."

The elves and the woodsman made their way back again to the starlit chamber and waited patiently in the alcove at the courtyard entrance for Thranduil and Talagan to reappear from their hasty strategizing.

The King never held such conferences in the Council Chamber, however, always retreating into the depths of the stronghold to his private study for such military matters.  Thranduil used the small, private cavern for his most important debriefings.  There was only one doorway granting access to the war room and within this stone-clad sanctum, none of his plots and plans could be overheard by those not intended to do so.  It was a telling indicator of his confidence in the Woodland folk.

While Fearfaron and Lindalcon gleaned all they could from the woodsman, Thranduil listened with careful attention to his most trusted captain's speech.

"It became abundantly clear; the Orcs were hunting them down.  They gave only cursory attention to my pursuit, spending what part of their rear guard they deemed least worthy, I suppose, during their flight.

"When the creatures joined the troop in the Central Mountains, then they turned and gave us a bit of a battle, but only enough to distract us from their true goal.  Two-thirds of their numbers departed as we mowed down the rest, and again we gave chase.  That is when we realized their objective.

"The three travelers were already surrounded by the time we arrived and still more of the loathsome devils streamed towards them.  Mithrandir was one, with a human I know not, and the outcast completed the trine.  It looked hopeless, but then the elf gutted one of the fiends, cut free its quiver of arrows, and took to the branches.

"He taunted them!  Such vile curses have not passed such fair lips since Oropher charged Mordor!  Very quickly a full third of them followed him apart, as he picked them off at leisure, and thus gave relief to his comrades and an opening for my warriors.  All the while, the three were retreating toward the river.

"We covered their escape, but it was a near thing and they did not depart unscathed.  How bad the injuries are I was not close enough to guess.  It is not a good sign that they have not already docked, for the current should have brought them here more quickly than the forest trails the horses require.

"In any case, we need to mount a counter assault while the beasts are still trying to recover.  Their failure to capture the travelers came as a tremendous defeat; they turned upon each other!  In that confusion I left them and brought our warriors in.  They were due a respite, and we accrued several casualties; no deaths, I am pleased to report."

Thranduil received this account in silence, and his stony countenance remained unmoved even upon hearing the unconcealed admiration for the banished Wood Elf in his compatriot's voice.  However, at the mention of his father's name in conjunction with the exiled kin-slayer a brilliant spark of rage ignited a slow burning fury in the King's soul. Gradually the cold, soundless atmosphere in the small study warmed in the uncomfortable radiation of Thranduil's wrath.  Talagan realized his error too late and braced for the inevitable reprisal.

"Why did you give aid to that bloody Tawarwaith?"  The King's words were calmly spoken yet dripped with menace as he glared into his old friend's eyes.  "You should have left well enough alone; all my troubles would have been alleviated without ever having to deal with the matter further!"

"Forgive me, my Lord, but the wizard was with him, and this unknown Man.  I did not even realize who was involved until we had joined the battle and worked close enough to observe the Orcs' quarry."

"Yes.  Mithrandir and a human soldier, of course those two were worth saving.  No doubt they hold some great destiny which we must support," Thranduil mocked in sarcastic scorn.  "Even so, could you not spare an arrow and end the misery of that depraved outcast?"

"Thranduil!" Talagan took a step back from his King in shock.

"What is the matter?  Do you think yourself less guilty of his long-drawn death because it was not your hand that loosed that avalanche?"

The warrior was speechless to hear this accusation and its underlying suggestion.  Talagan shook his head slightly, a stricken look marring his aristocratic features.  It hurt him deeply; no Sinda of his lineage had ever sought to engineer the death of another elf.

"You worry needlessly, Talagan.  After today's Council session, none here will care if the outcast perishes, and many will call for it!  The creature is even worse than we ever imagined.  See what baseness you have salvaged!" Thranduil hissed and held out the scroll from Elrond.

Talagan took it and with hesitant curiosity began to read.  His face contorted with overt disgust and he hastily re-rolled the parchment, thrusting it back toward the King, having read no more than one paragraph and considering that to be too much.  But he found the note suspect, even as had his King, and he scanned Thranduil's features to determine what might be the real intent in showing him the loathsome document.

"I think this is perhaps too convenient, my Lord.  I suggest caution when divulging these …deeds."

Thranduil sighed with a rueful smile and nodded as he reached out and gripped his loyal comrade's shoulder tightly to reassure him.

"Forgive me, old friend, but things have gotten a bit murky of late, and I am ashamed to say I began to wonder if you were the one behind the unfortunate debacle at Erebor.  I needed to judge your spontaneous reaction, so jaded have I become!

"I agree with you concerning this evidence; it is entirely out of character for the Peredhel to seek to aid my cause.  I have had a most enlightening conversation with that carpenter, and have had new doubts cast upon the disgraced archer's parentage.  Your comments regarding the battle support those ideas.

"The Lord of Imladris has scored a most impressively malicious and well designed blow."

Talagan stared in astonishment at Thranduil but asked no questions, for his commander immediately steered the conversation back to the impending sortie.  The plans were quickly made, as Talagan had ample experience to adjudicate the proper means for achieving victory, and the two warriors left the study confident of a successful mission.  They parted in the courtyard under the persistent gaze of the carpenter, the usurper, and the woodsman.

Thranduil eyed the trio warily, noting with irritation the gloating, complacent smirk that graced the humble elf's face; a mask of irate and impotent devastation just minutes ago.  Meril's brat was too pleased for one who was under what amounted to house arrest for his outrageous behavior of the previous morning. _And breaking it, insolent whelp!_  The human glowered darkly as only Men could do, packing a lifetime of enmity into a few short seconds of wrathfully energetic orbs.

The King crossed the short distance between them and was about to order Lindalcon back inside and demand an accounting from the adults when for the second time that night a loud tumult erupted through the compound and distracted all interest to the rear of the stronghold.

One of the fortress' dockhands rushed forward, yelling for Fearfaron.  The carpenter turned anxiously to meet the elf and Lindalcon followed him across the lamp-brightened quadrant.  A rather large crowd of Talagan's warriors was assembled and created a turbulent murmuring of agitated concern.  From the opposite side of the grounds the healer was also approaching, and Fearfaron was overcome with the most unpleasant sensation of dejavu he had ever experienced.  She shared her own dismay with him silently and together they sprinted down the path, heading for the quay, with Lindalcon close on their heels.

Few steps had they need to run, however, for out of the half-lit background came the three travelers: wet, bedraggled, wounded and exhausted, but alive nonetheless.  Between them Gandalf and Aragorn supported Legolas' halting limp as he favored his left leg whereupon a tight and bloody bandage slowed the seep of vital liquid.  A second gash through his side had ceased to flow and all the warriors recognized the look of a hasty surgery required to remove an arrow on the battlefield.

"Hîl od Oropher!" [Heir of Oropher] a Sinda soldier quietly said.

"Mae Govannen, Tawarwaith!" the Sylvan elves' shout proudly claimed their own.

"Legolas!" cried Fearfaron, and at that call the wild elf's head at last snapped up.

As the carpenter reached for him, Legolas struggled to disengage from his friends' protective hold.  With smiling concern the mortal and the Maia helped him transfer his weight to Fearfaron's able shoulders.  Legolas wrapped his arms round the carpenter's neck and gratefully allowed the tall, willowy elf to lift him gingerly up off his feet.  With his strength slowly ebbing, he smiled weakly and buried his face against his foster-father's neck with a contented sigh.

"Ada, Im tollen bar [Father, I have come home]," his whispered announcement was barely finished before his eyes slipped shut and he succumbed to his weariness, safe and secure in Fearfaron's embrace.

Tbc


	41. Chapter 41

**Aderthannen **[Reunited]

Legolas slept for an entire day and night, yet it was neither true sleep nor the deep repose of a healing trance.  He scarcely drew breath, his eyes lay sheltered under lids gone thin and nearly blue as though bruised, a strange greyish sheen to the papery covers folded over the glassy orbs beneath.  His jaw was slack, as was every other muscle of his body, and he was unresponsive even to treatment that ought to have ravaged him with torment.  The pulse of his heart was sluggish and hesitant, reluctant to force the limited resources still in his veins through his body.  He seemed more dead than living, so infrequent was his respiration and haphazard his circulation.

Fearfaron would not relinquish him once the wounds had been cleaned and dressed.  The arrow wound was not serious, no vital organs having been punctured, but the leg injury was deep and resisted closing to such a degree that the healer had at last resorted to stitching.  She used a strand of Legolas' hair to prevent his body from rejecting the unnatural knitting of the flesh.  Realising the persistent coma was due to the combination of blood loss, sorrow, and the long years of deprivation the normally sturdy elf had weathered, she felt the best medicine was Fearfaron's presence.  

The carpenter held him, allowing none to enter the room but the healer, and depended on Lindalcon to enforce the demand.  While that might have seemed strange confidence in a youth just nearing his majority, the elfling proved more than competent.  He cleverly employed the human who had brought Legolas in, a most imposing figure with his battle-gory garments, hastily bandaged wounds, and a mighty sword at his side.

The Man strode back and forth between the wizard's rooms and the Tawarwaith's doorway, before which Lindalcon had dragged two chairs and set them on either side of the forbidden portal.  Here Aragorn and Lindalcon kept watch, trading stories of their times with Legolas.  From him the young elf heard the telling of the battles Legolas had fought, Lindalcon listening in rapt attention, fascinated by the way the mortal's hand so often found its way to rest in perilous comfort upon the hilt of his elvish sword.

On the second day Legolas finally showed signs of reanimation and the carpenter rejoiced.  His foster son yet was mostly unconscious, but became almost cognisant when the healer changed the bandaging on his thigh.  With the awakening of his nervous system came the unfortunate escalation of discomfort, and Fearfaron was forced to rouse him enough to consume various restorative potions.

Long after Ithil's advent upon the night's horizon, the healer declared he had drifted closer to true healing repose.  Legolas was during most of the next twelve hours completely unaware of his surroundings and remained hibernating in dreamless oblivion as his body tried to recover.

When he awoke the room was completely dark yet he was pleased to note the company of Fearfaron next to him on the bed, one hand wrapped comfortingly around his as the other carefully applied a cloth, dipped in water steeped with athelas, soothingly across his forehead.  Legolas sighed and turned his head lazily toward his foster-father, gripping tightly to the carpenter's fingers as a vague sort of smile tried out his lips to see if they were amenable to such an expression.

"Fearfaron?" his voice was rather stringy and faint, but clear none the less.

"I am here, Legolas!  You wake at last!"

"Has it been long?"

"Nay, I was just impatient."

"Fearfaron, I cannot see you; why is it so dark in here?"

Laughter followed this remark.  "Legolas, you have your eyes closed!  I do not think you are really awake yet.  Sleep awhile more, I will watch over you."

And Legolas did.

When next he returned to consciousness, he knew he was fully alert for the ache from his wounds was quite insistent and commanded his acknowledgement.  He drew a tight breath through clenched jaws when he shifted on the mattress and aggravated the injury of his leg.  He stifled a groan and lay still after that, prying open his eyes a sliver to take a look at his surroundings.

He was not in Fearfaron's talon and the elf was no where in the room with him.  With sudden apprehension Legolas recognised the chambers where he had been taken for his recovery.  He shoved himself into a sitting position, grunting against the flash of stabbing pain through his side and the burning fire of tearing muscle in his leg, but determined to get up.

He was in one of the many guest suites in Thranduil's stronghold.

Before he could drag his peculiarly lethargic limbs to the edge of the bedding and attempt to stand, the healer rushed out of a side door, no doubt the bathing chamber for she was carrying a pitcher and a stack of folded cloths.  These she set aside on the floor and stopped the archer from moving more, for already the bandage round his leg had a rapidly expanding crimson stain upon it.

"Nay!  Mind what I say, Legolas, you are not ready to get out of this bed!  Look, it is bleeding again already!  Will you destroy the mending your body has managed thus far?  You must lie back!"  She leaned over and grabbed his shoulders round the back and gently but firmly half tugged, half pushed him until he was propped against the pillows at the head of the bed.  She carefully lifted the injured leg and placed two more pillows beneath it, then proceeded to apply pressure to the bleeding wound.

The injured archer inhaled deeply and held the breath a few seconds; every muscle pulled taut under the sudden weight upon the damaged tissue, but did not cry out against the pain.  He could tell there was no point in complaining to the healer, one glimpse of her firmly set jaw was sufficient indication that she considered him a difficult patient at best.

_No sympathy from that quarter!_

The decrease in blood flow helped reduce the insistence of the leg's flaring nerves and as the pain subsided his mind cleared; Legolas suddenly noticed his clothes were gone.  At first he frantically tried to pull the covers over, but he was now mostly on top of them and it was hopeless.  He sighed a long-suffering breath of resignation; she had probably seen him naked more often than anyone else anyway!

_Except Malthen._

A shudder and a groan passed through him and he dropped his head back wearily on the pillows behind him, squeezing his eyes tight.  He resisted the urge to press against the growing ache in his chest.  He did not want to think about it, not now.

But the healer knew there was more to be repaired than sword gouges and arrow punctures.  She removed one hand from the bloody thigh and settled the red-slicked fingertips securely over the locus of the older, more serious injury and softly massaged it for him.  She remained as silent as the tears that traced silvery tracks upon his skin, spilling from the corners of his eyes, hurrying past his temples to linger at the barricade of his ears before slipping down into the stuffing of the pillow.

It took a few minutes for the flows, both vascular and lachrymal, to subside completely and then she had to cleanse the area, restitch the pulled skin back together, and apply a fresh dressing.  Crafting the new join caused sufficient elevation of discomfort to return Legolas' attention to the external gashes and away from the internal rends.  Legolas found he had ripped the fabric of the bedcovers during the ordeal.

With the torn muscle once more sealed, the healer took up a clean cloth and dipped the corner in the pitcher.  Using the dampened rag, she rapidly applied it to the old scar, removing all traces of her touch.

Only after the healer had completed these necessary tasks could she be troubled to locate a light blanket.  With a flourish she snapped it open and draped it demurely over Legolas' nudity, one hand lightly smoothing the fabric across his stomach, a bare whisper of contact, and the other tucking it with extravagant care around his hips.  She held his gaze as she did this, presenting her patient a slightly exaggerated intensity within both her touch and her expression.

Legolas was certain her eyes were much merrier than the solemn duties of her profession called for, and that this amusement was at his expense.  She was only teasing, and he smirked, wishing he had the strength to give her a shove in the shoulder with his toe.  He watched her gather the pitcher and the towels from the floor and carry them to a side table where she set them out next to a basin.  It seemed strange activity for a healer, as though she expected guests to come in, dusty and weary, wishing to refresh themselves.  While her back was turned he used the opportunity to wipe away the moisture from his cheeks.

"What is your name?" the archer suddenly asked.

"My name?" she turned to him in surprise; few of her charges ever really wanted to know for they were generally in too much distress to care.

"I just think that I should know what to call the person who handles me in such a brazen fashion!"

"Oh, I see!" she laughed brightly, which had been his intent, and approached the bedside where she sat, drawing one leg up onto the mattress while the other remained on the floor.  "I am Gladhadithen [Little Laugh].  Thank you for asking, but I will be quite surprised if you recall it once you are well and strong again."

"I will not forget!" he insisted.  He was reassured by her confidence that he would return to full health.  "Will it be long?"

"Aye, I think so," she sighed as she nodded and reached up to squeeze his arm in encouragement.  "Much depends on you.  If you possess true desire to heal, I believe Fearfaron's care will make it so.  The wizard seems as dedicated to your heart as he; and I sensed a deep connection between you when I touch there." Her hand drifted to let her fingers delicately follow the small outline of the soul-wound's scar.

She frowned slightly as the archer shuddered under this brief contact.  Her curiosity had been aroused when she had first examined the old injury, and judged the state of his grieving far advanced.  According to descriptions of such cases, he should have died of the malady some time ago.

"Legolas, this wound is worsened from the last time you were under my care, yet there are signs of attempts to strengthen you.  How was this achieved?  Was it Mithrandir?"

Legolas nodded and closed his eyes to shut out her penetrating gaze.  These were things he did not wish to think about, to remember.  He focused on his friends instead and changed the subject quickly.

"What has become of Fearfaron?  Where is everyone else?  Why have I been brought into the stronghold?  Is Aragorn all right?  Mithrandir had a very nasty leg wound also; how does he fare?"  

"Peace!  One question at a time!" Gladhadithen granted him the reprieve he so desired.  She had no wish to disturb the small amount of repair the wizard had somehow affected, though she definitely had concerns regarding the methods he may have employed.  She decided this was something she could discuss with Mithrandir and Fearfaron without involving Legolas in the conversation.

"You were brought here at my insistence!  The Man said you had lost a great deal of blood, and a quick inspection of your nearly white gums confirmed this!

"The King could hardly protest in front of so many witnesses, for the arrival of the troops brought word of the battle.  The news spread quickly and the courtyard was filled when you made your dramatic entrance!  You are quite renowned among the warriors now!"  She smiled lightly at the amazement this comment generated in his gaze.  "In fact, Thranduil was very conciliatory and put all his resources at my disposal to aid you!"

If his countenance had held surprise before, Legolas was positively dumbfounded upon comprehending this remark.

"I can easily tell you of your friends," the physician continued.  "The Man is healing rapidly for a mortal and sustained only minor flesh wounds.  He has been up and about for two days and has come in to check on your progress when I allowed it.  With Lindalcon, he guarded your door until last night, when Fearfaron convinced them that you would not be disturbed and sent him away for needed rest, and hopefully a thorough scrubbing and clean garments, also!

"I do not believe the human trusts my ability!  Twice he has informed me that he was trained in healing by no less than Elrond Half-elven, as though that name carries any weight in these halls!  The Man resides in the rooms next door, with Mithrandir."  Gladhadithen noted the archer's abrupt loss of colour as she relayed this mention of the Man's connections, but made no comment.

"The wizard is as cantankerous and troublesome as always, and trying to direct his own treatment though he admits freely that he has absolutely no skills for healing whatsoever!  Even the mortal has become irritated with the Istar's petulance over being bed-bound and refused to interfere when I forbade Mithrandir to get up.  Despite my admonitions, I have twice caught him attempting to sneak out of his quarters, using his staff as a sort of crutch!  Claimed he had urgent matters to attend and uttered that tired old threat about interfering in wizards' business!"

This description of his two friends' activities brought a small but genuine smile to the Tawarwaith's face, exactly what she had hoped, and Gladhadithen continued her recitation in a less humourous vein.

"Fearfaron has been here beside you every single moment until just minutes ago.  He has not slept, guarding you diligently and jealously, and might I say with some measure of trepidation.  He does not like that you are here, wishing to remove you from the stress of unpleasant memories, no doubt."

"Aye, I have little desire to be under Thranduil's scrutiny either!  But where is Fearfaron, Gladhadithen?  You have made me uneasy for him!"

"Nay, do not be alarmed!  He was called away, it is true, but not for any reason that would be harmful to him!  Much has happened in the years you have been away, and Fearfaron has many friends on the Council!  Thranduil will not dare to raise his hand against him now!"

"Thranduil need never strike to deal the severest of blows!  And I have no trust in the Counsellors!"

"Legolas, hear me! I know not what the meeting is about, but the King and three of the Counsellors requested his presence.  He did not look fearful, and even seemed almost triumphant when he left with Lindalcon! I did not tell you this to upset you, but to give you hope and encourage you to stay now that you have returned.  You have allies among your people now."

The archer relaxed considerably on learning that Lindalcon was with his foster father.  Surely no one would act against Fearfaron in the presence of an innocent.  As for her suggestion of acceptance among the Woodland folk, he retained his scepticism.

"Fearfaron told me to send for him as soon as you wakened, and I will do so, yet I would have your word that you will not try to get out of this bed again until that wound closes completely!  Otherwise, I will just let Fearfaron return when he is done, and face his wrath for not fulfilling his request!  Somehow, when I explain the circumstances, I doubt he would be angry with me!" She smiled pleasantly at him but left no room for rebuttals or resistance to her demands.

Legolas did not mind; he felt comforted by her concern and her assurances of his foster-father's safety.  He would do anything she asked to have the carpenter back by his side.  

"I will obey," he said with a half-smile.

Gladhadithen had no chance to reply for a sharp rap on the door interceded and she rose to admit the visitor.  She exclaimed in annoyance when she met the wizard's bold stare and the sheepish gaze of the human behind him.  It was upon Aragorn that she rested her disapproving glare.

"There was nothing I could do!  He threatened to use his powers on me," he declaimed with an uplift of his shoulders and an imploring expression upon his countenance.

"Stand aside, now, good healer!" admonished Gandalf, "For I am feeling the strain upon this knee and I am sure the laceration will reopen if I do not take my weight off it soon."

"Mithrandir!  Aragorn!" called Legolas, smiling, though he could not see them yet.

"Oh, by Nienna's tears, you are impossible," she grumbled and stood aside to let him hobble in on the staff and his healthy leg.  "You, drag that chair over here and I will get the footstool," she ordered the Ranger, and Aragorn did as she instructed, assisting the Maia to sit as Gladhadithen cautiously lifted his leg and propped it up against the support.

"Ah, that is better!  I thank you, Gladhadithen," Gandalf smiled warmly but she only scowled in return.

"Save your pleasantries, wizard, for I am not impressed!  You have specifically disregarded my instructions for the third time.  One would think you desired to remain a cripple," she scolded as she rose from checking the binding over the torn knee.

"Oh, beware, Mithrandir, she will try to put a guard on your door next time!" joked Legolas.  "It is good to see you both." He smiled from one to the other; relieved his friends were safe, if not whole.  He had kept his promise.

"Do not encourage him with levity, Legolas!  I am the one who has been his keeper, thus she blames me when he misbehaves." whined Aragorn.  He felt very light-hearted to see the beleaguered elf again.  After the intensity of the last several days and their constant companionship, the separation had felt keen, and both he and Mithrandir had remarked on how odd it seemed to be parted from him.

"Nonsense, I need no attendant to watch over me like a babe," the Istar fussed.  "I know when I am ready to move about or not."

"Never mind, it is useless for me to protest since you are already here," Gladhadithen stated.  "I am going to leave you three and go see about a light meal for Legolas.  I will send word to Fearfaron that all of you miscreants are once more collected in the same location, and I will return in one hour.  After that, Legolas must be allowed to rest again," the healer lectured them sternly and moved toward the door.

"Under no circumstances is Legolas to try to get out of that bed!  The leg wound tore open again just moments ago.  If he needs to empty his bladder, find a pot."  With that she left them, shutting the door as she exited the room with a final, warning glance at each one in turn.

"You have no idea how welcome is the sight of those bright eyes of yours, Legolas!  It is a joy to find you awake and clear-minded," Gandalf breathed out and reached to take the elf's offered hand, eager to forge the inner link between them.  "Neither Fearfaron nor the healer would let me in here."

"Aye, I am truly pleased to find you alert once more," Aragorn concurred.  "Gladhadithen would only allow me in for a bare ten minutes.  I doubt that she believed me when I explained that I am a healer and you had been under my care up to now," the Man complained as he carefully sat on the edge of the bed.

Aragorn pulled back the covers, revealing only the leg that was wounded, and critically eyed the bandage as if he could learn something about the progress of the mending just from that.  Satisfied that Gladhadithen at least knew how to bind up a wound properly; he let the drape fall back against Legolas, yet still raised worried eyes to meet his friend's.

"That is far worse than you led us to believe out in the forest, Legolas," he reproved gently.

"What would you have had me do?" the warrior demanded.  "There really was no time to stop and give it a chance to heal up, Aragorn."

"I know we were hard pressed, yet that you also withheld," Gandalf admonished.  "Why did you not inform us how serious the situation had become?  Surely, those Orcs were trying to destroy, not to capture."

Legolas glared from one to the other in exasperation.  "It served no purpose to tell you; that would only encourage you to argue with me about how to deal with it.  My goal was clear, I knew the best way to proceed, and that is all there is to it!"

"Mayhap your desire was not the same as ours, then," intoned the mortal with a knowing look at the wizard.  "I have had time to think on this and discussed it with Gandalf.  You could have easily made it back to the stronghold unscathed, is that not truth?"

"My objective was to get you safely here, to keep you from being destroyed.  How different could your goal have been, Aragorn?  Our options were limited; what more do you think I could have done?"

Legolas was frustrated.  It mattered little what might have been possible; were they not here?  They had already endured the conflict; there was no need to create more between the three of them.

"Would it not have been better for all to arrive unscathed?" Aragorn pressed on softly.  "I fear you chose a path that put you in the most harm rather than the least."

Now the archer stared blankly at his human friend.  Was he questioning Legolas' commitment to the oaths he had spoken?  _He thinks I deliberately put them in danger in order to kill Orcs!_

"Nay!" the wizard almost jumped as these thoughts flared through his mind.  "That is not it!  Aragorn is chastising you for taking the vows too far. As am I.  If you had explained some of these things to us, perhaps we could have devised another means to break away and spared you some injury."

"Nay, Gandalf, that is not it either," said Aragorn in aggravation.  "I am trying to apologise for putting Legolas in such a dire situation.  Had we listened to his counsel initially we would have made different choices.  We inadvertently allowed time for the foreign Orcs to draw closer.  That was the nature of the trap the Shadow hoped to spring.

"Had we honed in on the Central Mountains initially, we would have faced less formidable numbers.  Once we passed beyond that decimated village, I think our fate was sealed and Legolas did all that could be done to lessen the severity of the battle we enjoined."

The Woodland warrior smiled in appreciation and nodded.  "Although, I was quite happy to have the opportunity to dispatch so many of the disgusting beasts.  During the night battle, the foreign ones succumbed to the traps easily."

"Then however did you end up getting pierced by a blade so deeply and in such a difficult location?" Aragorn was curious, for the injury had cut into a large vein.  A human would have bled to death from such a wound.

"I was forced to use some trees no longer free of the Shadow." The Tawarwaith grimaced in sudden rage.  That had been most alarming, the speed with which those Orcs had swept into the area, surrounding him.  He had not expected it and had no time to go to ground and seek unblemished trees.  "They are known to willingly sunder their branches and drop elves down in the midst of an Orc horde, and this time I could not avoid landing on one of the disgusting demons!  Unfortunately, it attempted to dislodge me with its blade.  That was a most unpleasant fight; the closest I have had with Orcs in a long time."

Before they could continue the discussion, the door opened and Fearfaron entered, eyes gleaming with happiness, and he went straight to the bed, virtually shoving Aragorn aside in his haste to climb up and gather Legolas close to him.

Neither elf spoke and Legolas allowed his foster father to carefully lift him as he slid next to him, cradling the injured warrior cautiously against his chest as strong arms formed a protective encirclement.  Legolas released his hold on Mithrandir's hand and wrapped his arms loosely around Fearfaron's neck, resting his head on the carpenter's shoulder with a deep sigh of comfort and joy as he closed his eyes.

The man and the Maia smiled indulgently and Aragorn moved to Gandalf's side.

"I think you should return to your bed, Old One," he said and helped the wizard up.

"Yes, I doubt they will even realise we have left," chuckled Gandalf.  "I am hungry; did that healer say something or other about food?"

With a grin the human opened the door and escorted the Istar from the chamber as Lindalcon came down the hall with a very large tray laden with food enough for five hungry elflings.

This he took into the wizard's room, taking up only what the healer had ordered for Legolas and a suitable portion for the carpenter, which he carried to the archer's chamber and set on a table.  Not wanting to disturb the two elves, he suppressed his wish to speak with Legolas and quietly left to join the wizard and the Man, closing the door soundlessly in his wake.

"I have missed you; I have needed you!"  Legolas tightened his hold on his foster father.  "Fearfaron!" The archer took a deep breath to steady his trembling but it broke from his lungs as an anguished sob and he could not stop the misery from overwhelming him as he fought to speak of the horrible truth.  "Malthen…" He could not say more; grief stifled his words.

The carpenter squeezed him fiercely, for he could not bear for Legolas to be so distraught.  The mere mention of this hated elf's pet name made his bile rise.  He tried to console Legolas by rubbing his back, but the tearing cries did not abate.

"What has he done?  Tell me!  Already I have much to hold him accountable for; his betrayal of your youthful trust is as black an act as any I have known among elf-kind!" he hissed venomously.

"Malthen and my mother," Legolas began again in choked and disjointed speech punctuated with his desperate attempts to draw air.  How he longed for the instantaneous connection he was able to use with the wizard!

"Valar!" Fearfaron swore and gnashed his teeth, for these few words were more than sufficient.  His adopted child's defeated voice supplied the rest of the narrative.  "How have you come to this knowledge?" he demanded, still angry that anyone had dared reveal this ugly truth and its bitter possibility to one already so beset by despair and troubles.

"Erestor of Imladris.  You knew?"

"That despicable coward!"

Legolas could not tell whether he meant Erestor or Malthen.

"Ah, Legolas!  He confessed to me after I confronted him.  That was right after Ningloriel left."  He felt Legolas stir and helped him sit up a little so he could look into his eyes.  The carpenter flinched to see he had just dealt the archer yet another blow.

"What?  He did not go with her?"

"Nay!  The selfish creature had some further designs upon you, which Mithrandir and I put a stop to at once.  He is here, Legolas; he rode in with Talagan's troops, for it is they which came to your aid in battle."

Legolas writhed in the carpenter's arms as the first wave of agony hit him, spreading out from the old wound, and he howled against it.  His thrashing did no good to the leg injury and Fearfaron clutched him tighter to still the flailing limbs.

"Nay!  I thought he was in the Undying Lands!  Why is he here?  I want him gone!  I want him dead!  Oh, Fearfaron!  I want him!"

"Peace, Legolas, you must lie quiet!  The injury is bleeding again!  Be still!"  In vain did the carpenter struggle to hold him down.  Fearfaron's alarm grew, as the wild elf's cries became harsher until his words were completely transformed into incoherent screams and the grieving took hold with new malignancy.

The door banged open and Aragorn sped to the bed, Lindalcon behind him.  The young elf froze in horror at the sight of Legolas in the throes of such extreme duress, staring at the bloody red blotch rapidly soiling the covers.

"Go and fetch the healer!" snapped Aragorn and shoved the young elf out the door, nearly knocking over Gandalf who was laboriously struggling to reach the Wood Elf's side.  The mortal wasted no time but grabbed Legolas' injured leg and pulled it tight as he climbed up on the bed and landed the weight of his bulk on the limb.  He yanked the tangled blanket back and pressed the heel of his hand down against the pulsing flow.

Legolas tensed and drew a sharp breath, stiffening against the pressure and the pain, in an all too familiar prelude to the next attack of the malady.  The spasm that rocked his frame was severe enough to give the mortal a jolt where he straddled the torn leg, but the scream in Legolas' lungs never left his throat.  Mercifully, his body was far beyond any means to endure such horrendous agony.  A great rush of air sped past his lips as his eyes rolled back and he became limp and lifeless in Fearfaron's embrace.

Tbc


	42. Chapter 42

**Thranduilion **[Son of Thranduil]

"Legolas!" Fearfaron yelled and shook him hard, desperate to force any type of response, even a return to the screaming.  "Do not die!  He is not worth this!"

"Calm yourself, he lives!" Aragorn snapped, trying to keep the bloody limb still against the carpenter's heedless jerking.  "Just hold him steady; he will regain consciousness soon enough."

Fearfaron stared at him dumbstruck; he had not even noticed the Man come into the room.  He turned his attention to the seeping wound and was gratified to see the flow was sluggish.  The worried elf watched the human work, pleased to see his competent hands carefully removing the soaked bandaging in order to cleanse and rebind the jagged gash.  The mortal obviously had cared for such injuries before.

"What happened?  He was fine when we left you," Aragorn complained.

"I told him Malthen is here.  Better to hear it from me than find out by meeting him in the courtyard; so I thought,"  Fearfaron's guilt imbued the simple words with morbid despair.

"Malthen?  What do you mean, that cannot be so!" the Man was completely confused.

Movement at the doorway caught the carpenter's gaze before he answered and he watched Gandalf hobble into the room and over to the bed.

Their eyes connected and locked as the wizard lowered himself onto the mattress next to the unconscious archer.  Without preamble the Istar placed one hand over the old wound on Legolas' chest and began a low, murmured incantation, flooding the weakened elf with a fine stream of his own immortal essence.  Almost at once, the grief stricken warrior twitched and drew a deeper breath, exhaling a shaky sigh that was between acceptance and anguish.

"What are you doing?" Fearfaron demanded.  He knew exactly what the wizard was attempting and did not like the idea at all.  "You have no right to lay such a claim upon him!" he hissed dangerously as his hand darted over and snatched the Maia by the wrist.  He yanked the wizard's hand away and pulled Legolas closer onto his lap when the fallen archer whimpered.

"Do not be a fool!" Gandalf growled.  "I can help him; this was effective before and thus was he able to make it through the trials of battle to reach your side.  I make no demands upon his spirit in this.  Legolas owes nothing in return."

"So you say, yet it cannot be avoided!" the carpenter rejoined tightly, and then startled as the rest of the Istar's words settled into his perception.  "What do you mean 'before'? Tell me you have not you done this to him, Mithrandir?  Are you ignorant of what Legolas will do when he understands how you have managed to aid him?"

"He has already pledged his eternal allegiance to the wizard," said Aragorn softly.  He had harboured his own misgivings about this very issue, and now that it was out in the open he felt no need to restrain his opinion.  "The wizard shared with him thus for many hours when Legolas was overcome with the grieving during our journey."

"Ah!  So it is true!" this reply originated from the doorway as Gladhadithen entered with Lindalcon at her side.  She halted by the bedside and crossed her arms, glaring pointedly at the Istar.

"What is it?" queried Lindalcon, slipping between the wizard and the human to plant himself on the foot of the bed where he could see his strife-laden friend.  He reached out and patted the archer's knee through the blanket.  "What is happening to Legolas?"

"Mithrandir is infusing him with the elemental power of the Maiar," said Fearfaron.  "The other known occurrence is the joining of Elwë and Melian."

"This is not the same thing at all!" countered Gandalf irritably.  "I am only trying to strengthen him through this grieving malady, nothing more."

"Your intentions may be thus, yet I think Legolas has already established that the impact went much deeper.  You communicate with him through mind and thought freely, something he does with others only via Tawar in times of great danger.  It is to you he turned after that horrendous nightmare, and it is for you he took that arrow wound," Aragorn reminded his powerful friend.

"Valar!  Whether you admit it or not you have stolen his right to choose a mate!"  Fearfaron was angry.

"That, I believe, was taken from him long ago!" barked Gandalf.

"Are you saying Legolas is enchanted?  Will he become bound to Mithrandir?" demanded Lindalcon in outrage.

"Nay!" shouted Gandalf.  "Never would I claim him thus!  Legolas is unhindered by this; no advantage would I take of one in so weakened a state, nor ever abuse his trust."

"Enough!" ordered the healer.  "It is too late to change matters, Mithrandir; you have done this thing and the effects cannot not be altered now.  Fearfaron, I know it is hard but you must allow the wizard to resume his efforts.  Whether we like it or not, he has given Legolas a way to combat the grief.  If we wish him to live, Mithrandir will be involved henceforth."

"That is a very high degree of approbation to give one whose fealty is unknown and unstated," came a solemn voice from the hallway.  None of the room's occupants had noticed the Woodland King's approach.  He entered the suite and surveyed them all, resting his eyes last upon the deathly figure draped across the carpenter's knees. The screams that had drawn him to this chamber were too horribly reminiscent of the death cries of Oropher at the Last Alliance.  It was with a strange mixture of emotions that Thranduil regarded the outcast.  

He was nearly convinced now that the elf before him was indeed his own progeny, and the guilt, sorrow, and shame this acknowledgement engendered was overwhelming.  It galled him that he had been so easily and cleverly manipulated, even to despising his own child before it could be born.

_And what has that child become, to foster such urgency in this Istar?_

"What say you, wizard?  For whom are you doing this most unprecedented and selfless action?"  The subtle overtone of sarcasm was not lost on the gathered company.

"I am not involved in any of the petty disagreements you elves waste so much time maintaining!" Gandalf gruffly replied.  "My interest is in Legolas himself.  He is unlike any I have met since leaving Aman and, although I am uncertain as to exactly how, he will be of aid to me in the future.  He will be important, not just here in the Greenwood."

"I do not like this!  It was you who convinced him to leave for the Southern Regions.  Now that I have seen him, it is obvious my worries for him were more than justified.  He lies in this state because of the Noldor he encountered there.  What other dangers will you set against him?"  Fearfaron countered.

"You know of this?" Gandalf was flabbergasted.

"I do not really believe Gandalf means to put Legolas in harm's way," said Aragorn in the wizard's defence.  "I, too, am concerned about the depth of the bond Legolas has formed, but I am confident the Istar would not misuse that gift.

"However, I have to add that this warrior placed himself in jeopardy in order to ensure that Gandalf and I made it here intact.  Legolas could have fled through the trees out of range of the Orcs had we not been with him.  More than once, he offered himself as lure to draw off the majority of the enemy and give us time to escape."

"Thus Talagan reported," concurred the King.

"I suspected as much," said Gladhadithen with a sigh and a sad shake of her head.  "He will protect you foremost, no matter the cost to himself, Mithrandir."

"A nice body guard you have acquired, wizard!" Thranduil's bitter words rang out.  "Such excellent timing!  You choose to ensnare the one elf that is fast becoming a hero of legendary proportions within my lands.  I consider that entirely too much influence for one supposedly unconcerned with the 'petty' objectives of my regency."

"Thranduil, I assure you I have no designs of interfering in your governance of these lands!" fumed the wizard.  "I only want Legolas to live."

"I want that, too!" Lindalcon spoke up boldly.  "I say let the wizard do what he can for Legolas.  They can sort it all out later, once he is healed.  What is the grief for; is it because of the Lost Warriors?"

"Nay, it is much more complicated," said Fearfaron wearily.  Despite his concerns, he had to agree with the young elf.  He wanted Legolas to survive, and if the wizard could pull him out of this slow, horrendous death then he must be allowed to continue.  "Very well, Mithrandir; help him."

"Wait.  Is it certain this is the only means to assist him?  Might he not arise from this morbid sleep of his own will, in time?" the King spoke, his eyes once more settling on the insensible features of the wild warrior.

"I did not even think the wizard's gift would have any effect, to be honest with you," Gladhadithen shrugged as she passed her healer's eye over the prone figure in the carpenter's lap.  "He is fighting as hard as he can, however he is so depleted I doubt he has the reserves to pull out of it alone."

The assembled occupants fell silent upon this prognosis and all waited for some sign from the King or the Maia that the cure might proceed.

"What assurance can you give me, Mithrandir, that you will not unduly influence Legolas against the interests of the Woodland Realm?" demanded Thranduil again, but at this Fearfaron became impatient.

"Nay, that is irrelevant!  Never could anyone force Legolas to act against Tawar!  What I want is your promise that you will not torment his heart any further than has already been done. And you will not take advantage of his early…" the carpenter caught himself when with a quick toss of his head Lindalcon cleared a stray wisp of hair from his face, "…early physical conditioning," Fearfaron finished elusively.  He knew Mithrandir would certainly understand him while with any luck the young usurper would not.

Indeed, Gandalf was furious at this suggestion that he would use Legolas for sexual gratification, and only Lindalcon's perplexed countenance prevented the Istar from bellowing back his enraged protest at such a slur upon his character.

"Fearfaron, I have only the wish to reduce the pain Legolas endures," the wizard spoke through clenched jaws.  "No other motive marks my willingness to strengthen him. How could I seek to harm one who has risked his life to salvage mine?  I am appalled you would consider for even a second that I am capable of adding to the toll of woes exacted by Legolas' abusers."

Fearfaron held the wizard's fiery gaze a few seconds and then turned away with a brief shake of his head.  In the end, there was no other choice to make; he would not defy the Maia's will nor reject Mithrandir's gift of life.

"What guarantee can I offer, Thranduil, that you will recognise?" the Istar turned to the Woodland King.  "I can swear upon my oath to my Order, if you like, for by that vow am I forbidden to coerce any to my desire, even if my only ambition is to render good upon Arda, and thus are my actions guided."

"Well, some of the time," Aragorn could not help interjecting wryly, and shrugged when the Istar sent him a frown of such heated wrath as to boil tree sap.

"I will accept such a pledge, Mithrandir," Thranduil said, "and remind you that you have of your own free will bound yourself to the interests of the Greenwood through this association."

"Oh, now who seeks an unlooked-for spy, one that comes and goes among all the free peoples of Middle-earth, no less!" thundered Gandalf, rising from the bed and looking more Maia than old Man.  "My bond with Legolas does not make me subject to your interests or your bidding!"

"Peace!  Enough bickering, this solves nothing!" admonished the healer.

"Legolas will not be party to any political manoeuvring anyway, Thranduil," Fearfaron reminded him.  "Please, Mithrandir, I find your intent to be honourable.  If you can succeed in this cure, please do not delay any longer."

With this directive the wizard resumed his contact with the fallen prince and the air in the chamber immediately became animated, humming with the understated puissance contained in the Istar's voiced supplications to the Powers on Legolas' behalf.  Gleaming as would a faint mist rising upon the river at dawn, a shimmering veil of charged ether surrounded them while Gandalf lent as much of his own life force as he could to Legolas.

No change seemed evident, yet everyone remained fixed where they were, hoping for a dramatic indication that the grieving was once more in remission.  An attendant to the Royal Consort arrived at the chamber and after brief discourse with the King led away Thranduil and the healer.  Worried for his mother, Lindalcon rose from the bed and followed them.

Aragorn watched the carpenter.  The kindly elf had begun to weep silently as he held Legolas and gently smoothed his fingers across the ghostly pallor of the warrior's brow.  Fearfaron spoke continuously and softly, his voice too quiet for the words to carry beyond Legolas' ears, interjecting faint kisses upon the crown of his foster-son's head.  It was plain the older elf was torn over this situation, desiring Legolas have life and also retain the freedom to mold it, and Aragorn was moved by the carpenter's distress.

The Man transferred his vision to Gandalf.  When they had met, Aragorn had been surprised to learn of the Istar's true nature, finding his disguise as an elderly human male bizarre.  The Istar had cautiously explained about the possibility of attracting the First Born on too strong a level, should the true beauty of the Maiar be made visible through the physical form chosen to house their innate glory.  By his own words, Gandalf had claimed his mission too dangerous and important to justify entanglement on such a personal level.

Yet Aragorn wondered if perhaps it was not the other way round.  Mayhap it was the Istari who were drawn to the First Born, bright, exquisite Children of Iluvatar, examples of the Music beyond the knowledge of the Ainur.  The distraction was apparently enough to cause the powerful beings to shift aside whatever duties their service to the Valar impinged.

The story of Melian and Elwë, known perhaps to no other Man, illustrated Aragorn's premise perfectly.  Who had been spell bound in the woods of Doriath?  Surely, the majestic Istar could have freed the Teleri elf from such enthralment, yet she did not.  Whatever Melian's original cause might have been, she completely immersed herself in the concerns of her beloved's people.

The consequences of her choice for a mate were far reaching.  What alterations of Elwë's character her presence made were debatable, yet upon his death so changed was she that she fled back over sea at once.  Great was the suffering of the elves of Doriath upon her abandonment and the collapse of her protective magic.

With a heavy sigh Aragorn got up and moved to the basin, belatedly cleansing the sticky, drying blood from his hands.  The more he considered it the more the human became convinced; Gandalf was the one enchanted.  What that might bode for the dread purpose of the Istar, should Legolas not survive, the mortal could not imagine.

_I cannot say I entirely blame the King for his fears. It may be perilous to claim the wizard as a relative by law, no matter how removed Legolas is from the throne. _

The mortal's impressions of Thranduil were not altogether derogatory, though he found him rude and haughty.  Not once had the Sinda Lord even acknowledged the Man's presence in his stronghold!  Still, he had opened his home to the wounded travellers, even though the former prince was exiled and outcast.  It could not have been easy to openly assist someone that had brought such dishonour to his people.  Aragorn even suspected his bargaining with Mithrandir was induced by a strange sort of possessiveness towards the wild Wood Elf, a grudging pride that Legolas had somehow captured the Maia's sympathies.

_Who could not feel for the suffering that one endures_, he thought sadly.

And with this thought the Man returned to the cause of Legolas' terrible grief.  There was so much of the puzzle missing that he dared not speculate on the identity of Malthen.  It was apparent this was not merely a lover's nickname for his foster father; Malthen was a unique entity.  That raised anew the nature of the nightmare the fallen archer had so grotesquely acted out.  Nor had it escaped Aragorn's notice that Fearfaron was already aware of the Noldor's presence and impact upon Legolas.  He found himself wishing for Lindalcon's return so that he could question the youth on some of these mysteries.

Hours passed, Aragorn lost count of how many.  He was aware of the wizard's continuous chanting and the faint counterpoint of the carpenter's pleas for Legolas to rouse himself.  The Man stirred the fire in the grate, wondering absently why no retainers or servants had arrived to check on such things, and added fuel.

_Not wood, the black rock that burns, used by the dwarves,_ he noted with great surprise.

He settled before the hearth in a wondrously comfortable leather clad chair, the twin to the one he had dragged near the bed earlier, and leaned his head back against the cushioned support, closing his eyes to welcome sleep.

The candles' guttering near extinction met his gaze when he startled awake, uncertain at first what had garnered his notice, for the room was utterly still.  The silence was complete for neither the wizard's prayers and spells nor the carpenter's imploring exhortations sounded through the space.  A glance to his right showed the cause of his wakening.  Lindalcon was stretched out on the settee; legs draped over one arm while his head was propped against the other.  The youth had returned to check on his friend's condition and was fast asleep, cuddling something against him in his arms, and the Man smiled at this endearing example of innocence.

Aragorn looked to the bed and found the Maia had returned to the chair and was apparently sleeping sprawled out as though completely drained, his injured leg resting on the ottoman.  Fearfaron sat with Legolas still over his lap, a glazed and glassy cast to his eyes as he protectively cradled his foster son.

Aragorn heaved himself from the chair and approached them.  A quick inspection revealed no new aggravation to the invalid's injuries and a healthier caste to his fair features.  His eyes were still shut, but at least his respiration was more regular and he did not outwardly show indications of severe discomfort.  Legolas seemed to once more be slumbering in a healing torpor.

Satisfied, the Man returned to his warm spot by the fire and lounged back, resting his heels upon the grate where the coals smouldered in acrid fumes and iridescent glow.  He returned to sleep almost as soon as his head dropped down upon the upholstered cushions.

A burning, sharp sensation of searing pain stabbed abruptly through Legolas' side as though an arrow pierced him there anew, and yet just as swiftly dulled down to a ponderously irritating throb.  On the very farthest edges of awareness, he floundered against the thick and muffling cloak of oblivion to comprehend the intermittent discomfort and make some sense of the incongruous sound accompanying the jarring paroxysm.

It was laughter, clear and sweet, sounding high and ringing elegantly in the early morn, more akin to the sound of a songbird's warbling than a mirthful voice.  The sound was accompanied by the slight pressure of something warm and fluttery dancing over his face, brushing at his eyelashes, of all things!  He turned his head a little to get away from the strange nuisance.

The injury in his side flared up once more, and Legolas could not prevent a small flinch as he squirmed away from the hurt.  His movement produced a sympathetic readjustment of the form against which he was closely held.  He recognised Fearfaron's comforting clasp around his arm and the steady, calming cadence of his heart thrumming rhythmically against his back.  The carpenter did not awaken however, only tightened his grip around his foster son's shoulders.

The laughter erupted again, and then the poking at his eyelid resumed, and Legolas impatiently brushed his hand up towards the offending irritant.  Another high-pitched giggle broke free when his fingers connected with the intrusive, touching digits and next something pinched down on his nose, blocking his nostrils quite effectively.

"Bah!" the archer whispered as his mouth opened to take in air, and again the tinkling peals of merriment met his ears.  He forced his eyes open a minuscule amount and found himself staring into a set of hazel-rimmed green depths filled with childish joy and curiosity.  Legolas pried his lids up further and gazed fully at the dainty face regarding his, barely inches away.  There was an elfling perched on his chest, a very small elfling, and he was finally able to pinpoint the source of the flashes of pain emanating from his side. Her tiny foot was lightly prodding him, as if he was a horse being urged to get moving.

Legolas stared in amazement, and suddenly felt the urge to laugh as he realised how silly he must look with this little one straddling him, the fingers of one hand firmly attached to his nose while with her other she duplicated the procedure on herself.  He smiled and the child smiled back, letting go of both nasal protrusions, and calmly stuck one thumb in her mouth, hospitably offering her new friend the other.  Legolas shook his head, still smiling in astonishment.

"Are you a dream, little one?" he whispered.  Something about the babe's features struck a chord of recognition within him, but he could not bring to mind whose offspring he beheld.

The child gurgled out more laughter and clapped delightedly, shaking her head of curly nut-brown ringlets.

"Gwilith!" she piped out suddenly in her baby voice and put both her little palms against his cheeks, gently squeezing them to make a fish-face of the archer's features.

Legolas did laugh then, though it hurt his side to do it and the sound died away as a low moan.

The elfling stilled and assumed a pensive expression of deep concern.  She turned about and slid down, landing on the floor silently, and trotted gracefully away as Legolas watched.  Approaching the sitting area where Aragorn and Lindalcon were quite obviously in deep repose, the little one grabbed Lindalcon's hand and tugged at him urgently.

"Lind'on!" her bell-voice broke into his reverie and he stirred, smiling at her.

"What is it, Gwilwileth?  I thought you were sleeping?" he whispered so as not to disturb the others.  He reached down and pulled the child up and held her against his chest with every intention of returning to his rest, but the toddler was not co-operative.

She wriggled about in his arms relentlessly as he shushed and cajoled her to be still.  Her insistent fussing the older elf ignored, paying no head to her pleas of indistinct babbling though her meaning was anything but vague.  At last the child squeezed out of Lindalcon's grip by inelegantly biting down on his chin.  The words he hissed were truly not meant for such young ears.

"What is it?" the wizard awoke in an instant, staring around for the source of the indignant curse the youth had uttered. Mithrandir instinctively reached out to grasp Legolas' hand, which he found already extended to meet his.  Their interior connection was just as instantaneous.

"Lindalcon," Legolas called softly from the bed and instantly the youth bolted from his seat and grabbed up the elfling, hurrying to his friend's side.

"Did Gwilith disturb you?" the younger elf asked.  Legolas just shook his head.

"You are awake!  That is wonderful," spoke the carpenter gently, fully roused by the commotion as well.  He smoothed back the tangled hair from Legolas' wan countenance, examining the tension in the fair features wrought by chronic duress. Their eyes met and Fearfaron carefully hugged the injured elf, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead, to which attentions Legolas grinned happily.

Fearfaron's gaze fell upon the Istar's hand wrapped securely around the fallen archer's; he sighed almost imperceptibly.  How could he object, seeing his adopted child so improved and the anguish much diminished?

"I am sorry she woke you, Legolas, but I am also glad.  I feared you would not, and everyone was asleep when I got back so that I could not ask how you fared," Lindalcon spoke in hushed tones, for the human was still asleep, and propped the infant up on his hip.  The child stared wide-eyed at Legolas, thumb securely in her mouth as she grasped a lock of Lindalcon's hair between her fingers.

Seeing them together, Legolas had no doubt they were brother and sister, and the shock of this caused the archer's eyes to open hugely and his mouth to fall agape in a most undignified manner.

The elfling laughed at him around her thumb and pointed with the other chubby hand.  "Lim [fish]," she cooed.

Hearing this, Legolas could not resist the desire to encourage more from the light-hearted elfling.  He pursed his lips and his brows went up, causing another round of giggling to spill out of the impetuous elfling.  Even Lindalcon could not suppress a small snicker.  The wizard and the carpenter beamed in amused pleasure to see Legolas distracted from his trials.

"Nay, Gwilith!  Legolas, this is Legolas.  You can say it; I know you can," Lindalcon coaxed her, eyes darting from the child to his friend gleefully.

"Limlas [fishleaf]!" the child blurted and was overjoyed at the chuckle this earned from the injured elf and the snort that escaped her brother's nose.  "Limlas, Limlas!" she repeated in her singsong voice, encouraged by their attention.

Gandalf could not suppress a deep belly laugh any longer and the rumbling guffaw rolled through the room, joined by Fearfaron's burst of giggling.

"Oh no, I believe that is rather final sounding, Legolas.  I am sorry!" the youth lied as he smiled widely.

Legolas' grin was enormous as he reached out and cautiously patted the elfling's head while she yawned and snuggled into her brother's shoulder.

"Your sister?  How old is she?" he asked softly, still amazed this could be so.

"Yes, she looks just like Nana, doesn't she?" Lindalcon said as he settled on the edge of the bed, adjusting the child onto his lap as he pulled himself carefully up.  "She is almost two years old."

"Why did no one tell me when last I was here?" Legolas demanded, more than a little insulted not to have been let in on this startling event.

"I did not even know myself until Naneth was nearly due to deliver.  You had already left by then." The younger elf answered.

"I wrote you about it," added Fearfaron.  "Did you not receive the news?" Legolas shook his head silently.

"Nana and I had been at odds, and I have avoided both her and the King," Lindalcon continued.  "She did not seek me out to tell me.  That is mostly my fault because I was still angry that she joined with Thranduil."  Lindalcon was clearly not finished feeling bitter over both the relationship and the child's creation being withheld from his knowledge.

The little one tensed under his change in tone and he relented at once, soothing her hair and kissing the soft downy strands until she relaxed and drifted back into reverie.

"I could not stay away from Gwilith, though, and she has brought Naneth and me closer.   It is still not the same as before we came to the stronghold; I will not pretend Thranduil is part of my family.  But Gwilith is my sister, and I am the only one Nana trusts to watch over her, other than herself," he stated proudly.

"She is beautiful!" Legolas said and his joyous smile flowed over the two.  A supportive squeeze to his fingers drew his attention to the Istar, whose gleaming eyes yet burned with strong concern for how this would affect the forest champion.  Legolas returned the pressure to reassure his benefactor, silently renewing his pledge to Mithrandir at the same time.

"Her name is Gwilwileth [butterfly], but she cannot say that so we have all taken to calling her Gwilith.  I am Lind'on; Iarwain is Arwain; Fearfaron is just Faron, and now you are Limlas."  Lindalcon hesitated; watching Legolas carefully as though trying to decide if he was fit enough to continue the conversation.

"There is more to tell," he said as his eyes travelled over the battle-weary body, down to the clasped hands, and returning to gaze with questioning concern into the archer's pain dulled orbs.  "How are you, truly?"

"I am in some discomfort," Legolas' reply was barely whispered, and Lindalcon was startled by the admission.  "But it is better than before, thanks to Mithrandir."

"What has happened to you?  Why has Mithrandir intervened; is there really no other means to keep you alive?"

"Please, Lindalcon, do not ask me to speak of this!" Legolas groaned and turned away, huddling against Fearfaron and burying his face against the carpenter's shoulder.

"Ai! Do not bring these things up now, Lindalcon!  There is time enough to discuss it all once Legolas has recovered," he scolded the younger elf.

"True, but what is it you are not revealing, Lindalcon?  Is it so terrible?" Gandalf demanded.

"Nay, not bad so much as rather shocking.  I know I was shocked, and I am not even really affected by it, at least not in the same way.  I do not want to make Legolas relapse!"

"Valar, Lindalcon!  Now I am worried!  Tell me this dread knowledge at once!"  Legolas propped himself up so he could stare the younger elf in the eye.  "Do you know what he is hiding, Fearfaron?"

"I can guess.  Whatever it is can wait until you are more rested, Legolas.  You have been through enough stress as it is," the carpenter stated.  "Lindalcon, I would rather you had waited until Legolas is more fully recovered to bring these tidings."

"I would have, but I just needed to tell someone, and he seems much better now."

"Lindalcon, if you do not tell me I will have to go and find out for myself!  Obviously it is important or you would not have hesitated to speak.  I insist; if this concerns me I have a right to know." Legolas stirred and made movements suspiciously similar to ones required to get out of bed, but Fearfaron held him firmly in place.

"Nay, be still! You are worse than that elfling there," scolded the carpenter.  "Very well, Lindalcon, I suppose he will hear soon enough, if it is what I suspect."

"Alright.  But you must promise not to let him be overcome by it!" This aside he directed to the Maia with a glare partially imploring and threatening at the same time.

"It is just that Naneth has been in labour all day and night, that is why I have charge of Gwilith now.  She woke up in all the noise and bustle in Nana's room; the healer told me her crying was a distress to Naneth, so I took her with me.  Just an hour or so ago my baby brother was born."

Legolas blinked, dumbly staring at his friend, trying to make the statement sensible to him.  The words just did not seem to belong in the same reality where he existed.

Thranduil had a son, Lindalcon's brother, a true prince of the Woodland Realm.

Tbc


	43. Chapter 43

**Gwaedh o Gwenyr **[Bond of Brothers]

The rooms Thranduil had allotted to the Tawarwaith and his companions were not the most luxurious accommodations available for visitors and indeed were situated in the lower levels of the stronghold, nearly on the same plane as the servants' housing.  Only the lesser staff and attendants of the King's guests drew assignment to such quarters in the bowels of the mountain.

In such rooms, no artfully fluted columns shored up the weight of the mountain, only simple, salvaged tree trunks carried the overburden.  The floors were scarcely smoothed and the mats covering the rough surfaces were, while comely after the nature of all elvish crafts, woven with an eye toward durable utility rather than beauty.  The caverns' walls bore none of the carved relief found in the higher rooms, nor even a finely sanded polish to uncover the hidden textures of the minerals within.  Only a few tapestries broke the severity of the granite and gabbro, and of these the designs were more geometric than narrative or picturesque.

The depth of these honeycombed caves precluded any open balconies or even windows, and the caves were relegated to oil and candle light for illumination.  While any number of lamps and candelabrum that one might desire could be brought into these humble lodgings, for the fair folk the tomblike quality of the delved catacombs could never be bright enough.  In the sleeping chambers, one narrow channel was cut through the ceiling, meandering up through the dense, silent stone to breach the exterior walls and allow a vague shaft of natural light inside.

Wood Elves confined to such dreary spaces required the meagre connection to Anor and Ithil for sanity; beings that rarely closed their eyes tended to quickly become emotionally unfettered when deprived of the sense of sight, and candles and lanterns were not infallible sources of light.  Other races would probably never notice the tenuous column of wavering brightness.

Beyond that, the air in the rooms needed to be freely exchanged and the minuscule vents served that purpose as well.  However, the limited radiance was insufficient for green life and no amount of artificial light could provide for the growth of plants at such depths.  For this reason most of the elves in the employ of Thranduil's household chose not to live within the stony palace.  These folk arrived at Ithil's fading and left before tinnu.

Thus the cycle of Anor could be tracked even without the shifting spot of pale glimmer steadily tracking across the floor as Ariel guided her charge upon its monotonous trek.  As soon as dawn broke, the kitchen staff arrived and began the daily task of feeding the ruling family, the counsellors and their aids, and the troops housed in the barracks.

The kitchens were but one level below the Tawarwaith's suite and one level above the forbidden vaults and dungeons of the stronghold.  Due to the proximity of the rear stairway and the acoustics inherent in the vastness of the scullery, the noisy activity in these rooms was amplified and echoed through the chambers situated above.  The fact that all the guestrooms had hearths that shared a common, excavated chimney with the great ovens and furnaces of the cookery accentuated the effect.

Preparing food enough for so vast a number was neither an easy chore nor one that could be accomplished quietly.  The sounds of busy hands chopping and mixing, bowls and pots bouncing against one another and clanging in dull tones against the stone and wooden tables, voices calling instructions and questions as the elves worked with one another echoed through the lower rooms, rousing any who were not already astir.

These day-breaking sounds greeted Aragorn as he returned from sleep; stiff and achy due to the restricted position forced upon his lengthy frame by the armchair.  He stretched to work the kinks out of his neck and shoulders as a loud clatter spilled from the general vicinity of the cold and ashy grate.  Internally he groused against the clumsiness that generated such a disruptive clamour.  The thought that the Wood Elves lacked the more graceful mien of the Noldor briefly traversed his mind, for never had he been so rudely roused in all his years in Imladris.

The lack of generosity in such petty derogation quickly settled upon him, however, as the minutes wore on and the household came alive with an entirely different kind of resonance.  Soaring above the everyday tumult of chores, there arose a magnificent and joyful song of praise to Iluvatar.  Though he dearly loved the beauty of elvish voices lifted in praise of Eru, and this was not an unpleasant means of chasing away sleepiness, Aragorn was just a little disgruntled to be kept wakeful by the soulful noise.  With a complaining whine he wished the elves would cease their cheery singing and let him return to his rest, but the next instant he caught some of the words drifting through the air and came fully alert at once.

The Woodland folk were rejoicing over the birth of new life and a new heir, filling the rock-hewn domicile with the delightfully eerie harmonies of the mingled voices.  They used the properties of the hollowed stone to create a resounding accompaniment; the very mountain became an instrument in their acapella symphony.

Aragorn was perplexed and gazed over at the bed where all the other occupants were gathered, silent in their own appreciation of the glorious chanting.  Yet, the human sensed the underlying tension among his friends and realised everyone was focused on Legolas, who lay propped up against Fearfaron with his head bowed against the older elf's shoulder.

The carpenter was slowly stroking the wild elf's arm in a calming motion, whispering against his fair hair, but the mortal could not detect the words and doubted even Lindalcon would be able to discern them.  That young elf was seated on the bedside, slowly rocking back and forth, protectively embracing a small elf child, but the babe seemed oblivious to the scene, lost in sleep.  The wizard had a firm hold on the archer's fingers and stared intently upon his friend's features for any sign of distress.

Before Aragorn could ask what was going on and for whom the song was given, Legolas stirred and sat straighter, smiling at his foster father.  The wild elf drew a deep breath and joined the hymn, adding his voice to the exquisite rendition of the ancient psalm of renewal and thanks.

The unsettled atmosphere in the room vanished, defused by the soothing strains of the wounded elf's fair voice, and soon everyone was smiling in happiness just to hear the clarity of dulcet tones arising from the open heart of their friend.

There was no doubt of the overwhelming delight in the Tawarwaith's soul and the genuine rejoicing flowing from his being.  He was truly gladdened by the news of this latest arrival among his people, and was unashamed to let it be heard.  Slowly, all other voices fell silent and left only the song of the forest champion ringing through the halls, filling the stronghold from the lowliest corner of the shadowed pantries to the loftiest and most elegant rooms of the royal suite.

Word swept swiftly among the forest folk that their Tawarwaith had blessed the newborn prince.

Amid the bolsters and pillows, blankets and quilts heaped upon the vast and comfortable down-filled bed, Meril and Thranduil lay cuddling their little son between them, awe-struck by the compelling beauty of the sound ascending through the tunnels and caverns, immersed in the joy of their union's fulfilment.  They stared silently into each other's eyes, beyond the need for words, and simply shared the outpouring of love for the infant they had created between them.

The babe slept, curled up cosily in a silken bunting lined with rabbit's fur, encircled by his parents' arms and hearts.  As all elven children, the beauty of his physical appearance exceeded the descriptive power of even the eldar.  His immortal soul shone with splendour that could not yet be contained within his fair form, and he glowed with the virtues imparted by fresh hope and pure love.

Meril could not decide where to leave her eyes, transferring her gaze from her mate to her little one in a perpetual cycle of giddy fondness.  She welcomed the song of her people, relishing their greeting and wholehearted acceptance of her offspring's nativity.  With maternal reverence her fingertips stroked the cherubic cheek of her slumbering infant, allowing her spirit to swell in jubilation within the transcendent serenity of the omnipresent anthem filtering through the chamber.

The King's Consort easily recognised the soloist serenading her child; often had Legolas graced the gatherings of his friends with his vocal renderings.  She was surprised and wondered how the outcast elf could find so much joy within his miserable existence to honour his replacement in such a manner.  Meril glanced at her mate to find Thranduil pondering the same puzzle, a hint of sadness clouding the exuberance of proud fatherhood.  That she would not allow; she almost let her irritation mar the perfection of this moment of familial communion.

The child stirred, hearing the glorious song surrounding his tiny being, and woke smiling with irrepressible delight, and all frustration instantly departed from his mother's thoughts as she beamed back into the babe's enormous eyes.  Meril met Thranduil's equally grinning countenance and found her tongue at last.

"Man eneth annatha le ionlîn, meleth nîn? [What name will you give your son, my love?]" she softly whispered and leaned over to kiss her mate lightly.

Thranduil luxuriated in such attention, for Meril and their children together healed in him the raw, angry wounds inflicted by the misordained bonding to Ningloriel.

The fallen archer's gift of song reached the Sinda King and threatened to ruin his earliest moments with the new babe by animating the dormant roots of guilty remorse within the father's conscience.  Thranduil could not completely close his heart away from the disturbing memories assailing him, compelling a comparison between this dawn's heralded event and the shameful arrival of Legolas into life so many years ago.  

The Woodland Lord forced these recollections of his first union from his mind and concentrated on Meril's soft-spoken question.  She had given Thranduil the choice to name their child; a great privilege, for traditionally among the Wood Elves the mother's naming came first and was that by which the elfling would most likely be known among his people.  The father's naming came later, and was usually a more formal designation used only in rare circumstances1.  With their newborn son, Meril was allowing him the decision for both.

Thranduil had yet to choose the name he would bestow upon Gwilwileth, for the words he most often thought of when confronted with his daughter described tumbling water in a small brook, Celon'lîr [Riversong], or the canticle of a tree filled with birds in the height of a spring rain, Echuiross [Early Spring Rain].  He could not decide between them.

For Legolas, he had never bothered to confer a patronymic. He had not even cared to ask what name Ningloriel had selected for her child, and could not recall ever using the designation when speaking to or about Legolas.

But he had centuries ago decided what name he would give to his son, the heir he had awaited so long, and now at last he could speak this aloud, and have the pleasure of knowing his beloved mate would confer this name for all to call their babe, too.  Thranduil focused on this joyous realisation and returned Meril's tender sentiment.

"Hervess nîn [my wife], you honour me too much!" he breathed back these words as he pressed his lips against the softness of her chestnut tresses.  "But I adore you for it all the more!  Long have I known how to call my son; I wish the name to announce the strength of my heritage and the promise of our people's future.  If you permit it, he will be called Taurant [Mighty Gift] for his birth is a priceless tribute from Iluvatar, a blessing upon the Woodland Realm."

Meril practically glowed with pride; this was a fine designation for her little prince, and she smiled her pleasure to Thranduil.

"I do permit it, hervenn nîn [my husband]!  That is a name of power and will serve our son well in his life.  Our people will rejoice to hear that their prince bears so bold an appellation."

Just then the song of the Tawarwaith drew to its close, and the royal infant breathed out a tiny yawn and shut his eyes tight to sleep as the lingering echoes of the hymn's refrains wavered in the waning glory of the outcast's fine voice.  Overcome with weariness from the efforts of childbirth, Meril snuggled comfortably around her child and succumbed to reverie, secure in Thranduil's enveloping embrace of them both.

The Tawarwaith's voice tarried, reluctant to abandon the infant heir, and clung for long minutes in a softly mutated vibration of overtones for the little one's ears to absorb, though the song was completed and the singer spent.  The gift was one the child might never recall yet with which he would likely be marked forever, even if he never met the fallen prince whose essence so freely filled the receding remnant of the exalted acclaim held within the notes.  Taurant's heart would always know, whether his mind was conscious of it or not, that his first hours were transformed by the endowment of the wild warrior's devotion.

Fearfaron drew Legolas closer, cautiously shifting the battered body in his arms so the exhausted elf could rest more comfortably against him.  The carpenter was overcome with a profound sense of amazement for what Legolas had done, and though he should have expected no less from the Tawarwaith, the fulfilment of this unselfish act was more moving than he could have imagined.

Fearfaron understood his adopted child's motives; Legolas would never want an innocent child's beginning moments marked by tension or sorrow.  He wished only for the little one to know all the goodness there was to be found within the comforting guidance of his family.  It mattered not to Legolas that these same comforts had been withheld from his own life, indeed that perspective served only to make his desire to spare this child such torment stronger and more emphatic.

As the sound ceased Legolas slumped against his protector in weariness, for much more had gone out of him into the song than just the breath of his lungs and the joy of his heart.  Some part of his fortitude and will had filled the stanzas and verses, imbuing a kind of potent benediction upon the child, that the little one might have the love and kindness of both parents and the eternal blessings of the Valar, as was every elf's right.  He had sent into the melody his own commitment to guard and secure the child's future.  The song was Legolas' promise to return to the Wood Elf King's heir a land free of shadow and strife, where the glory of Tawar would become once more the centre of the Danwaiths' lives.

It was some time before anyone could find the will to speak, for even after the final reverberations of the hymn dissipated there was among the group a sense of respectful reverence, a desire bounded in not disturbing the air and disrupting the fragile peace that had enveloped the stronghold.  The place had become almost sacred, and no one doubted that Legolas' gift had cleansed any taint of Darkness from everything within range of his song.

It required the innocence of a child to call them back from their lofty jubilation to the mundane requirements of daily existence.

"Lin'con, hungry Gwilith!  Want honey-milk!" the toddler announced as she awoke in her brother's arms to the insistent demands of her growing body.  She patted her brother on the top of the head and he in turn smiled at her.

Behind them the human laughed delightedly; it had been long since he had beheld such a young elfling for so many of the First Born feared to create new life in Arda, fleeing to Aman with what family they had left, propagating their lineage there, perhaps.  The idea had greatly saddened Aragorn, and even as a youngster he had been aware that there were no playmates among the elven inhabitants close in development to himself.  He stepped up to see this uncommon sight and smiled brightly into the elfling's curious eyes.

"Oh that sounds like a splendid idea, little one!" he said and reached out his hand towards her.  "I would like some fruit, and perhaps a slice or two of sweet bread and honey myself!"  To Aragorn's joy, Gwilith happily accepted his hand in her tiny grasp and laughed.

"Not elf!" she announced astutely.

"Nay, this is a Man, Gwilith," explained her brother patiently.  "He is called Aragorn."  Lindalcon could scarcely contain his anticipated laughter to hear what inglorious epithet she would bestow upon the mortal.  Instead, she amazed them all and endeared her soul to the human forever.

"Aran [King]!" she cooed and with a mischievous twinkle in her gleaming green eyes pointed at the heir of Isildur.

"Hah!" Gandalf crowed.  "They are false that remark upon the lack of wisdom among Wood Elves!" he commented as his gaze met Aragorn's in amusement above the young ones' heads.

"Do they so say among the other peoples of Middle-earth?" complained Lindalcon indignantly, regarding Aragorn with critical scrutiny.  He had found much to like about the Man, but failed to see anything lordly in his rough appearance, knowing not his true heritage.

"Never mind!  They who speak so are ignorant of the truth, yet mayhap one day this myth will vanish along with other prejudice wrought by the marring of Arda," Aragorn replied, though neither was he ready to reveal his identity to these elves.  "But I was not jesting; hunger besets me and the scent arising from the bakery tempts my palate!  What say you, Lindalcon?  Gwilith and I require sustenance; will you lead us to the pantries?"  He was eager to get Lindalcon away where he could question him about all that had happened in the night.

"Aye," the youth replied and leaned over carefully towards Legolas, who remained quiet and motionless in his foster father's care.  Lindalcon pressed his forehead against his friend's temple and then lightly kissed him there, bringing a faint smile to the Tawarwaith, though his eyes were shut.  "What about you, Legolas?  What can I bring that you will eat?"

"I do not feel hunger, but I thank you for asking," he said without turning to look at his friend.

This did not satisfy Fearfaron, however, and he frowned.  He did not want to do anything to hinder Legolas' healing, yet he could not help but believe that the wild elf would improve if he took even a small amount of nourishment. Beyond the injuries of battle and the sorrow of his beleaguered soul, his foster child was clearly suffering from starvation.

"Lindalcon, bring back a mug of warmed honey-milk for Legolas.  That should rest easily in his stomach and lend him strength to recover," he ordered as he carded his fingers through Legolas' messy locks.  The drink was principally composed of mare's milk and royal jelly from the hives of honeybees, and was both fortifying and sweetly appealing to the young.  Fearfaron knew from experience Legolas would consume this with relish.

Lindalcon nodded and rose from the bed, shifting Gwilith to his hip once more, and was almost to the door before he remembered his manners.

"Oh!  Mithrandir, what shall I bring you?" he said with some embarrassment, and was pleased to find the Istar regarding him kindly despite the oversight.

"Worry not; I believe there is much left on the platters you brought in yesterday.  I will retire to my own chambers and settle my appetite. Might I suggest the three of you return there and allow Legolas some much deserved rest?"

"A commendable counsel, Old One; we will adhere to it," Aragorn answered for them.  He approached the bed and reached over to lay his hand upon the Woodland warrior's shoulder, squeezing firmly.  "Rest well, my friend, and we will come to speak with you later."

Legolas gave a slight nod of his head and smiled at his companion's concern.  He watched as Aragorn assisted the wizard to rise, but there was no need for words of parting with Mithrandir and a simple meeting of eyes conveyed all that was required between them.

The Istar had cautiously withdrawn from the elf's mind as the song had concluded, sensing Legolas' need for solitude after so profound an outpouring of his feä.  Or rather, the forest champion's desire for the comfort of the carpenter's protective love in substitution for that which he would never know from his true parents.  Gandalf meant all he had spoken the previous day regarding his assistance to the fallen prince.  He wanted to ensure Legolas that he would always respect the privacy of the archer's individual will and never force the contact between them beyond Legolas' need or desire for it.

In mere moments the other visitors were gone, leaving the two elves alone once more.

"Legolas, do you know how proud I am of the gift you have given the newborn child?" Fearfaron could wait no longer to express this heartfelt reaction, and was gratified by the soft, contented sigh that left his son's lips.  Legolas did not answer but lightly increased the strength of his arms' hold where they wrapped round the carpenter's chest.  "Can you sleep now?  You are exhausted and we will talk more later."

"Nay," Legolas whispered.  "I am weary but do not wish to sleep.  I am all twisted up inside, Fearfaron!  I am gladdened by the arrival of the new babe, yet I feel that I need to scream, or flee to solitude among the trees, or…"

"You desire to be loved; it is not unusual to want such a thing, Legolas.  You need what every other elf requires, what the infant will be given in abundance.  Your turmoil arises from the failure to procure this simplest of necessities.

"I wish there were some way to remedy the privation you have endured!  I confess, Legolas; before you joined Annaldír's patrol I never considered your existence one way or another.  Our paths never crossed in those days; like the rest of the Woodland folk, I assumed you were being taken care of properly," the carpenter's regret thickly coated his words as he held his son closer.

"You cannot feel any blame for that!" Legolas looked up at him sharply.  "There is no way anyone could have known the truth."

"It is good to hear you so speak," Fearfaron sighed.  "For these are words you must learn to say unto your own heart when such misgivings assail you."

Legolas shifted, uncomfortable in his body and his soul.  He stretched out so that his head rested in his foster father's lap and he could look up into the carpenter's eyes as he spoke.  The archer desperately needed to have someone explain this so that he could subdue the sorrow threatening to overpower the fading joyousness created when singing for the infant prince.  More than anything, he needed to understand why he was incapable of generating warm emotions among his own.

_Why is someone else's father closer to me than any kin of blood and bone?_

"It is not surprising you have difficulty believing those words and cannot yet apply them to yourself," Fearfaron patiently continued.  "As an elfling, trying to comprehend why such a basic requirement for happiness was denied, you concluded you were the cause of the failings in the adults surrounding you.  It is the way of a child's mind, Legolas."

He glanced down at the serious countenance regarding him and quailed in dread.  How far could he dare to push this conversation?  Fearfaron felt time pressing upon him, for the menace of the Noldo Lord's missive hung above Legolas' fate like a spider prepared to ensnare its prey.  Should Thranduil present the letter to the Council before the carpenter could stop him, or worse yet, allow Legolas to read it, Fearfaron was unsure the embattled archer would be able to recover.

"But, Fearfaron, it is not a childish summation," Legolas argued.  "Things truly are this way!  I have never been able to make them care for me."  He swallowed very hard and waited, tense and fearful, for he so wanted this elf to logically contradict these words and make him disbelieve them.

"Nay, that is not true," the wise craftsmen understood clearly what Legolas required.  "Your mother has always loved you!  It is no fault of yours if she cannot behave with more maternal devotion.  Think and remember!  Tell me the first thing she used to do upon returning from Lothlorien."  Fearfaron already knew what this action was, for it was one of the rare personal references Legolas had ever made to Annaldír, who in turn had shared it with his father.

"She would go to my rooms, and there wait until I turned up, no matter the time it took.  Once, she had to wait two days, and was furious!" Legolas recalled with a faint smile.

Fearfaron smiled back and patted his son's shoulder.  It was such a small thing, so little to offer someone suffering so much.  He had nothing more to add; it would be a lie to suggest that Thranduil felt any kind sentiments for Legolas.  He dared not bring up Malthen's betrayal, for instinctively he knew it was Legolas' realisation that the guardsman felt no love for his charge that had pushed the fallen prince beyond his limits of endurance.  It pierced the gentle elf's soul to see how eagerly his adopted child snatched up the flimsy example of Ningloriel's affection and gathered it into his spirit.  And it was not enough, of this he was sure, to hold together the shattered shards of the wild elf's soul when the treachery of the Noldor was revealed.  The carpenter was close to panic.

_I cannot do this!  I will not be the one to inflict this punishment!_  
   
"For all your time, Legolas, the entirety of your life, you have placed the flaw that prevented others from bestowing affections upon you within yourself.  Yet you are not responsible for the actions of every other living thing. Ningloriel's character was set long before you were conceived, likewise for your father." Fearfaron surreptitiously slipped this referral into his speech, and felt Legolas start in surprise upon hearing it.

"Who Thranduil is now cannot be separated from the losses he endured at the end of the last Age.  If for some reason he leaves Meril's chambers and renounces his newborn child, is that innocent babe guilty of any wrong to Thranduil?" the carpenter asked gently, and watched in satisfaction as Legolas emphatically shook his head in negation.  "Can you see now that it is illogical for you to take the blame for your parents' behaviour when you were innocent?"  The older elf concluded, and the archer gave the briefest nod, gaping at his substitute father from wide and fearful eyes before replying.

"Fearfaron, I would give almost anything to believe that new babe is my brother as well as Lindalcon's," he whispered, responding to the oblique message of hope.  "Yet Malthen and Naneth…"

"Legolas!  Do not say anything more! I should have spoken to you about this years ago, and I hope you will forgive me for failing.  I do believe you are Thranduil's son, as did Ningloriel.  Mithrandir also is convinced of this, and when confronted Maltahondo gave sound reasoning for his insistence that he could not be your father.  Whatever he may be, I do not consider him so low as to bed his own child."

Fearfaron felt Legolas flinch and then the archer's grip upon his hand increased so tightly the circulation of blood to his fingers was nearly non-existent.  He scrutinised the injured elf closely, looking for any indications of the terrible agony heralded by thoughts of the former guardsman, but Legolas was only staring at him with searing intensity, breathing in rapid audible gasps.

The carpenter sighed and leaned down to kiss his foster son's brow.  He knew he had to tell Legolas the rest now or he would lose his resolve.  Fearfaron returned the steely grasp and met the Tawarwaith's eyes resolutely.

"There is also solid evidence that Elrond knew this to be the case, Legolas.  There has been some communication between the Noldo Lord and Thranduil concerning you.  From what is contained within, and my thoughts about it, I am sure Thranduil has come to the conclusion that he is your father.  So you see, not only do you have a baby brother, but a little sister as well."  Ending on this positive note, the carpenter hoped Legolas would focus on his relationship with Thranduil's offspring, and ignore the ominous exchange of information from the Noldo Lord to the Woodland King.

Legolas' gaze turned inward as he considered what he had been told.  He felt the tightness around his heart lessen considerably and allowed himself a deep breath as he relaxed his hold on Fearfaron's fingers.  It was easy to discern that his foster father accepted the Sinda King as Legolas' sire.  The sincerity in his voice, his eyes, even the touch of their skin palm to palm attested to the carpenter's assurance that this was an absolute fact.  The comfort Fearfaron's belief graced him was as water upon parched lips; how long Legolas had needed to hear this, and from a source that he trusted completely.

Still, a small rankling doubt remained.  _Why did Naneth not answer me if this is the truth?_

Through his connection with Mithrandir, the argument relating Malthen's position on his possible paternity was known fully to the wild warrior.  Indeed, the Istar's comprehension that the former corpsman had not knowingly seduced his own child was all that had enabled Legolas to weather the first attack of the grieving malady.  The wizard's opinion was thus reinforced by Fearfaron's assertions.

Yet it was a strange thing to find that both his foster father and his venerable benefactor held such loathing and disgust for Elrond, for Legolas had not spoken of the situation to the carpenter.  It could not be denied, the sense of revulsion Mithrandir bore was mirrored in the overtones of Fearfaron's brief mention of the Lord of Imladris.  Whatever messages had passed between the two rulers, it was clear to Legolas that Fearfaron had either seen them or knew what they contained.  That the news must be dire was certain; a cold chill ran through the archer's frame and he shuddered.

A short knock at the door and the entry of Lindalcon prevented Legolas from questioning the carpenter about this, for the younger elf brought in the requested drink.  Fearfaron made his adopted son sit up and swallow it all down.  As soon as the mug was empty Legolas frowned and stared resentfully at his young friend.

"He put something in this!" he said in frustration, suddenly feeling rather groggy.

"Nay, it was Gladhadithen.  I told her I would not lie if you noticed, but she convinced me you need the rest, Legolas."  Lindalcon smiled and sat down on the bed, reaching out to wrap the fallen warrior up in his arms.  "I am sorry, please do not stay angry about it.  I only agreed to do it because I love you.  I do not want you to slip away again!"

Legolas blinked, trying to concentrate on what Lindalcon was saying through the haze creeping over his senses, but found that all he wanted to do was lay his head against the younger elf's shoulder and sleep.

Lindalcon felt Legolas go limp and grinned at Fearfaron.  Together they settled their charge under the covers and tucked him in.

The carpenter watched Legolas sleep and it was all he could do to keep from gathering the recovering warrior up into his arms again.  It was difficult to reconcile the tales of the fearless Tawarwaith's recent battles with the diminished figure supine on the mattress.  It scarcely seemed real and he feared if he looked away but a moment Legolas would be gone.  Just seeing the wild elf's respiration lift and lower the leanly muscled ribs was like a mesmerising talisman swaying in a conjurer's fingers and Fearfaron could not tear his eyes away.  Did he delude himself, or was each breath drawn easier, each exhale less a fretful complaint and more a regular exchange of the lung's airs?

No tension marred Legolas' fair countenance and his body was as limp and boneless as a coil of elven rope.   Even his lips fell slightly open, childlike, as his head rested upon the softness of the pillows.  He had turned on his side, assuming his normal posture in repose, yet his wrist did not rest in its accustomed place upon his waist, for the injury there was too tender to bear even so slight a contact.  The archer had his hands tucked under the pillow, elfling fashion, and the carpenter smiled as he cautiously smoothed back the unruly tresses.

_Would that he were but Lindalcon's age, before all this transpired!  Then could I see to his future properly._

The soft-hearted craftsman silently took the Powers to task for keeping him from Legolas until all the damage was done and he could only seek some means to halt further injury.  Yet, deep in his soul he knew this was a false charge, for he had raised Annaldír with love and care, and still lost him.  With determined fortitude he shoved such a morbid thought from his mind.  If he failed to believe that Legolas could have some semblance of normalcy in his life to come, how would he ever convince the archer?

_Indeed, Annaldír recovered from his grief; I have recovered from mine.  This hope I must share with Legolas!_

As Fearfaron considered things, he had only a day or two to act before the King would descend from the euphoric heights of proud fatherhood and leave his new-born son's side to give thought once more to the problem of his rejected child.  The carpenter hoped the arrival of an uncontested heir might soften the Sinda's loathing for Legolas, but that was far too improbable to be depended upon.  He needed to confer with the three counsellors who oversaw adherence to the Law and Customs and determine a way to forestall any charges of treasonous activity Thranduil hoped to level against the outcast.

Yet, the gentle elf could not bear to leave Legolas alone.  As the hours passed and the day grew toward the brighter dappled dim of noon, he virtually willed the woodland warrior a peaceful respite, neither speaking nor singing, not even making much movement that might result in any disturbance.

_Long overdue is this abeyance of the archer's Tasks, and may it be a lengthy one, that he may regain all he has lost and recover fully!  Valar willing, let an end to this injustice be found and this truly lost warrior be released from his torments!_ Fearfaron prayed fervently.

Too long had the forest champion been parted from him, and to have the Tawarwaith returned alive only due to drastic action by the wizard was a relief bearing a bitter aftertaste.  Fearfaron sighed and allowed his fingers to trail across his adopted child's cheek with feather-light contact.  Legolas' eyes were still closed; a disturbingly persistent status for his foster son, and the carpenter wondered when was the last time true reverie had graced this elf's mind.

"Fearfaron?  Will he be truly well someday?  It is so unnatural to see him sleep like that!"  Lindalcon had likewise kept wordless vigil through the morning and now voiced the carpenter's very thoughts.  With tender hands the young elf readjusted the pillow under his friend's wounded leg, but Legolas did not stir.

"I pray it will be so, Lindalcon.  Legolas is very strong and it is indisputable that Mithrandir has helped him.  We must ensure he is never left alone so that any changes may be noted at once.  I will not have him sink back into that state of torture that claimed him yesterday nor tormented by night terrors."

"Aye!  I will help guard him," the youth offered.  "And I am sure Aragorn will, also.  He is nearly as fond of Legolas as I, though he has known him but days.  Perhaps it is the way of mortals, for there is so little time for all the friendships they will ever have."

"That is an astute observation for one so young," remarked the subject of the elf's words.  Aragorn stood just inside the doorway watching the scene.  "However, it is solely Legolas' noble spirit and forthright bravery that has won my admiration.  Seldom do I choose a friend so quickly."

"You are as quiet as an elf, human!" Lindalcon noted in amazement, for he had not discerned the Man's approach.

"That is because I was raised among the Firstborn."

"And because you have removed those hard-soled boots," retorted Fearfaron, pointing to the stockinged feet of their mortal friend.

"Perhaps!"  Aragorn chuckled.  "My purpose was not to sneak up on you however, I merely needed to ease the discomfort that comes from wearing such gear for days on end.  Mithrandir sent me hither; he wishes to speak with you and asked me to watch over our injured friend until your return."

"That is well; I have matters to discuss with him also.  Please do not leave Legolas alone, come for me should you both be called away," Fearfaron admonished and, when this was agreed, bent to give his adopted child a quick kiss on his forehead before rising and leaving the room.  He had almost shut the door when a sudden thought halted him on the threshold.  "Not that I truly expect him to arrive, but do not allow Thranduil in here without me!"

"Worry not!  I will not let him near Legolas," said Lindalcon fiercely and Fearfaron nodded.

Once the door had shut, Aragorn eased into the leather armchair and raised his feet upon the ottoman.  He sighed contentedly and watched as Lindalcon climbed onto the bed and took Fearfaron's place next to the sleeping patient.  The young elf even continued the steady stroke of fingers through the wild elf's hair in which the carpenter's hands had been engaged.

"I wish I had asked Gladhadithen how long he should sleep," Lindalcon said with a slight frown.  "I know not when to make him wake if he fails to do so on his own.  It has been nearly six hours now!"

Aragorn instantly became concerned, for he was unaware that the healer had added a sleeping draught to Legolas' drink.  Lindalcon had returned his little sister to their mother's room before fetching the carpenter's request, and the mortal had already made his way back to Mithrandir by then.

"Do you mean to say the healer drugged him?" he asked in alarm.  He had no wish to witness another of the warrior's depraved nightmares, nor for the young one to behold such a sight.

"Aye, he would not be sleeping so well otherwise," answered Lindalcon.  He gazed at Aragorn appraisingly, observing his new friend's worried countenance.  "You know about the dreams, then," he stated, for the look on the Man's face was much as Fearfaron's appeared after one of Legolas' visions of darkness.

"I had the unfortunate experience of causing one!" the human exclaimed.  "And it was brought on by this very thing.  Legolas should not be given anything to force his rest."  The mortal's eyes widened.  "You have seen him… his reactions?"  Aragorn could not quite bring himself to name the act and his shocked disgust was evident.

"I have," the young elf tossed back his chestnut waves indignantly.  "Tell me you did not look at him thus!  Legolas can not help what he dreams, nor whom he loves.  The healer says it is because of all the stress associated with his lover leaving him and the tortures of Ailinyéro's chastisement.

"How could you hurt him so?  Do you not think it is difficult enough for him to endure such torments without bearing that scornful reprisal in your eyes?" he fumed, angry at this mortal's demeanour.  "I thought you were his friend!"

"Peace!  I am his friend!  I was just surprised that you would understand such matters; I did not mean to imply anything wrong on Legolas' part." Aragorn said as much to convince himself as the glaring elf tensely drawn and ready to spring upon him at any moment.  The Man could not help being thoroughly scandalised that the adults had let this youth witness the archer's graphic sexual re-enactments.  "How do you know of the chastisement?"

"Everyone knows," Lindalcon shrugged.  "I once heard the tortures with my own ears, for my rooms overlook the barracks courtyard.  That night when Ailinyéro was sent away, I was awakened by the commotion and saw Fearfaron bring him out of there.  I did not understand then what those elves did to him in that room, but I do now."

"How old are you?" the human demanded.

"Old enough!" retorted Lindalcon hotly.  "I will have my Coll O Gweth [Mantle of Maturity -Coming of Age] in three more years.  I was behind in development but I am all caught up again now.  Gladhadithen says it was due to grieving over Adar's death.  Naneth worried I was going to fade, but Legolas turned that around.  I knew after Annaldír's Release that Legolas would never forget my father or abandon him to eternal Wandering.  He is the only one, besides Fearfaron, who does not behave as though Valtamar never existed.

"And there is Gwilith!  I could never leave my little sister, and now I am a big brother, too."  A brilliant light shown in Lindalcon's warm brown eyes as his love for his siblings filled his soul and brimmed upon the moistly gleaming gaze.

"I am sorry," the Man said.  He had not asked much about this young one's life, and suddenly perceived how difficult his position must be within Thranduil's household.  "Still, I am not accustomed to children observing the acts that Legolas imagines in his slumber, and I do not agree with it!"

"What are you talking about?" Now Lindalcon's face contorted in confused repugnance.  "There are no 'acts' to watch!  When the dreaming begins, we wake Legolas up and try to calm him down without embarrassing him overly much, nothing more.

"And I am hardly a child; I have been told of the body's functions and reactions!  Indeed, I think I understand it all better than Legolas does.  I have experienced such dreams myself, as I am sure you have, without the unpleasant terrors that render Legolas' fantasies into horrific nightmares."

"Alright!  Say no more; again I meant no offence to you or to Legolas," Aragorn said and held up a hand to halt Lindalcon's increasingly personal explanations. What he had seen drastically differed from what Aragorn had observed and for that the mortal was relieved.

"He should never sleep by himself, for even without drugs such urges will intrude into his rest." Lindalcon was staring at his friend sadly, still gently stroking the golden head of hair.  "I hate to think of the years he has spent alone, enduring those fearsome experiences without assistance or comfort, unable to wake until the end.

"Why can he not just take a different lover, if that is what he needs?  Fearfaron says it is not as simple as that, yet surely we could find someone for him," Lindalcon stated the obvious solution, not accepting just how unlikely such an outcome was.

_Now does his lack of years show through!_ thought Aragorn with a grim smile and a solemn shake of his head.

"Fearfaron is right; Legolas is under the most dire Judgement known to elf-kind.  Who would seek to join with such an individual?  Even in the best of conditions there is no guarantee that every elf will be blessed with love.  Legolas would have to be more than the heart and soul of such a lover.  And even if this spirit-bride could be found, perhaps Legolas' heart is already claimed."

Lindalcon was quiet as he considered this.  He had heard tales of unrequited lovers withering away in grief but refused to believe this was what ailed his friend.  He shook his head emphatically and scowled at the Man.

"Nay!  If he truly lost the one he loved, Legolas would already have faded.  There has been too much happening to him; no matter how great his endurance, he could not have withstood all of this with a heart already broken," he reasoned.

Aragorn raised his brows, clearly surprised by this statement from one so young, and found there to be some logic in it.  Had he not himself been amazed at the length of years Legolas had borne his grief alone in the wilds?  Yet, what was the explanation for the elf's state if not some unbeatable sorrow?

"Then what, Lindalcon?  For here he lies, surely broken in spirit if ever an elf was!" the mortal softly queried.  He had some vague hope that this child would know the answer, something so unbelievably simple that the adults, in their haste to assign complexity to any quandary not immediately solvable, had overlooked.

"I do not know!  He believes that he is in love and yet alone!  Legolas does not think anyone loves him.  Why can he not see that he is no longer shunned?  To Fearfaron he is as a second son; he is like an older brother to me, Aiwendil saved his life once, and Mithrandir has done everything but bind his very soul to Legolas!  All of us love him!"  Lindalcon was frustrated and struggled to hold back tears.

"Aye, Lindalcon, he does not doubt any of what you have spoken!  But you know that this is not the same as being in love with someone.  If he loves and has given over his heart, then that being holds his life hostage.  This is what has happened to Legolas.  This is what Malthen has done to him," Aragorn concluded as gently as he could.

"Malthen?" the young elf's eyes narrowed; this was news indeed!  "He loves Malthen, but he is not in love with him!  You have to be mistaken."

"Nay, I am not; that is the name he cries during his dreams.  Surely you have witnessed that." Aragorn was alarmed at Lindalcon's response, for he never considered the youth might not be aware of this.  If he had seen the nightmares, he must have heard this name fall from Legolas' lips.

Too late, Aragorn considered that the young elf had exaggerated exactly how much of Legolas' distressing illusions he had observed.  With dismay the Man realised Lindalcon had more than likely repeated things he had overheard between the healer and the carpenter, without ever actually being present during one of the episodes.  He sighed.

"Why is this so unlikely?  You know of this elf?"

"Of course I know him!  He served with Legolas and my father.  He was Legolas' personal guard from the time he was born."

The two stared at one another in the silence that followed, simultaneously realising the depth of such a betrayal, watching the comprehension slowly taking shape within each other's minds.

1.  This is opposite of how Tolkien says things are among the Noldor, but since the Wood Elves in my story trace their lineage maternally, I decided the mother's name would therefore be the more important one.  See Morgoth's Ring, pp 214-217.

Tbc


	44. Chapter 44

**Gûr o Iarwain **[The Counsel of Iarwain]

In the wizard's chambers next door, Fearfaron approached Gandalf with thinly disguised resentment, ignoring the compassionate smile the Istar brought forth just for him.  The carpenter could not dispel the fear that this servant of the Valar would care little for the archer's predicament beyond some utilitarian consideration.  To these beings, how could Legolas seem important in his own right?  Their whims were generated by factors originating far to the West and owing little to the daily struggles faced by the Wood Elves.  What Fearfaron wanted from the Maia he thought unlikely to have granted: the simple truth.

"Welcome, friend carpenter!  Please, lay aside your harsh judgements until you have heard me out," Gandalf said calmly.  He was comfortably ensconced before the blazing hearth in an exquisitely luxurious armchair identical to those in Legolas' suite, swaddled in a warm fur.

Fearfaron approached but did not take the corresponding chair on the other side of the grate.  Now that he was here, he was uncertain how to begin.

"Mithrandir, I truly do thank you for your aid to Legolas.  I hope you can understand my concerns regarding the impact of this extraordinary method of healing."

Gandalf nodded slowly, though really he did not perceive why these elves were so agitated.  Legolas would not be changed in any significant manner.

"I can only assure you again that I will always respect Legolas' integrity and never seek to override his free will.  He is not enslaved, enchanted, or enthralled."

The Istar had insisted on lighting logs gleaned from the kitchen ovens' fuel, refusing to bear the acrid stench emitted when the black coal burned. They regarded one another amid the cheery comforting crackle of the wood fire, a jealously protective warning sharpening the mild Wood Elf's visage while a boldly possessive challenge marked the wizard's amiable smile. In the awkward pause a brisk rap upon the door was a welcomed distraction and Gandalf called for the visitor to enter.  When Iarwain strode purposefully into the room Fearfaron was startled.

"Mae govannen, Counsellor!  Your arrival is an unexpected boon, for I had hoped to speak with you soon.  Please, be comfortable," the carpenter said politely and stepped aside with a bow.   

The ancient one smiled shrewdly at the carpenter but did not take the offered chair.  Instead he made his way over to the wizard and stood glaring down at him.

"Gossip has disseminated the news of your connection to the outcast, Mithrandir, and I have come to learn the truth of it!" he intoned dramatically.

"I fail to see what all the fuss is about!" Gandalf snapped.  If his knee was not aching badly he would have stood and faced down the ancient Elda.

"Of course you do not comprehend the difficulties you have introduced.  You are not an elf!  Our Tawarwaith must be allowed to develop according to the will of Tawar; you are an outside influence he does not need!" the elders' voice rose in volume with every phrase that passed his lips.  "You will only confuse his mind with all the issues of opposing peoples throughout Middle-earth.  Legolas needs to concentrate only on what to do for his people and Tawar.  You are interfering in matters you know nothing about."

"Iarwain, please!  Let us not begin with a shouting match," the wizard entreated.  "Be seated here and the three of us will discuss the situation more calmly."

"Aye, Eldest Counsellor, there is much that has happened which must be made known to you.  I am afraid it is not the wizard who brought external influences across our Tirno's path.  Legolas is in very real peril, even within these walls of rock, for Thranduil holds evidence that may force his expulsion from the Greenwood and Tawar forever."

The old elf at last took his seat and indicated for Fearfaron to join them.  The carpenter settled himself on the settee, desperately hoping he was doing the right thing.

"Before you speak," the Counsellor began,  "let me tell you what transpired after you left the Council chamber yesterday.

"When Thranduil called you forth I knew there was trouble. This is the very topic he introduced; though he did not bring any threats of further reprisals upon the outcast.  He wished to goad the Council into re-examining the events at Erebor, and stated he thinks there is an unwholesome element among our people seeking to unseat our King, using Legolas as the catalyst for such events.

"I am sure he intended to have your input on this, for he said you have insight into dealings between the Lord of Imladris and the fallen archer!  Had you not returned to Legolas' bedside, you would have been asked to reveal this to the Council then."

"Indeed, this is true!" To say Fearfaron was furious to hear these remarks would be too mild.  "And yet there is information I have that the King would not wish revealed, and I would hold it as insurance against Legolas' well-being," the carpenter honestly remarked.

"I will not press you too far, then, until I have convinced you that my intent is not to harm Legolas," the elder decided to allow Fearfaron at least some of his secrets for now.

"I was surprised by your statement yesterday regarding the Noldor," Gandalf interjected.  "To learn that the King also comprehends this intrusion further astounds me!  How did you come to know of this?"

"There was a letter from Legolas.  He told me of it himself and bade me act upon it if he was unable.  I consider he is not in any condition to contest with Thranduil right now, nor to face questioning from the Council.  I have the note with me," he produced the document Legolas had penned and submitted it to Iarwain's perusal.

The elder read it quickly and frowned, handing it on to Gandalf when the wizard's hand reached out.  Fearfaron remained quiet, his features inscrutable, until Mithrandir returned the document to him.

"I must tell you he has learned the truth, Fearfaron," the Istar softly said.  "During the trip here, it became obvious to Aragorn that these were false names, for he was raised in Imladris and knows Erestor well.  I must add to your disgust with me by admitting that it was the connection established between us which gave the elf full knowledge of exactly with whom he had been interacting."

"But there must be something more," Iarwain said before the carpenter could answer.  "This is not evidence that would force us to punish him, yet clearly this is your concern.  He did not know who the elves were, and had already sent his information ahead to aid his people.  I see no cause for alarm regarding this note."

"There is another letter, which was sent to the King."  Fearfaron drew and released a characteristically melancholy breath before continuing.  He knew no other way to lessen the impact of this evidence than to make it known himself and attempt to sway the elder's heart against such slanders.  "It is from Elrond of Imladris.  The words in it are quite derogatory to Legolas.  Thranduil believes these statements will sway the Council to action and turn the people against him."

"I do not think this is possible, Fearfaron.  Come now, when have the Woodland folk been influenced by what the Noldor think or do?  If anything, this foreign Lord's deceitful actions will cause our people to rally round the Tawarwaith!" Iarwain reassured Legolas' protector kindly.

Since the day Fearfaron had announced the Release of his son, the elder had grown to appreciate the humble craftsman's quiet integrity and common sense approach to problems.  He had begun manoeuvring to have him named to the Council.

"There is something yet you have not revealed, which you did not want to say in front of Thranduil, for surely you would not have held your tongue if this matter had been raised yesterday."

Yet still Fearfaron hesitated, for it felt strange and somehow ominous to request the same thing that Thranduil had hoped to bring about, though their reasons differed as fish from fowl.

"I, too, believe it is time to investigate what actually happened at Erebor.  Talagan's company is near and Maltahondo is among them.  He was with Legolas on the ridge.  I propose we retain the troops here until the remaining survivors of that unit can be summoned.  Talagan and his warriors will return soon from their pursuit of the Orcs that invaded the Realm, and the rest of his former company can be recalled from their respective patrols.  I am convinced the errors Legolas made were unavoidable rather than careless.

"I ask you, Iarwain, what elf amongst our people has found benefit from these dread events?"  The carpenter prodded gently, hoping in one sense that he was imagining the connection, and that the elder would not come to the same conclusion which had at last found a home in his own thoughts.  Yet no other result was logical, as abhorrent as the idea was.

"Ah!" this exclamation from Gandalf drew both elves attention to him.  "This is the line of reasoning I have also been following, Fearfaron.  Indeed, this will be a difficult topic to bring before the King, especially now.  I fear this will not help endear Legolas to the Woodland Lord."

"It is the only way to lift the Judgement!" hissed the carpenter.  "He has suffered enough for things he never caused.  He has even accepted the responsibility and has surely done enough brave deeds to free every warrior ever Lost since the First Age."

Iarwain's brow furrowed as he considered the carpenter's and the wizard's words carefully, and after a few minutes he raised astonished and disbelieving eyes to his countryman.  He found there that what had occurred to him was indeed what Fearfaron was suggesting, and the counsellor's face fell with aggrieved defeat.

"Oh, if this is true, it is unconscionable!  The plotting of such acts!  What punishment could we exact for so devious a scheme?" he railed in distress.  "This would rend out peoples' very soul, to acknowledge such betrayal is possible against one's own!"

"I agree the treachery is beyond anything I would have thought any elf capable of conceiving, yet I do not think Legolas would demand any retribution.  As for me, I want only for this dread decree to be lifted from him; surely he has been punished enough even before the Judgement."

Iarwain was nodding his head slowly, staring into the dancing orange flames within the fireplace.

"I wish it were possible to spare the Woodland folk more distress, yet such is not our fate.  How can we hope to combat what we fear to face, whether that be invasion from foreign realms or the decay of our spirits under the influence of this ever-growing Shadow?" he finally spoke in a voice wearied with the long Ages of his steadfast watch over his peoples' lives.

"I will petition the full Council for an investigation of the events at Erebor.  I do not think it is possible to prevent calling Legolas forth to be questioned, particularly if Thranduil raises his claims of consorting with an adversary."

"Why is it considered treason when Thranduil and Elrond are not engaged in any open aggression against one another's lands?" demanded Gandalf irritably.  "Surely this is just a case of some personal grudge match, hardly a matter of state!"

"Indeed, ridiculous as the claims may seem to you, it is possible these Noldor do desire to displace Thranduil and have corrupted Legolas to this end.  If Elrond wishes to destroy Thranduil's legacy, what better way to go about it?  It is not inconceivable to me that Legolas might wish to return some of his pain upon those who abandoned him to so cruel a fate," said Iarwain.

"And if I can imagine it, who considers the Tawarwaith true, then others not as convinced will be quite able to do so.  The forest Darkens daily, folk want to be able to blame someone and desire to believe the remedy is as easy as doling out punishments.  They hope by removing those tarnished elements from our Woods that all will return to normal.

"Our own laws condemned Legolas and he accepted the Judgement.  This will have to be done publicly, for the truth will be unbelievable and unacceptable otherwise.  No doubt must remain regarding either his actions at Erebor or his motives for the future."

The Istar scowled fiercely and sent the carpenter an accusing glare.  He did not see that any of this would be good for Legolas in his current physical and mental state.

_And he fears my impact upon the fallen archer!_

"Ai!  I know it must be, yet I did not wish him to face all this again!  At least we must wait until he is stronger," Fearfaron groaned.  This had not gone exactly as he had hoped, pushing Legolas into a public forum to be questioned by the Council and accused by Thranduil.  He had thought Iarwain and the elders would investigate the situation privately and only bring to light evidence that would counteract the Judgement.  He truly had no desire to have the guilty ones exposed or punished.

_What have I done?_

Next door, Legolas shifted in his sleep and his frame tightened as tension swept through his body in a worrisome shudder.  Instantly Lindalcon leaned down until his mouth was right next to Legolas' ear and gripped his shoulder tightly.

"Legolas!  Legolas, you must wake up now; I need you to awaken!" the young elf called sharply as he jostled his friend.  "Now, Legolas, you are needed!  Where is your bow, archer, do you not heed the alarm?"

The wounded elf's eyes snapped open and he stared at Aragorn in perplexed confusion for a few seconds before he realised there was someone beside him on the bed.  With a complaining groan he lifted his head and glanced back at Lindalcon, who was grinning.

Aragorn shook his head in bemusement. No wonder the youth had never seen the full extent of the nightmares; he had obviously been taught what signs might herald such an event and how to force the Woodland warrior from unconsciousness. While there was no way he could have possessed such knowledge, the human regretted thoroughly not being able to use this tactic that night in the black water fen.

The mortal healer let his inner eye scan Legolas thoroughly, resulting in a pleased and astounded countenance.  Just as on the morning before the spider battle, the wild archer's recuperation was speedily progressing.

_Now if we can prevent any further confrontations for a time, mayhap I will find this elf to be formidable indeed when not impeded by injury and illness._

"Sorry, just wanted to make sure you were not slipping too far away this time," Lindalcon said and gave the archer another gentle shove on the shoulder.

Legolas let his head drop back onto the pillow with a sigh.  He felt Lindalcon lightly pat him on the back and smiled a little before succumbing to a tremendous yawn.  He knew why his friend had really awakened him and shifted uncomfortably as the sensation slowly receded and his arousal diminished, once more sensible of his nudity beneath the blanket.

"Lindalcon, I need clothes.  What happened to my leggings?" he said quietly.  He wanted to get out of the bed and into the bathing room to relieve himself.  Under no circumstances was he going to do so naked and in front of his friends.

"Clothes?  Is that what you call those rags you were clad in when you got here?" the younger elf laughed.

"Legolas, we sent those tattered leggings to be burned with the refuse!  Surely you know there was no way to salvage them," said Aragorn.  "The spider guts and orc gore were completely ingrained, and your own blood thoroughly saturated the material."

"Then I must borrow something.  Lindalcon, let me have a pair of your leggings," the archer pleaded and looked over his shoulder to gauge his friend's reaction.

"Well, I promised I would not do that."

"What?  Who asked such a promise of you and why?"

"I think you know it was Fearfaron!  He said that keeping you bare is one sure way to stop you from getting out of bed too soon."

Aragorn could not suppress a small snicker of amusement and earned a searing glare from the Tawarwaith.

"Alright, then you will find me something to wear!" Legolas pointed at the Man as he pushed up from the mattress onto his elbow.

"Do not drag me into this!  I am but a guest here and know nothing of where spare garments, if such even exist, are kept!"

"That is not a problem.  I have plenty of clothes at home in Fearfaron's talan.  You will go and get them!" the former prince demanded.

"I am not going anywhere until Fearfaron comes back.  We both promised to keep watch over you until his return," Aragorn was laughing through his words at this imperious command from the naked elf.

"Fine, I want to see Fearfaron!  He will not treat me this way, even if my own friends show such disrespect and contempt for my comfort," he mourned pitifully.

"I am immune to such paltry attempts to instil guilt into my heart, Legolas!" Lindalcon snorted and pushed Legolas' head down onto the pillow playfully.  "You know it is for your own good that Fearfaron does this.  Have you forgotten the last time we had you home and you almost fell when climbing down from the talan?"

The archer flushed in embarrassment as the mortal failed to stifle a loud bark of merriment, for it was unheard of for a Wood Elf to fall from a tree, much less a sturdy elf-made ladder.  Immediately he pulled the pillow from behind his head, swatting Lindalcon with it feebly.

"I cannot believe you told that!" he railed and swung the cushion again as Lindalcon ducked, laughing gleefully.  "So much for brotherly support and protection," Legolas grinned wickedly.  "I do not suppose you have mentioned to Aragorn that you still sleep with a babe's…" Lindalcon's hand clamped over the wild elf's mouth and shut out the words instantly, and Legolas promptly bit his fingers.

The younger elf's loud yelp of pain and Aragorn's hoots of laughter drew the carpenter, the counsellor, and the wizard from their conference.  They hurried to the Tawarwaith's rooms and stood in the doorway gazing in amused consternation from one to the other of the rough-housers.

Legolas was smiling as Lindalcon hastily replaced the abused pillow back in its proper place behind the invalid's head and helped the archer turn onto his back.  Aragorn rose and graciously smoothed out the rumpled coverlet.  They managed to look up rather contritely at their frowning visitors.

Lindalcon and Legolas snickered when all three of the venerable elders decided to level their displeased countenances upon the Man.

"What?  Lindalcon started it!" Aragorn cried in exasperation before any one could speak.

Tbc


	45. Chapter 45

**Tôl Bar Crebain an Idh **[The Crows Come Home to Roost.]

Legolas leaned against Fearfaron, one arm encircling the older elf's abdomen, fingers digging somewhat painfully into his waist, and the other wrapped around his shoulders.  Out of bed for the first time in three days, the archer was garbed in a long, soft bathing robe of spun silk lined in finely woven wool, dyed emerald green, while the outside was a pristine white purer than winter's first snows.  The loose garment was held closed with a wide braided belt of matching green silk, and was carelessly tied just enough to keep the covering from slipping off.  Legolas panted with every hopping step forward, left leg carefully angled at the knee to keep his foot clear of any jarring contact with the rough stone floor that might aggravate the stitched wound.

Because the wrap belonged to the carpenter, it was too long for the smaller elf and Fearfaron held it up, slippery fabric bunched together in one fist, to prevent Legolas from stumbling on the dragging hem.  While assisting his foster son awkwardly across the room, Fearfaron had to be cautious of where he gripped onto the woodland warrior, for the tear in his side was just healing up and could not be disturbed.  There was also a much shallower laceration on Legolas' hip, making a solid handhold even more difficult.  Yet somehow he managed to support the wounded elf without allowing Legolas to bear any weight upon the torn thigh muscles.

Even so, the journey of these few steps between the bedside and the bathing room was strenuous for the archer and harrowing for Fearfaron.  He would have preferred to keep his foster son down for at least another full day, but Legolas steadfastly refused to empty his bladder in a chamber pot, even when Fearfaron had sent everyone else from the suite.  No reason for such obstinacy would the former prince give.

The carpenter sighed in resignation; he really could not see what difference it made whether the commode was in one room or another, but Legolas had remained adamant in his demands.  Fearfaron supposed he should be pleased to note his adopted son's irritable mood, for it was a good indicator of returning health.  If he was able to give so much effort to complaining, Legolas must be in far less pain and feeling much stronger.  Fearfaron knew Legolas despised being confined, and hated even more requiring help with these most basic of the body's functions.

"Slowly, Legolas, there is no need to hurry!  I fear you will fall or exhaust yourself!"

"There is a very good reason to be quick!"

"That would not be the case if you would comply with Gladhadithen's instructions and allow an appropriate receptacle to be brought in here!"

"Nay!  I would not be so pressured to rapidity had you lent me this robe earlier!  If I come to harm it is your fault, Fearfaron, for keeping me captive and unclothed!"

"Hush, I will not let you come to harm!  Just rest a moment here against the bureau; we are almost there."

"Ada, I cannot!" Legolas snapped and continued his shuffling hop-step towards the doorway, regarding the threshold of the unremarkable room with a feeling of grim determination usually reserved for far more desperate situations.  Never had so humble a destination proved so challenging a goal to achieve!

At last they entered the room and Legolas was finally able to tend to nature's demands satisfactorily, though having Fearfaron support his weight during the procedure was humiliating.  He let his foster father help him over to the bath and seat him on the broad, sanded rim of the wooden tub to catch his breath.  Fearfaron held him carefully until he was certain Legolas was stable, braced up on his arms, and not stressing the injuries.

"Wait a moment; I have clothing for you.  You may as well have it since you refuse to be reasonable and remain in bed," the carpenter fussed as he turned and walked back into the bedroom.

He returned to find Legolas breathing more normally but with head bowed and eyes shut, a distinct pallor to his features that bespoke a profound fatigue.  Under the gleam of the single oil lantern, a filmy sheen of sweat shown, coating his face and neck. His arms were trembling just slightly from the effort to bear his weight and keep him upright, absorbing any pressure that might disturb his injured side and leg, and looked as though they might fail in the endeavour any moment.

Fearfaron hurried over and sat down next to him, quickly reaching an arm around Legolas' shoulders so that he would not have to hold himself up any longer.  The relieved gasp that left the younger elf's lungs as he sagged against the carpenter was ample proof that ambulatory activity would have to be restricted for some days still.  Fearfaron refrained from scolding, however, and just held on to Legolas firmly.  After a few minutes, Legolas lifted his head and met his foster father's compassionate gaze with a weary smile.

"I will try not to worry you; I will stay in bed except for this," he promised.

"Good!" Fearfaron grinned and taking up a washcloth from the tub used the opportunity to wipe away the clammy perspiration from Legolas' face.  Then he held up the clothing he had brought for Legolas' inspection.

The trousers were loosely made for sleeping, woven from raw silk, and constructed with a wrap front so that they were easily opened to attend the body's needs.  The open fly overlapped, with one panel in front of the other, and long ties attached to each.  On the left side of the trousers, in the waistband, a slit had been cut and finished to accommodate the tie end of the inner flap.  This belt then passed around the waist at the back to be knotted to the outer fly's corresponding sash on the right.

A soft tunic of the identical material was tailored in the same manner, made to wrap in the front and knot at the side.  The sleeves were long and wide, slightly flared at the wrists, and attached to a dropped shoulder for loose fitting comfort.  Both pieces were lined with soft lightweight wool material that added warmth, for the caverns remained cool year round, and prevented any seams from irritating the skin.  The garments were died a deep yellow colour and were cheerful and bright.

Legolas was careful to smile and nod approval, for he knew that his foster father had gone to some trouble to have these things made.  The silk was not cheap to purchase and even more costly to have dyed, woven into cloth, and turned into finished garments.  The wool was also expensive, as the elves did not keep livestock of their own and had to trade with the woodsmen or the Men of Dale for the fleece.  He realised Fearfaron must have bartered for this service, for he was not one to charge much for his carpentry skills and could not afford these things otherwise.  The outcast prince had no wish to seem ungrateful or critical of this gift.

In reality, however, Legolas thought the clothes far too similar to something a child would have to wear.  Only an elfling too young to be able to get dressed without help would be garbed in such apparel.  He distinctly remembered having outfits just like this when he was so small he could barely walk and was barred from stairways.  In spite of his good intentions, Legolas' stoic smile slip-shifted into a darkling scowl as he viewed the garish hue of sunny gold with distaste.

_How can he expect me to put these on?_

"I know you are displeased now," Fearfaron could not help a small laugh at the doleful expression that quickly won dominance over the forced, polite smile on the archer's countenance.  "Yet in very little time you will come to appreciate why I had the clothes made like this!  Come on, I will help you get into them."

_Indeed, it is no mystery!  He has found a clever way to keep my confined; I would not be seen in such nightdress or this ridiculous colour!_

Reluctantly, the Tawarwaith accepted the aid and the covering, for it was either that or remain swathed in the over-sized robe that kept slipping open and revealing too much.  In the forest, he had experienced no embarrassment from being so scantily clad, for he was always, barring recent events, alone.  Here in the heart of the Woodland folks' city, Legolas felt his lack of appropriate apparel acutely and was reminded forcefully that he was not allowed to don the Greenwood's signature combination of sienna and sage shaded cloth.

In no time he was dressed and gripped Fearfaron's shoulder to pull himself upright once more.  The craftsman would not permit this, however, and lifted Legolas easily into his arms, careful not to press the injured side against him.

"Nay, do not even say one word of complaint, Legolas!  You have had enough exercise, and I refuse to allow anymore argument.  I compromised on your demand for privacy in order to relieve yourself, now you must do the same with my request that you rest abed for the remainder of the day."    

"I am not arguing, complaining, or demanding!" Legolas replied as he leaned his brow against Fearfaron's head.  Now that the clothes were on, he found great comfort in the sensation of the material against his skin, a tangible reminder that he was cared for and loved.  He was also pleased at the warmth the clothing provided; for in his weakened state he felt the change in temperature between the outside and the underground rooms keenly.  He had been chilled without even realising it.  But for the tint of the material, he could be quite satisfied with his new garments.

He complied wordlessly as Fearfaron settled him propped up upon the pillows with the covers over his lap and other than a murmured 'thank you' continued the silence, for he could tell there was something bothering his foster father.

Fearfaron sighed and glanced quickly at Legolas, climbing up and again seating himself next to the archer, back against the headboard.  He reached around Legolas' shoulders and gently pulled him closer so that he could rest his chin on the younger elf's head and sighed in contentment to feel the fuzzy locks nestled into the crook of his neck as Legolas relaxed against him.  Still the carpenter remained quiet, uncertain exactly how to bring up more ill news.

Legolas stifled a slightly irked sough.

"Please just tell me."

"I fear that you will be angry over this, and that I am the cause of it," the gentle craftsman began.  "You know I would never do or say anything that would bring you harm, yet unwittingly I have done so!"

"I will not be angry with you; I understand you mean only to help.  What is it?" Edgy impatience marred the carefully chosen words of the Tawarwaith.

"I have met with Iarwain, and have shown him the letter you sent to me from the woodsmen's village.  He is outraged at the interference from the Noldor interlopers, and is aware of who the elves are.  The Council will draft a claim against Imladris for this cause."

"What?  Nay, I do not want any of that known!  I will never see them again, and the wrongs need not be addressed!  What good can come of this, for the acts cannot be undone, and I would not have this be public, Fearfaron!" Legolas was shocked; it was not what he had been expecting at all.  "Why did you do this?" he wailed in misery as he pulled back to search his foster father's eyes for the answer.

And then confusion invaded his thoughts, for how could Iarwain comprehend what elves he had encountered, for at the time he had written to Fearfaron, Legolas himself did not have that knowledge.  Cold dread joined the bewilderment.  "Fearfaron?"

"Please try to understand, Legolas, I had no choice in the matter!  Your letter was not the only one sent here with the woodsman.  Remember the communication I spoke of between Elrond and Thranduil; it arrived the same day and reveals all.  Thranduil plans to use the document to discredit you before the Council and our people.  He is feeling threatened by the growing regard the Woodland folk hold for you, especially among his troops!"

With concern Fearfaron observed the archer's crestfallen features as the doubt gave way to an expression of betrayal and hurt that was unbearable even to look upon, for Fearfaron was uncertain whether he was the perpetrator of this reaction or the Noldo Lord.  The carpenter tugged Legolas back into his embrace and held him tightly.

"Forgive me for bringing this upon you; it was never my intent to increase your distress!" he implored.

"Nay, it is not of your doing and you need not plead for pardon!"

Legolas' mind struggled to encompass all the woe that had been conveyed in these few simple words.  That Thranduil still treated his existence as a personal affront was nothing unexpected, yet going to such extremes to eradicate the banished warrior from the King's reality was a surprise.  The idea of Thranduil viewing Legolas as an opponent was a disturbing twist the archer had never considered possible.

However, it was the revelation of Elrond's rejuvenated hostility that shook the wild warrior's fragile composure.  What motive could the renowned healer and veteran of the Last Alliance have for bringing greater shame upon an elf already outcast and shunned by his own people?  How could the degradation the Noldo had already dealt him not have been sufficient?  And from what stemmed this craving to humiliate him?  Legolas wondered when the Elf Lord would have chosen to reveal his real identity, had the archer not fled from the enchanted glade.

"Elrond did this?  Does he tell why?  We had put some of the rancour between us aside before we parted, or so I believed.  What does this letter say, Fearfaron?"

"It is not complimentary, so I can only assume the attempt at settling your differences was false on his part, as were all his interactions with you.  I have never read anything like it before, and hope never to again.  It is not the sort of document one expects a noble ancient to commit to record, for it is more telling of his character's deficiencies than yours!

"As to why, that is equally despicable.  Legolas, Elrond knows you are Thranduil's own child.  From what Thranduil indicated, it was Elrond who first cast doubts upon your parentage, and with a method even I would be hard put to ignore!  Suffice it to say this is not the first time he has sent so timely a message to the King.

"He has done this as a means to destroy Thranduil's peace of mind.  He was ever the target, and you have been the Elf Lord's weapon of choice.  Elrond did not care that he would ruin you while he pursued his malicious game.  He stole from you the life you were born to live and removed any chance of belonging to a loving family.  And he wanted to make it clear to Thranduil exactly how well he had achieved his goal. His obsession with this vendetta must be consuming his soul.  This letter is so vindictive!

"I will not repeat any of it to you; these are not words you need to hear.  If I can prevent it, I will keep Thranduil from offering the communication for public perusal.  However, there is no way to stop the grievance from being formally presented to Imladris, and possibly to Lothlorien and Mithlond as well."

Hearing this Legolas groaned and shook his head against Fearfaron's shoulder in futile denial.

"The Council will not allow so blatant an attempt to compromise our borders go unchallenged.  I will do all I can to keep the focus on the intention of the Elf Lord to make you turn against your own people while leaving the methods he employed out.

"Iarwain is sympathetic, and understands Thranduil's motives in this.  He will assist me in any way possible to keep that letter from being read into public record or being incorporated into the demand for an accounting from Elrond for his actions.

"But I will not lie or mislead you.  If Thranduil wishes it, he can make this known at any time, for he is in possession of the missive.  Also, once the complaint is delivered, there is no way of perceiving how Elrond will respond to it.  He may choose to defend himself by attacking your character and debasing your nature, even as he has done in this letter."  Fearfaron felt Legolas cringe at these words and soothingly stroked his hand against the beleaguered elf's shoulder in commiseration.

"Ai! Fearfaron, I never thought my actions would lead to such harsh reprisals!  I should never have allowed this to happen!"

"Legolas, you are not to blame yourself for these things!  It is not wrong to feel such attractions or to act on them.  For long years have you been alone, even before you were removed from contact with any of your kind.  It is natural that upon encountering elves you would be drawn to them and seek solace from them, if such was offered.  I am fairly confident in saying you were not the one to initiate sex, correct?"  Fearfaron sighed as he felt the brief movement of Legolas' head assenting to this statement.

"You are not bound to anyone, Legolas, despite what you feel regarding Maltahondo.  You and he are not mated one to the other.  His intentions we shall deal with separately," the carpenter felt the shiver that coursed through Legolas' body and hurried past the dangerous topic.

"That these elves were deceitful was not possible for you to understand, for they planned only to use you from the outset.  That idea is so completely foreign it would never enter your thoughts, Legolas, I am happy to say, and yet your own honest outlook has been twisted into a weapon against you now!  This Iarwain saw plainly, and Mithrandir also attested to the same, explaining how Aragorn was the bearer of these unpleasant tidings.

"And I must say that I feel Elrond should be made to face the consequences for his base manipulations of an innocent heart.  Never have you done anything to cause him to despise you so, and in fact I believe you held him in some regard.  It is well he is not of our people, or I would already have driven him into exile for his actions, if only to prevent myself from committing him to Mandos Halls!"

As Fearfaron finished this lecture, Legolas felt his own anger growing to match his foster father's.  The reasoning the carpenter supplied to account for the Lord of Imladris' bitter hatred toward him added to the sense of non-existence Legolas had experienced with Elrond.  Memories flooded his psyche and in vain he tried to push them away, but the image of their last coupling presented itself in vivid detail such that Legolas' stomach wrenched uncomfortably in response.

He had wanted to give and receive pleasure and consolation, nothing more, yet in some way Elrond had deemed this desire an affront.

_Because he viewed me as he would a common prostitute among Men. I was to satisfy his purpose; my needs were irrelevant!_

Legolas could not understand then what he had done that was so repugnant, so offensive as to generate the intensity of the Noldo's subsequent cruelty.  In fact, he had done nothing to warrant such treatment.  Comprehending this did nothing to alleviate the intensity of the tainted shame attached to their intercourse.  Elrond's mocking laughter and sarcastic, cutting words rang through his mind.

_'No need to be so distraught, pen-rhovan, with more practice you will improve, I am certain!  It was enjoyable nonetheless.'_

The conclusion was as inescapable now as it had been then: Elrond had enjoyed hurting and humiliating him just for the pleasure of being able to indulge such baseness uncontested, and he had undoubtedly hoped to repeat the experience if possible.

It seemed he had found a way to do so, even far removed from the wild elf in the secluded haven of Imladris. And in the Hidden Vale, introspection of a differen sort was simultaneaously underway.

The surface of the object was smooth and cold to the touch, only a few pits, scratches, or flaws marred the body of the satiny material, and he ran his thumb against it, feeling the tacky coat of oils left on the glassy stuff by his skin.  The slick polish bore testimony to hours of smoothing friction by work of careful hands employing running water and the finest grit.

Tentatively, the tip of his index finger probed closer to the edge, transmitting the information gleaned from this sensitive investigation to his inner vision.  He could clearly replicate the image in perfect detail; a regular pattern of delicate scallops all along the tapered sides thinned the dense mass into a razored outline.  The meticulously deadly sharpness culminated in an apex so diminished it must be but the size of a pollen grain.  He ghosted his touch across it delicately, scarcely feeling the impression, not desiring to prick his skin and spill blood.

He held to the article in secrecy, fondling its utilitarian beauty obscured from observant eyes, hidden even from his own view in the dark confines of a pocket.

"…harvest of apples is even more abundant than last season!  I took the liberty of distributing the excess to the human villages across the river near the East Road…"

Elrond was vaguely aware of the allocution taking place, but it hardly seemed worthy of his full consideration when he held so fascinating an artefact.  He tested the dimensions of the stone point by compressing it between thumb and forefinger.  The width was barely more than a sliver, no thicker than a sheaf of parchments stacked together, and he marvelled at the material's ability to mask its durability within so gracefully slender a form.

_Like its maker._

He followed the edge down the opposite leg of the arrowhead's angle, absently counting the scallops and wondering if the number of depressions was significant in some way, adding to the efficiency of the flight of the missile or increasing its ability to cut through flesh and bone.

_An archer would know such things; I am no archer._

It had never occurred to him before to question the practical reasons for design; the making of arrows was a skill for his lesser citizens.  He had no idea who among the elves of Imladris was responsible for the task or even where the material to make them originated.  How did one acquire the knowledge for making a blade from stone?  Were his archers still using stone to tip the shafts of their feathered bolts?

_Surely not, they must cast them from molten metallic alloys, even as sword blades are created.  The Noldor have not used stone implements since before the First Age._

And yet Elrond had to admit it; he did not truly know, merely assuming Imladris' archers armed their arrows with metal points.  The warriors' quivers were kept filled, that was all the information he had ever cared to have.

"…a small group from Lorien, making for the Havens.  They are a single family, fifteen in number, having lost three in the passes…"

The Lord of Imladris sighed and frowned as he sent a glance in the direction of the speaker of these words.  The remarks were but a sample of a seemingly endless recitation of everything that had transpired since he was last at home, down to the most mundane of details.  Elrond shifted in his chair and drummed lightly with his fingers against the exquisite whorls and burls of the wood's grain exposed through the gleaming sheen of the lacquered tabletop.  He turned his insight back to contemplating the primitive device of death deep in the pocket of his robe.

His hand flipped the arrowhead over, for the hundredth time at least, to examine the other face of the weapon.  He counted the scalloped indents at the bladed rim, identical to the previous number on the reverse, as he already knew.  He felt along the gently convex bottom, the place where the point would be joined to the sturdy, slender wooden body of the projectile.  Here the bulk of the stone on both sides had been worked, not to achieve lethal sharpness but to fit it snugly into a ready shaft.

_It is shaped like a leaf, how appropriate!_

Elrond wondered if the configuration of his souvenir was a common shape or one specific to the Woodland Realm, or perhaps unique to Legolas.  None of this had occurred to him when he had selected the relic from among the handful spilled from the outcast's quiver while he lay, naked and slumbering, after the rains in Mirkwood that day.  The Elf Lord had chosen the point hastily, picking this one solely for the beauty of the stone's peculiarly mottled green and black pattern.

He had never been interested enough before to consider what designs the individual barbs might take, merely acknowledging the steep triangular pinnacle gracing the weapons.  In the end, what one saw upon viewing an armed archer was a quiver filled with notched, fletched shafts.  The tips were only visible for mere seconds when a warrior aimed and launched the arrow into the air.

But now, he found that he very much would like the answers to all of these questions.  Elrond longed to possess the thoughts passing through Legolas' mind when he had chosen this bit of rock and made this arrowhead.  Why could the stone not give up these secrets to his healer's touch?

"…have been required to quarantine the mortal merchants until we can determine what illness this may be.  While none have died of it, two Men's villages have fallen prey already…"

The ceaseless resume of activity at the Last Homely House continued.  Elrond grunted a noncommittal response and then promptly drove the words from his attention again.  One day was very much like another in Imladris, after all, and he had left his home in capable hands.

The Noldo Lord let go the arrowhead and fumbled around in the pocket of his velvet vestments, fingers seeking, heart lurching when they failed to clasp the item he sought.  Elrond unconsciously sighed, his pulse relaxing back into its normal rhythm, as soon as his digits' recognised the soft, felted lock of hair coiled in the corner of the garment's concealed pouch.  He traced around the spiralling knot he had carefully constructed from the heavy strand, absorbing the remainder of the wild elf's essence infused into the hair.

If he breathed very slowly and deeply, he could catch a faint whiff of the fallen archer's intoxicating aroma at the height of his passion.  Elrond drew in a long breath and held it as his eyes dropped shut of their own volition.  An image of Legolas surged to the forefront of his mind; the feral elf appeared as he had on that first day in the forest, staring down upon them with bow armed and drawn, that odd mixture of youthful curiosity and jaded distrust shining in the unsounded fathoms of those pools of radiant blue.

"…then the entire goat herd burst into flame and went raging about the paddock.  It took every elf in the barracks to extinguish the ensuing blaze, and I had no choice but to instruct my archers to kill the poor beasts mercifully!  I suspect some malicious Maia attached to the service of the Dark Lord was responsible."

Silence.  The voice had ceased chattering, quite suddenly.  What had the elf said just now? Elrond's eyes opened into a narrowed glare as he exhaled a prolonged, silent sigh. His brow creased into an array of furrows that usually signalled his rising wrath and was matched by the deep down-turning of his stern lips.  He raised a most daunting scowl to the speaker.

"What did you say, Glorfindel?" he demanded.  "I am not in the mood for your unremarkable attempts at humour!  Just continue with your bloody report!"

"Forgive me, my Lord, I just needed to reassure myself that you were listening, as it has been over an hour and you have made no reply to anything I have said thus far!"  If the venerable Vanya warrior was surprised to hear this discourteous remark from his Lord, he did not show it.  He stood at the other side of the broad table, arms crossed against his chest, gazing down upon Elrond with a rather bemused expression tinged with the smallest taint of worry.  Rarely was the Lord of Imladris so distracted.

"I assure you I am getting every detail!" Elrond retorted.  "Perhaps you have mistaken my complete confidence in your ability to manage these trivialities for disinterest!"

"Nay, I mistake nothing!" Glorfindel snorted.  "It is hardly my doing that Erestor is not here to attend to these matters!  If you wish me to deal with all this without informing you of the incidents occurring in your Realm during your unexpected absence, please say so!  I have twice the work load and half the assistance to complete it!"

"My journey was hardly unexpected, Glorfindel, as you were informed two weeks before I set forth!"

"Oh, aye, yet you never arrived at your proposed destination!  Your sons are out searching for you even now!  Where did you go, Elrond, and what has become of Erestor?"  The Balrog slayer leaned down and slapped his ample palm against the solid wood with a jarring thump.

Elrond rose from the table and met his noble retainer's stare in fury as Glorfindel stood tall and straight.  Whatever his first life's glory may have been, Glorfindel was bound in service to the Peredhel's house in this one.

"You forget yourself, my friend," hissed the Noldo Lord.  "I owe you no accounting of my activities!  As for Erestor, he must be in Lorien by now safely tucked away between his two loves in their cosy Guardsman's talan!"

The two glowered at one another for several seconds and simultaneously broke away, each taking a step or two to create a calming distance between them within the close confines of the Elf Lord's study.

Elrond rubbed his temples as though his head pained him, when truly he was only irritated due to lack of sleep.  Little rest had he achieved since his abrupt departure from the woodsman's village.  He had but to drift off for a moment to find his memory assailing him with the unpleasantly stimulating events he had witnessed in the wild elf's sanctuary.  When he managed to force these reflections from his mind, he found his thoughts invaded by erotic fantasies of the golden archer offering the Noldo Lord his wanton charms.

Added to this disturbing drain on his resources, his reappearance had been anything but unobtrusive.  Upon arriving home the previous day Elrond had discovered that his careful plans to spare his children worry had not been as punctiliously constructed as they might have been.  He should have considered that a chance message addressed to him from Arwen, currently residing with the Lord and Lady in Lothlorien, would arrive in his absence.  Elrond had chosen suitable destinations with which to conjure his lies, inventing false needs to journey from Imladris.  To Glorfindel and his sons he had spoken of meetings with Galadriel; meanwhile informing Arwen that he would be away from home for a month or more conferring with Cirdan at the Havens.

His daughter was nearly as annoyingly precise and painstaking as Celebrian had been, dating the outside of the sealed missive so that the intended recipient would know how long had been the delay between the sending and the delivery.  Elrond had never asked Celebrian what the purpose of this comparison might be, suspecting it had something to do with ensuring the messengers went about their tasks without side trips to brothels and gaming houses.  The date on Arwen's note made it obvious he was not in Lorien as he had indicated, for an uneventful trip would have placed him in the Golden Wood two weeks prior to her letter's departure.

It was Elladan who had found the sealed scroll amid the accumulating stacks of correspondence on his father's desk and raised the alarm that the Lord of Imladris and his faithful seneschal had gone missing.  Elrond mentally winced; it was also Elladan who had first discovered that his mother had never made it to Lorien, all those years ago.  Causing his son to relive this dread despair had not been Elrond's intent.

The note had not even been of any importance, merely a reminder of Erestor's Conception Day celebration to be held on the autumnal equinox in Lorien.  Prudent to a fault, Arwen had already mentioned this months ago, and used the written method as a failsafe lest he forget she had done so!  That such ridiculous redundancy could be the cause of his sons' alarmed concern and possible harm at the hands of Orcs was unbearable!

Silently the Noldo cursed Legolas and Ningloriel, and the entire pedigree of Thranduil's long lineage.

And then there were the horses.  He and Erestor had been on horseback when they set out and the animals had not returned on their own.  This they would have done if capable of movement, even should their masters be lost, so this produced a mixed signal of both ominous and hopeful mien.  Elrond could imagine his sons arguing about that point; Elladan taking the alarmist view that both elves and horses had perished, Elrohir the more positive approach that riders and steeds were alive and merely delayed for some benign reason.  The horses had been safely cared for in Beorn's secluded valley during the unwholesome adventure, from whence Elrond had retrieved his own trusted mount on his way home.

Elladan and Elrohir had left almost at once to track down their father and his kinsman.  That had been a week hence.

All of this Glorfindel had explained upon his Lord's arrival in the courtyard at tinnu of the previous day, demanding answers in scalding tones of relieved distress covered over with fiery rage.

Elrond sighed.

"Glorfindel, I cannot reveal more to you.  My plans went awry, nothing more.  The fact that Elladan and Elrohir assumed the worst is horrible enough for me to bear; their fate is what concerns me right now.  If they come to harm searching for me, I will never forgive myself!" the Elf Lord quietly spoke his greatest fear.

_Yet it is not they that I turn my thoughts upon!  Indeed, I have envisioned the face and form of only the outcast since leaving the woodsmen's village!_

The Balrog slayer turned back to observe his Lord carefully and caught the forlorn expression of guilty remorse transform into one of barely controlled fury.  The renowned loremaster and former Herald to the High King must have noted this for he turned slightly away as though attempting to compose his countenance.  Glorfindel raised perplexed brows; in response to this scrutiny, the Lord of Imladris was fidgeting!  One hand was buried deep in his pocket aimlessly toying with something; the other pushed listlessly through a stack of parchment scrolls on the corner of the table.  Elrond did not seek to meet his Master-at-Arms' eyes. 

Glorfindel frowned, that also was an uncommon event.

_What is he hiding?_

The reborn warrior had already done the calculations and knew the twins should be scouring the feet of the Misty Mountains on their way to Caradhras.  He had sent a rider after them at first light hoping they would be taking their time and investigating every possible cave where Orcs might be lurking. Knowing the sons of Elrond, the veteran of Gondolin expected there would be significantly lesser numbers of the beasts once the brothers completed their traverse of the divide.  If his rider did not overtake them, the pair would reach Lorien in three more days assuming everything went smoothly through the High Pass.

He only hoped Erestor was indeed there and could give Elladan and Elrohir reassurance of their father's planned return home, stopping them from a laborious and painstaking hunt through the wilderlands surrounding the Gladden Fields and Mirkwood.  Such a venture would carry them too close to the Dark Lord's fortress of Dol Guldur for Glorfindel's liking.  Elrond, he knew, had already worked all this out as well.

So Elrond must have realised that the timing of the arrival of Arwen's message, the twins' departure from Rivendell, and his sudden reappearance was also noteworthy.  Had Elrond returned through the High Pass, he would have met his sons upon their way.  The Lord of Imladris must have travelled an entirely different direction, never having been even remotely near Lothlorien. 

_Where could he have gone that he would not report the journey?_

Not to Rohan or Isengard, for again the way would cross the path of Elladan and Elrohir on the return.  Besides, even in the unlikely event that Elrond had some clandestine dealings with the horse lords, or an undisclosed meeting with Saruman, he would have told Glorfindel.  In all the long Ages of their friendship, the Balrog slayer had been party to every political manoeuvre his Lord had undertaken.

West towards the Havens or to the Shire could not have been his goal, for neither destination would require subterfuge and deceit.  Elrond would surely not venture south to Gondor with only Erestor at his side.  Such a diplomatic mission would require the counsel and company of Mithrandir at the very least and certainly demand the strength of Glorfindel's warriors, for the concerns of Men were often at odds these days with the interests of elf-kind.  Or so, at least, the Steward of Gondor deemed them.

No, whatever Elrond had been up to was removed from the business of overseeing the welfare of Imladris, separate from the trying conundrum of the rising veil of Darkness emerging from the region of Mordor.

That could only mean concerns of a purely personal nature, and pointed to the Woodland Realm to the east.

_This must be connected with the flight of Ningloriel to Valinor_, Glorfindel reasoned.

If he had been in Mirkwood, Elrond would have travelled north along the Anduin, crossing the Great River at the Ford in order to scale the narrow gap connecting to the Old Forest Road and thus to the safety of the eastern borders of Rivendell. This was a more dangerous way to conquer the Misty Mountains due to the infestation of excessive numbers of goblins and Orcs, yet it was the only logical solution.  For whatever reason, Elrond had been in Thranduil's Realm for nearly two months and had returned without Erestor.

_What were you doing there, so far from the borders of fair Imladris?  We have no allies to our east!_

Glorfindel's unasked question hung heavily in the air between them.  He hoped Elrond was not lying about the seneschal being safe in Lothlorien.  He would learn soon enough; Elladan and Elrohir would send back news as soon as they reached the Golden Wood.  Until then, he knew Elrond's worry for his sons would increase daily, as would the guilt for sending them into possible peril.

Glorfindel sighed.

"They will return in good health, Elrond.  They are seasoned warriors and the very scent of them sends the Orcs running in terror!  Although, they will be very disgruntled when they do return!" he tried to send his old friend a reassuring smile.  It was hard to endure the bitter tang coating his throat that Elrond's lack of faith in him generated, however, and he could not keep the gleam of cold umbrage from his gaze.

"Aye, I am certain you are right, Glorfindel.  I will have to suffer their ire meekly, I fear, for no more than I have told you will I say to them!" Elrond hoped this admission might soothe his trusted comrade's injured pride.  Elrond lifted his vision in time to see the genuine surprise upon his friend's features before they smoothed into polite acceptance.

Moving from behind the table, Elrond paced across the room to a tall shelf lined with books and scrolls.  Just to give his eyes something to do he let the fingers of his left-hand drift along the spines and trace out the runes and letters there.  The other remained concealed.  Of their own accord his hand moved from book to book and touched upon the titles displayed, spelling out the fallen archer's name from among the components therein.  Elrond cursed again as he realised this, a hissed whisper that passed his lips before he could halt the sound. His oblique vision discerned the hasty movement of Glorfindel's startle.

The Balrog slayer was stunned by this behaviour from the Elven Lord.  Elrond was never so preoccupied, never at less than full command of his emotions, at least in the Vanya's record of memory.  Glorfindel watched as Elrond jerked his hand away from the texts and strode back to the table, resuming the ruse of examining the documents now strewn across the surface in untidy disarray.  Elrond's other hand was still hidden, occupied in its own activity within the flowing robe's concealment.

Perturbed, the warrior pressed his lips together in a grim, disconsolate line.  What events could be so unnerving as to bring about the loss of the venerable loremaster's coolly controlled demeanour?  Not since the death of Gil-Galad had Elrond been so disturbed in spirit, so unaccountably abstracted one moment and futilely angry the next.  Glorfindel watched the Noldo's hand twitch within the folds of the fabric. No doubt the restless fingers mimicked the erratic meandering of the elf's thoughts.  The hidden hand's activity was as a nagging strike upon the Vanya's irritated nerves, and suddenly he could stand it no longer.

"By the will of the Valar, what have you got in your pocket?" he barked out this demand more harshly than intended and was about to retract his forceful request when he witnessed something he had never thought to see, even if given a third lifetime of observation.

Elrond of Imladris had a definite bloom of crimson climbing to his ears and a look of panic in his eyes.  The Lord of Imladris was blushing.  
Tbc


	46. Chapter 46

**Lond o Rîn** [Path of Remembrance]

Now in his youth Legolas had despised the cloistering darkness of the deeper rooms in the Wood Elf King's stronghold and remembered still, long past his majority, the clutching terror that surrounded his heart when he stood upon the landing and faced the thick black obscurity at the bottom of the innermost stairway.  He knew there was nought at the steps' ending but a great vestibule containing three portals, two of which led to the keeps wherein the King's treasures lay, and the other sank to the abiding gloom of the subterranean dungeons.  All of them were secured with barred iron gates and devices known only to Thranduil.

Designed by dwarves from the Blue Mountains no less, it was rumoured that as the metal tumblers and cylinders of the locks had been cast the Sinda Lord had infused the molten material with magic and sorcery, so that even should another come into possession of the keys, never could the bolts be sprung by any hand but his.  Indeed, many believed that the nameless dread engulfing the soul upon reaching the forbidden chambers was likewise a product of their King's bewitchment, for even true-tried warriors Ages old could not stifle the desire to flee from the vestibule when required to descend there.

Such occasions, though rare, were imbedded in the lore of the Woodland folk, for any time Thranduil added to the hoard he selected from among his trusted Sindar to carry the stash into the vaults.  These venerable and courageous archers and cavaliers, all veterans of the Last Alliance, returned from the depths with knees knocking and eyes expanded as though they had encountered Melkor himself.

Legolas doubted not these tales, for he had proof of the verity of such claims.  As a youngling he had been confined to the stronghold for an offence against the King, a not uncommon event if he chanced upon the Sinda ruler when Ningloriel was away in Lorien.  This particular episode, however, remained rigidly entrenched in Legolas' memory like no other.

Maltahondo resumed his guardianship of the Woodland Queen whenever she left the Greenwood, and by this time Legolas, being 35 years of age, was considered old enough to pass the day without constant supervision.  His schedule of activities was such that various lessons and tedious duties succinctly regulated his time to consume the entirety of Anor's passage.

What his mother and her lover knew not was that the elves designated to oversee this rigorous program had no inclination to do so, and made few complaints when Legolas promptly abandoned certain obligations and took to the forest, bow in hand and quiver filled.  Everyone understood that Thranduil would neither notice nor care that the elfling was not about, and that it was far preferable, for Legolas' sake and theirs, that he not cross paths with the King.

For his part, Legolas deplored to spend time with Thranduil's staff, and even more hated to be among the warriors in the barracks courtyard.  Quite early he had learned that the Sindar elves and the Wood Elves regarded him with vastly different evaluations, and their opinions were not shielded from his observant insight.

The Sylvan folk gazed upon Legolas with an unsettling mixture of pity and fear.  They all knew Ningloriel was charged with infidelity to the vows of her marriage bond, and most considered her son a worrisome hybrid, welcome due to her lineage yet problematic for the possibility of his Noldo heritage.  Adding the unwholesome element of kinslayers into their breed was not viewed favourably, yet the Wood Elves could not look upon the small golden-haired child and deny him as their own, and thus pitied him the lack of cohesion in his family.

Condescending charity was not an emotion Legolas favoured, either to give or to receive.

The fear he spawned had nothing to do with the possibility of Noldo traits showing themselves in his nature, for none such were apparent.  Nay, the unease sprang from the uncanny maturity of the youth, Legolas' knack of discovering, upon meeting the eyes in even the most casual of glances, what one thought to be hidden in the heart.  His ability to be almost totally self-sufficient and his affinity for speaking with the trees rather than the elves added to the mystique.

Almost as soon as his legs would hold him up, it was noted that Legolas preferred solitude and would turn from a conversation as soon as it was politely possible to do so.   It did not occur to many that this was rather a conditioned response, for the elfling merely reacted to the discomfort his presence seemed to bring to others, and removed himself as was expected of him.

From the Sindar elves, few though they were in number and mingled in bonding to the Sylvans, Legolas experienced an entirely different combination of emotions.  Always there was contempt, for the idea of his bastard status while still the named heir galled them.  Too bitter had been the defeat at the gates of Mordor, and from the warriors' perspective too avoidable.  None of the Sindar soldiers projected any sense of acceptance towards the elfling, and a few openly mocked the child, provided Ningloriel's absence, knowing no censure would result.

And yet these folk also responded with a certain wariness in their demeanour, for there was an aura of eccentricity about Legolas that was attributed to the influence of Elrond's mixed blood, and thus dubious.  Noldo, Adan, Maia, Sylvan, among this hodgepodge of strains which would predominate in the elfling's character?  None of these stalwart warriors considered the courage and fortitude required of the solitary youth just to traverse the barracks courtyard amid the distrustful and contumely disregard that clogged the very air he breathed.

And it was during one such trek that he committed an infraction of sufficient magnitude to warrant punishment, and came under notice of the King.  Legolas was used to the looks of scorn and the occasional insult thrown his way and never reacted except to hurry his pace, but on this day one particular Sinda warrior found his indifference irritating enough to follow the elfling.  When a harsh hand grasped his shoulder and halted his progress, Legolas turned and kicked the offending soldier in an attempt to free himself.  If he also likened the elf to the foetid waste of Orcs and the vile serum that passed from spiders, perhaps that was not so unwarranted either.

Yet the young archer quickly learned this was a mistake, for he was but half grown and the veteran warrior far more skilled, strengthened by centuries of hard training and exacting discipline.  The beating Legolas received for his impertinence left him injured less in body than in pride, for Rochendil used the sturdy shaft of one of the elfling's own arrows as a switch, inflicting a stinging censure upon the young one's backside.  Even upon shoving Legolas down in the dusty yard, the horse tamer was not appeased and snatched up and broke the small bow the elfling had made for himself.  Legolas actually flinched when the loud and sickening crack sounded, staring in hatred at the booted foot planted firmly upon the slender severed wood.

If nothing else, Legolas was heedful of lessons taught with such intensity, and remained still, burying his ire under his pain even as he was forced to apologise and abase himself, begging pardon for his impudence, until the warrior finally ordered him to go.

Truly, that would have been the end of it, had the stubborn youth not desired to ease his wounded ego and send an unignorable message to the Sindar among the troops, and the horse master in particular.  Distorting the directive to leave and get on about his chores, Legolas took himself to the armoury, that in itself a violation for he was not allowed in the place, and therein located Rochendil's gear.  His intent had been to repay the Sinda's cruelty and render his bow useless by destroying the string nocks, splintering the wooden ends beyond repair.

Upon entering the room and viewing the impressive array of finely crafted implements, Legolas found he had no desire to destroy the careful work of the Sylvan bowyers.  He decided, instead, to replace his bow from among this collection, only until he could make another, and retreated into the forest with his prize.

It was his choice of weapons that brought Legolas to the attention of Thranduil.  The elfling selected the best bow, one not even the King himself would carry, for it stood in a place of high honour, set apart from the rest in a rack alone.  While there was no inscription or monument telling so, all knew this was the war bow of Oropher, the very one carried with him to his death before the gates of Mordor at the Last Alliance.

For the remainder of Anor's hours Legolas was completely content, revelling in practice with such a fine devise, marvelling at the effort required to draw the formidable relic.  It was not long before his shoulders ached and his breath left him in huffing rasps, and his arms seemed composed more of gelatinous flab than muscle.  Even so, he persisted in his determined efforts to master the mighty bow, hidden in a small clearing he had discovered and adapted for training far from the mockery of the Sindar, far from the knowledge of any within the stronghold.

Tinnu's winking welcome followed the diminished light at the end of day, and then did Legolas' heart begin to sink in concert with the drop of Anor beyond the rim of the land.  No longer could he ignore the nagging remonstrance of his conscience, nor the growing dread of the reprisals his rebellious act would engender.  Surely by now, someone had noticed both the missing artefact and his simultaneous absence and joined the two.

Several hours more Legolas fretted, fearing to return and face the wrath that must of a certainty wait.  Desperately he attempted to concoct both a scheme for replacing the fabled bow to its simple shrine of reverent respect unnoticed and an accompanying alibi that would shield him from blame.  No one had seen him enter or leave the armoury, or he would have been stopped at once.  His efforts to improve his archery skills with Oropher's weapon likewise remained hidden from the other elves.  Yet, had he not desired them all to understand who had taken the deceptively elegant arc of destruction belonging to the former King?

At last his defiance won out.  For too long had the youth held back his hurt and anger without redress, and rashly he thought his retaliatory misappropriation a fitting vindication.  Bold of mien while quaking in his soul, Legolas retraced his path through the branches and silently entered the stronghold through the gardens.  He was quickly discovered, as an alert for his arrival was in force, and escorted before Thranduil.

Now Legolas was never allowed within the Chamber of Sovereignty, for he was to the Sinda Lord but a constant reminder that the Realm was on the brink of transferring beyond the claims of Oropher's line should misfortune befall Thranduil.  Yet here he was led to stand before the throne, left by his guards three steps from the dais in an empty spot surrounded by the assembled Council and those captains of the King's guard present in the stronghold that night.

Still not of full stature, Legolas could not stand eye to eye with his sovereign Lord and was forced to look up into the enraged countenance of the King.  Upon viewing the thinly checked fury within Thranduil's murky hazel eyes, Legolas' heart lurched, missing a beat and sinking low before making a tremendous leap to compensate for the pause, and sent his blood racing through his veins.  Despite the heightened rhythm of his pulse, the young archer felt an icy chill creep upon his flesh.

No words were spoken, no accusations made, for none were required when Legolas stood before the convocation with the cherished weapon still in his grasp.  For several seconds, Thranduil held the gaze of his wife's shameful progeny with disgust before dropping his attention to the bow.

The silence within the chamber was more potent than a stream of reproachful diatribes, and held a tangible promise of impending doom.

Legolas took a shaky breath and fought the urge to run, yet could not suppress the tremor that ran through him under the scathing scrutiny.  When Thranduil's focus centred on the weapon, an audible breath escaped the elfling and his grip round the wood tightened.  Wordlessly, he extended his arms and held out the weapon on his open palms, dropping his head to stare at the floor.  He felt the bow snatched from him and lowered his arms, again struggling to master the instinct to flee.  Cautiously he lifted his eyes to observe Thranduil inspecting the masterpiece of deadly artistry, after which the King tendered the bow into the care of his most trusted captain to be restored to its rightful place.

Thranduil's coldly glittering glare met his detested heir's once more, and a motion of his hand brought two guards forward to the elfling's sides.  In calm detachment the King watched as they forcefully removed the struggling offender's tunic and stepped back to their places amid the crowd.  The Sinda monarch observed with satisfaction that this had effectively removed the last remnants of rebellious bravado from the elf's eyes, and Legolas stood trembling with his arms wrapped around his bare chest.

Thranduil turned to retrieve an object from where it had been leaning unnoticed against the throne, and revealed a long thin willow branch, which he flexed to demonstrate its green resilience.

Even as the switch bent in the Woodland ruler's hands, Legolas stiffened in dread; he was to be caned.  Never had he endured such punishment before and fervently regretted his foolish impetuosity.  His heart was hammering as the King moved around behind him and Legolas quailed upon realising he was not even to know how many strikes he would be favoured to receive.

The first blow landed with an explosion of searing agony across his shoulders, followed by nine more in rapid succession, leaving Legolas gasping for air on his hands and knees, not even cognisant of having lost his footing for the intensity of the pain.  To his shame, he realised he was crying and loudly at that.  Before he could recover his dignity he felt the guards next to him, hauling him up by his arms and dragging him out of the room.  Using their support, Legolas managed to get his feet under him and then yanked free, bolting through the doorway and down the halls for his rooms.

No one hindered his passage.

The public drubbing was not the totality of his punishment, however.  One of his tutors arrived later to inform Legolas that he was forbidden to leave the caverns for his beloved trees for a ten-day and assigned to work in the scullery for the duration of the term.  For one attuned to the freedom of the high canopy and the companionship of the Greenwood, such confinement was torture scarcely bearable.

His tenure among the kitchen staff was likewise an eternity of torment, for he was only under foot and in the way.  While Legolas was adept among the high branchways and advanced in archery, he was completely at a loss when confronted with the harried routines associated with feeding the household.  The hapless elfling found himself the frequent recipient of rebukes and scoldings as he unintentionally disrupted the fluid operation of the domestic employees. Upon the sixth day, when he had just dropped and broken a fourth carafe of wine, the chief cook angrily cuffed him on the side of the head and ordered him from the cookery.

Barred even from seeking refuge in the Sentinel, Legolas fled across the tremendous room in angry despair, feeling the sting of tears again as he raced to the stairs.  However, upon reaching the first landing he realised someone was headed down, and he turned away to hide his embarrassment, heading instead deeper into the mountain's bowels.  Vaguely he heard the calls from the elf who had been descending the stairs, but paid no mind to the warnings, and found himself in the antechamber of the three gates, staring into the impenetrable gloom, palsied with fright, unable to tear his gaze from the consuming black void.

Immediately the elfling's thoughts were invaded with whispering voices threatening to usurp his soul's place and confiscate his body, banishing for eternity the immortal spark of his being to the caliginous heart of the stony mountain if he did not leave at once.  Nothing more than escape did Legolas desire, yet the gloom was impenetrable, for the stairway made a turning and the light of the floor above was obscured.  Even had this not been the case, the murmuring venom of the unsounded words confused and disoriented the youth.

In vain did Legolas cover his ears and shut his eyes, for the darkness had a formless presence he could neither ignore nor dislodge from his mind, and before too many minutes passed he was crouched on the floor against the wall, screaming to be left in peace, begging to be spared such a fate.

The healer had been called to fetch him out, and bravely did she do so alone with but one torch and whatever soothing words she could summon to calm the terrified youth.  After this, the household staff unanimously decided that as long as all held their tongues and Legolas refrained from further larcenous behaviour, it would benefit everyone if the elfling were set free again.

Nevertheless, several nights passed before Legolas could rest without reliving the harrowing ordeal.

Standing beneath the thin shaft of feeble illumination that wormed through the stronghold's massive rock to filter into the humble suite, the Tawarwaith felt strongly his separation from the trees and the fortifying light of the stars, of Ithil and Anor, and recalled that day.  He had been in the cave of the three doors less than an hour, yet it had certainly felt like all eternity was passing as his sanity was slowly devoured by the nameless foe.  He wondered now what manner of unhoused feär Thranduil had there entrapped, and how he kept them bound.  Even after so long a lapse in years, Legolas could not prevent a shudder from travelling through his limbs.

He had been confined in the stronghold nearly a ten-day and was beginning to feel the deprivation keenly.  With grim resignation, he fully accepted that if he undertook the actions he had in mind, he might be spending considerably more than a few minutes in the lowest levels of the caverns as a prisoner within the lightless cells.

_Therein will I die, if once I am enclosed._, he shivered again and frowned.

On the morrow he would at last be allowed to leave these dismal rooms and return to his home with Fearfaron.  This he anticipated with eager joy, for he could not heal completely under the current conditions and his health would be much improved when he could once more breathe the open air.  Yet there was that which he desired to do before leaving, for Legolas knew not when he might again have the opportunity to move about within the mountain fortress freely.

The carpenter had been hovering around him like a hummingbird over a cup of nectar, fearing, Legolas assumed, a confrontation between the King and his cast-off heir.  No one entered his quarters save his trusted friends, and one or more of them was always with him day and night.  Yet no appearance did Thranduil make, and whatever plans he had were in abeyance as he fawned over his newborn and his bond-mate.

The entire Realm was on holiday and no business was being conducted, other than the perpetual watch on the border, as announcements of the new heir's arrival went out among the free peoples.  The news was travelling not only to Lorien, Imladris, and Mithlond but also to Dale, the Iron Mountains, indeed all of Erebor, and among the woodsmen's villages within the forest.  If the Wood Elves' King could have his way, word of Taurant's birth would be carried even unto Isengard and as far south as Gondor.

Still, within the stone fortress a steady tension was building, and Legolas could not help but believe this was due to his presence in conjunction with Taurant's.  He had no wish to bring such distress to the first days of the newborn's life, which were crucial to the infant's awakening sense of security within his new environment, and this was the first thing Legolas desired to act upon.  He wanted to re-establish the peaceful harmony that had enveloped the cavernous structure on the morning of the child's birth, and was strongly compelled to do so in person.

Legolas was consumed with the idea of seeing the infant prince for he felt he might never again be given the chance once he returned to the Greenwood and his surveillance of Dol Guldur.  Having decided to accept Fearfaron and Mithrandir's judgement, Legolas was now convinced this was his own brother, and felt a fierce loyalty and love for the tiny being.  He simply could not bear to leave without even satisfying himself as to who the infant favoured.

_Will it be apparent we are blood kin, as it is with Gwilith and Lindalcon?_

This was not a desire he had shared with his foster father, knowing full well he would be discouraged from such a course and put under an even more vigilant guard by his small circle of well-meaning friends.  Likewise he carefully guarded his hopeful schemes from Mithrandir's discovery, driving these ponderings from his mind and distancing himself from the wizard when they were in the same room, as now.  Yet Lindalcon he hoped to sway to his aid, and awaited the young elf's return from taking Gwilith for her playtime in the gardens.

"You are lost in thought, Legolas, and have ignored us for some time.  Are you well?" Mithrandir's voice gently intruded into the archer's ruminations and drew him back to the occupants of the room.  The wizard's words flowed over and into him, suffusing him with warm comfort much as a mulled wine heated aching joints on a wintry day.  Legolas smiled and turned this engaging expression upon the Maia.

"I am well," he affirmed and allowed his friend to reach an arm around his shoulders and draw him from the faint beam of light.  Together they hobbled toward the sitting area, leaning one against the other such that each put little pressure on injured limbs. There the carpenter and the Man were seated in the armchairs, bent over a board game before the blue-flamed fire.

Fearfaron lifted his eyes and watched as they took the settee side by side, his glance shifting between them with a slight uneasiness Legolas could not fathom. He had directly asked what the trouble was, and the carpenter had been evasive and changed the subject.  Legolas had also demanded for Mithrandir to reveal what was between the two of them, but the Istar had been uninformative and taciturn.  Even Aragorn refused to speak of the matter, and directed the archer back to the other two.  Somehow the trio found it difficult to explain the degree to which the wild elf's spirit had been encumbered, perhaps because it was fate's cruel paradox that he had never been loved while his heart had long been compromised.  For such a bruised soul to bear an additional, unlooked for burden, light though the Istar's attachment was, seemed onerous to Legolas' comrades.  

_It is maddening!  These are my friends, yet somehow I have brought dissension between them, for if not then they would freely explain the situation._, he thought.

_Nay, it is not of your doing, Legolas.  Your father and I disagree on some methods of treatment for you, nothing more._, the Maia reassured, receiving this frustrated bloom of introspection as the pair dropped upon the small sofa.

_What methods?  I am the one recovering; should I not have a say in this?_

_I refer to what is past; we were forced to act quickly when you were unconscious.  Fearfaron is still uneasy regarding your full recovery; that is all. Worry no more over it._

Legolas made an irritated sucking noise against his teeth, dissatisfied with this response. It would have been better not to reveal his concerns; he really had to learn how to govern such mental outbursts more carefully.

"You will develop that skill with time," the wizard said, having caught this as well, and laughed softly as he filled and lit his pipe.

His comment drew the attention of the game players, who raised their eyes simultaneously with nearly identical scowls of aggravation.

"I find that completely rude," Aragorn said with affected drama.

"Aye, if you must speak in that manner together, at least keep it fully to yourselves," added Fearfaron, but his perturbed tone was not a ruse.

Legolas felt his cheeks grow hot and scooted away from any contact with Mithrandir, though physical connection was no longer needed for the link to be opened between them.  He crossed his arms in front of his body and leaned against the sofa's padded arm dejectedly, refusing to look at the three.  He did not like being the subject of this undisclosed contest of wills, especially when Mithrandir could shield his own thoughts whenever he wished.

Lindalcon chose that opportune moment to enter the room, Gwilith in tow.  Legolas at once brightened up and slipped down onto the floor as the toddler approached, tugging impatiently on her older brother's hand.

"Limlas, play!" she commanded gleefully and hopped on light toe steps up to the Tawarwaith, stopping with caution before colliding with the recovering elf.  Her delicate embrace, so careful to avoid the hidden injuries, was heart-warming and Legolas swept her up gladly onto his lap.  His leg barely hurt now and his side pained him not at all, and he refused to waste anymore hours sulking about when he had such an endearing elfling waiting to be entertained.

"Yes, we three will play, and these grumpy old ones must leave, agreed?" Legolas smiled and looked to Lindalcon for support.  

"I will stay, Fearfaron; you and Mithrandir must have all manner of preparations to make for Legolas' homecoming tomorrow.  Aragorn, you should help them, since Mithrandir is still healing up." Lindalcon replied as he flashed the archer a glance, brows lifted in surprise, but more than willing to comply if it made Legolas happy.

Legolas beamed back approvingly and nodded to indicate this was acceptable to him.  He returned his attention to Gwilith, who was tugging on his hair and trying to untangle the unruly locks.

"Limlas, fix it," she commanded and handed over a small silk ribbon that had just moments before adorned her chestnut strands.  Unable to succeed in her attempt to rectify the warrior's dishevelled hair, she decided to demand the same attention for herself and shook her head briskly to ensure there was something to fix.

"You have become quite the tyrant since our arrival here, Legolas," complained the Man good-naturedly.

Legolas grinned, took the ribbon, and turned the child round, deftly combing through her tresses with his fingers and humming softly.  He began a small braid, working the bright red adornment into the design, and Gwilith was surprisingly still.

Aragorn really did not mind at all a chance to get out of the claustrophobic caves, accustomed as he was to the open and airy halls of Imladris, and had a few concerns of his own he wished to address.  Ever since the enlightening conversation with Lindalcon, the mortal had been reflecting on how best to handle the Malthen situation.

"Now you have got Lindalcon ordering me about as well.  Once you are completely healed, I will have to remind you of your manners."  He rose from the leather armchair and stretched as Legolas directed a mocking smirk his way.

"And I am not that old, ion edwen [second son]," glared Fearfaron. Truthfully, he was extremely suspicious of this sudden dismissal, and decided he would make some excuse to send the Man and the Maia off while shadowing every move of the trio of mischief-makers. "But I do have things to do to make ready.  If Mithrandir is being thrown out as well, I suppose I shall not protest.  Be certain to stay put; I want to learn of no mishaps in my absence."  

Mithrandir coughed on his pipe at this and sent the carpenter a coolly disapproving grumble of nondescript complaints in an obscure Vanyarin dialect no longer spoken on Middle-earth.

The wizard could not believe Fearfaron and Aragorn actually planned to leave the Wood Elf unguarded.  He was certain Legolas was plotting something, else he would not have remained so far from contact all morning, fearing to give away his ideas.

_Agonise not about the quarrels, Legolas; Fearfaron is only concerned for you and I will attempt to set his mind at ease._, he communicated this reassurance wordlessly.

_Please do; let me have this afternoon free of the wearisome bickering and backbiting between you two._  Legolas sent his mental reply and completed the grooming of his little sister's hair, turning her in the direction of the bathing room where a silvered glass was mounted atop a small table.

"Go have a look, little one," he coaxed and she skipped away in delight.

Upon receiving the archer's caustic request Mithrandir was deeply chagrined, for he had not known Legolas felt the dissension so strongly.  He made a silent promise to heal the rift and rose awkwardly to his feet, using his staff once more as a crutch.

Aragorn hurried to the door to open it, forcing the carpenter to assist the wizard in his stilted progress across the room.  To his credit, Fearfaron was gracious in his offer of help and Mithrandir accepted with equanimity.

"We will see you back at the evening meal, then?" queried Lindalcon, and three assenting voices confirmed the arrangements before the door was once more shut.  The three young elves were alone.  "Alright, Legolas, tell me what is going on."

"That is what I was going to ask you.  However, I think we are wondering about different things."

Gwilith raced back to her brothers, holding a half-filled bottle of bath soap in her tiny hands.

"Bubbles, Limlas!  Come make bubbles," she pleaded and for emphasis pulled on his bright yellow tunic sleeve.

"Nay, Gwilith, not right now," he said, taking the glass container away.  "Go and get that book there."  Turning to Lindalcon as the elfling scurried in the indicated direction, Legolas put on his most winning expression.  What he hoped for Lindalcon to do would not be easy. "I need you to help me with something."

"Hah!  You mean you plan on disobeying Fearfaron and wish me to create some sort of alibi or diversion."

"That is true, yet it is not Fearfaron I need you to divert.  I am going to see Taurant and I want you to make sure Meril and Thranduil are out of the way."

"What?  Are you mad?  They have not left their chambers since the birth.  Legolas, it is too soon; neither of them are ready to bring the babe out for public display.  You will be caught and I know not what they will do to you.  Or to me!"

"Lindalcon, I am not the public, I am Taurant's brother, as are you.  I cannot wait for their permission, as it will never be granted, and I leave the stronghold on the morrow.  Have you seen him yet?"  By this time Gwilith had retrieved the requested picture book but stood silently, watching her brothers argue.

"Of course, I spend one or two hours with him in the nursery each evening while Nana and the King dine together."

"And the babe's room adjoins the royal couple's bedchamber yet is separate?"

"Aye, but, Legolas, this is…"

"Is there a door, a solid one?  Does the balcony connect?"

"Yes, Legolas, for Naneth will not have Taurant closed off from light and air yet there is a wood-carved door dividing the nursery from the sleeping room.  But you know this is impossible."

"Why, is it not natural for me to wish to meet Taurant?  I must make it possible, Lindalcon."

"Legolas sad, Lind'on," Gwilith's musical voice was overlain with worry and she carefully slipped her small arms around the outcast's neck for comfort.  Legolas quickly hugged her back to reassure the child that all was well, sending the young usurper a pleading look over the top of her head.

It did not pass unnoticed by either that their little sister had used Legolas' true name, clearly and correctly, for the first time.

"Ai, ah!" Lindalcon threw up his hands and then sank down to the floor beside them.  "I cannot fight you both at once.  Legolas, I wish you to see Taurant also, but how can I do what you ask?  They dine together on the balcony in their chambers.  Naneth gets up at the slightest indication of Taurant's distress and comes to check on how he fares.  Even if I can cause her to disregard the babe for the duration of the meal, you will never be able to climb all those stairs unaided."

Legolas smiled brightly and shifted Gwilith to sit on his unharmed knee, taking the book from her hands and opening it as he did so.

"So Thranduil does not come in the room when you are there?"

"Only to tell me to go."

"That is well, I plan to be in the room only while you are there and will leave before he finishes the meal.  Trust me, I will make the ascent and there is a way for me to slip in unnoticed if only you will make sure there is some sort of distraction happening in the courtyard garden below.  Make it a nice distraction, Lindalcon; something to welcome the new prince into the world."

"Legolas, I do not know what that might be.  They will be suspicious and we will get caught.  If Thranduil goes into one of his rages, he may do you harm.  Indeed, he may punish us both!"

"Nay, Lindalcon, they will suspect nothing.  Music and singing should work.  Surely there is nothing unexpected in your desire to honour your new brother with such a performance."

"Roch, Limlas!  Say roch!" Gwilith patted the page whereupon the image of a prancing white horse was drawn.

"Aye, Gwilith, that is a horse," Legolas smiled.  "Have you seen a real horse?"

"Ada and me rode Raugelu [Pale Blue Demon]," she said with a nod.  Legolas tried not to laugh, fairly certain the poor creature was not really so named, suddenly grateful he was merely a Fish Leaf.

At his sister's response Lindalcon completely forgot what he was preparing to say to Legolas, for it was the most complete and correct statement she had ever spoken, and he stared in disbelief.  Legolas grinned smugly.

"You should not talk to her as if she is still a baby.  You are not a baby any more, are you Gwilwileth?" he said to the child.  The elfling gazed at him with wide and serious eyes as she slowly shook her head.

"Gwilith big now. Tauron [forester] little."  The child's eyes sparkled as her brothers' laughter indicated their delight at this new nickname for the babe and her countenance opened into a beatific smile, which she turned upon Lindalcon.  "Limlas and Gwilith show Tauron book!"

Lindalcon groaned and picked his sister up.  How did so small a being have such tremendous capacity to influence his will?

"Aye, Gwilith, you and Legolas may show Taurant the book tonight."

When both of his siblings gave excited shouts of joy and simultaneously engulfed him in a breath-stealing squeeze, Lindalcon almost felt happy about the trouble he was certain this excursion would create.

Tbc


	47. Chapter 47

**Min Gannen, Min Dolen **[One Caught, One Concealed]

"Eru's Arse!"

The foul curse was uttered in exasperated umbrage as the speaker landed with an undignified thump into the leafy mould of the forest floor. This was the third time in as many days that Erestor had found himself sprawled face first in the duff. It was as though the very roots were mobile, purposefully emerging from the soil to tug at his toes and ensnare his feet.

A loud report, reminiscent of a stout, wooden pike striking flesh covered bone, for such indeed it was, rang out followed immediately by a shrill shout of misery.

"Do not blaspheme!" retorted a sternly bellowing voice. "If you cannot see the way to tread, that is not the fault of any but yourself, and your inferior breeding, perhaps."

"Inferior!" the victim of this assault rubbed his head appraisingly and discovered an unpleasantly large and painful knot arising there. "You dare to speak such insults to me, a survivor of Gondolin? Much nobility marks my lineage culminating in courageous sacrifice in the defence of Turgon's city. My own father perished there at the King's side!"

"Well then, what would he say of your recent actions, Erestor of Imladris? Have you even considered the shame you bring to his feä in the Halls of Waiting?" intoned Radagast as he stretched out his hand to aid the seneschal's return to his feet.

Erestor immediately found his skin burning in both anger and shame upon considering this terrible consequence of his thoughtless manoeuvrings and abuses against the wild Wood Elf.

"Peace, Aiwendil; you are right. I am unworthy of Adar's regard and he may choose to deny his own son whenever we may meet. How bitter is the result of this escapade!" he moaned.

Aiwendil was not moved to compassion and merely glared with even greater fury upon the Noldo Lord. The Istar cared not a whit for Erestor's loss of status and respect. He had only agreed to lead the Imladrian into the Woodland Realm's stronghold in order to see him punished for his exploitation of Legolas' isolated and lonely existence.

The Brown Wizard disregarded that the devastating revelation Erestor had introduced had been offered to alleviate the archer's sorrows. Even if adding to Legolas' troubles had been unintentional, the Tawarwaith should not have learned from this outsider how his so dearly loved and admired guardsman had cruelly used him.

The gentle Maia also knew some of this rage was directed upon the Noldo to shield his own guilty conscience. If Radagast had taken up the responsibility and informed Legolas about Malthen's relationship with Ningloriel perhaps the Istar would not be worrying whether the wild elf was now alive or dead.

"I do not think you will be allowed into Mandos' domain, Erestor. Your feä will roam until the end of Arda, houseless and alone, shunned and feared by those you love. Orophin and Dambethnîn will not wish to have you reborn into their lives, I assure you!" he continued brutally and was pleased to see the elf wince.

Erestor did not reply to this, for his mouth had gone dry as his heart began pounding out his apprehensive acceptance that Radagast's predictions would be proved true. The concept of the Halls of Waiting bespoke a loss of immortal life by violence or fading in grief. In the current direction of their travels, the first option was not unlikely should Thranduil accuse him of espionage. If his bond mates were to disown him for being part of so despicable an endeavour then the second outcome awaited the seneschal.

A core of dreadful panic formed within Erestor's soul and his stomach contracted around the sudden sick sensation arising there. He had been trying desperately not to think about his lovers' reactions to these circumstances, with little success, and the wizard's words were as oil on fire.

_They will be shocked, disgusted. They will call me 'Noldo' in icy contempt, never to be their Pen-raun again!_

The Galadhrim pair knew Erestor was often in and out of bed with a variety of young elves, but this they tolerated with a rather amused attitude of understanding acquiescence. He spent years at a time away from them, and Orophin and Dambethnîn did not begrudge him whatever ease he required for his lonely days. As long as his activity did not infringe upon the well-being of another's heart, the bonded couple was unconcerned.

_I cannot expect them to condone this. They will look upon me as though I am someone they do not know, for my actions have been so dishonourably vile. How will they reconcile such crimes with the irrepressible rake they eagerly enveloped within their glorious bond?_ Erestor inwardly cringed upon imagining their cold, scandalised expressions within formerly loving eyes.

His trepidation to face them had prompted the seneschal's determination to right as much of the wrong he had perpetrated as possible. At least then he could beg forgiveness and hope for an eventual dispensation and merciful absolution. Thus, after five days of arguing and beseeching, on the same day that Legolas first encountered Aragorn and Mithrandir, the Noldo had finally convinced the Istar to guide him through the forest to Thranduil's stronghold. There Erestor intended to plead the cause of the disgraced prince and entreat the King for aid to search for him, irregardless of any reprisals he might face for his unwarranted presence within the Greenwood.

To his credit, small though it might be upon the ledger's tally of red marks, Erestor focused on these aspects of the dilemma only because he could not bear to consider that his thoughtless self-indulgence and heedless words had robbed Middle-earth of the unique magnificence that was Legolas. If he found that the archer had perished from having his heart rended so utterly by the seneschal's comments, Erestor knew he, too, would despair.

None of this could he bring himself to speak, and so relied upon his usual attitude of cocky impudence to get him through the plodding days in the Maia's company, a flimsy shield against the unrestrained antipathy roiling off the wizard's person in waves of engulfing heat.

Not to mention the flocks of assorted jays, grackles, ravens, and even a solitary eagle that periodically swooped over him, diving low to snatch at his hair or peck his scalp, frequently defecating on him in the process, all aware of the interloper's egregious acts by virtue of Aiwendil's communion with bird-kind.

And everytime an expletive or an oath passed Erestor's lips, the Maia's sturdy new staff connected with his body most ungently.  
Aiwendil, being wise in the ways of the forest, often journeyed through the woods using the byways of the elves. He spent his days paying calls upon the human inhabitants of the central regions of Greenwood, attempting to heal the trees overcome with darkness, and searching for Sauron's Ring. In fact, so much of his time was occupied with the latter task that he was known more for his periodic occupation in and around Sír Ninglor [River Gladden] than his true lodgings of Rhosgobel beside the Anduin.

Yet rare were his visits to the Wood Elves' city and he had been within Thranduil's stronghold but once or twice. Nonetheless he was as determined as Erestor to succeed in their venture and hoped to be able to find Fearfaron and gain at least his assistance, for the wizard knew no help would come from the King.

Of the movements of the Orcs from Dol Guldur, more knowledge had the Istar than any other, save Legolas, and his avian allies had kept him well versed in the steady movement of the monsters towards the Mirkwood Mountains. Thus Radagast had chosen to travel across the open lowlands in the valley of the Great River. Along this path, they encountered no beasts of evil from Melkor's making and met no travellers upon the way. Only when reaching the Ford and the Old Forest Road did the wizard at last remark signs of other feet heading for the woods.

Here the earth was trampled and churned, the grass crushed and impacted down into the soil by the weight of a great host that had made for the eaves of the Greenwood with all speed. Grimly the two acknowledged these foreboding indications, for this could only be the trail of Orcs marching out of the Misty Mountains and into the Woodland Realm. These were fresh tracks and showed travel in only one direction.

The pair moved on quickly, having no desire to encounter this army on its return journey.

Neither Radagast nor Erestor expressed their fears, which ranged from concern for the safe passage of Elrond, who must surely have used this route on his return to Imladris, to apprehension over the fate of the Tawarwaith, the probable target of this unexpected invasion, alone and in the grave grip of grieving's throes.

The Maia and the Noldo had continued further upstream before turning finally towards the darkly looming trees, entering at the Forest Gate where the Elf Path would lead them quickest to Thranduil's city. Once under the canopy, Greenwood at once recognised the identity of the trespasser, naming him Pen Togel Pelleth [One Bringing Fading] and did not spare him either upturned roots or the occasional falling limb. Erestor was collecting a wide assortment of bruises and scrapes and by the second day among the trees was limping along painfully behind the Maia.

It was thus that on this the third day he failed to avoid the latest reprisal of the forest and received another allotment of Aiwendil's corporal and verbal scolding.

In silence they proceeded once the seneschal was upright, and after an hour's passing the wizard abruptly halted and leaned upon his cane. Erestor looked at him in apprehensive bewilderment.

"What are we stopping for?" he demanded, making sure he was beyond the reach of the smooth beech-wood wizard's weapon. Erestor found the coolly sneering look Aiwendil trained upon him most unsettling. He knew, despite his complaints, that, had he so chosen, the Maia could easily have exacted a severe retribution on Legolas' behalf, and thus the Noldo considered himself fortunate up to this point. He had no desire to spend his eternal life locked into some inanimate form: a tree, a rock or a cloud of dust even, and eyed the Istar cautiously.

Perhaps the intensity of this scrutiny is what dampened his normally elevated senses, or more likely it was the higher degree of stealth endemic to the Wood Elves. In any case, Erestor discovered with amazement that he and the wizard were surrounded by a rather large contingent of Sylvan warriors, all of them in the trees save two, each with bow armed and aimed in careful accuracy upon the Imladrian. Erestor instinctively laid his hand upon his side, searching for the hilt of his sword, only to recall that he had taken to carrying it strapped down on his pack at Legolas' urging. He cursed silently as he saw the leader of these woodland fighters, one of the two upon the path, smirking at this fruitless groping.

"Greetings, Aiwendil of the Gladden Glen! What brings you forth into our lands, and with such malodorous chattel?" the elf said good-naturedly.

At this Erestor looked as though he might protest, but the captain's brooding lieutenant narrowed a frightful glare upon him, pulling even greater tension upon his ready bow, and the seneschal closed his mouth.

"Ah, Talagan, is it not?" answered the wizard, and the Elven captain inclined his head in assent. "I have come seeking news of the Tawarwaith, for he fled my care at the encouragement of this miscreant invader upon the Greenwood."

"That is enlightening," said Talagan. "For we have just completed a sweep of the region, cleansing the lands of the foulness of Dol Guldur. We came upon Tirno with two companions, Mithrandir and a human, engaged in a most pressing battle with the combined forces of Orcs from the Central and Misty Mountains. The trio survived and are presently in recovery at the stronghold."

"Thank Eru! You have set my heart at ease, Talagan. Take us hence, I would see Legolas with my own eyes and speak with Gandalf," said Aiwendil with evident relief, and next to him Erestor also audibly exhaled a prayer of thanks to the Valar.

"I will guide you willingly, wizard, but as for your companion I have yet to decide. Who is this?"

The Sinda warrior knew exactly who stood before him, but could not resist the opportunity to belittle the noble Elf Lord. Talagan took a leisurely stroll completely around the tense Noldo, looking him up and down, marking his dishevelled appearance and filth covered hair and garments with derisive glee. He waved his hand in front of his nose as if clearing away an abominable stench.

Erestor realised he must look a deplorable sight, but straightened his spine and shoulders as he boldly met the warrior's mocking gaze.

"I am not so unkempt, Talagan of Neldoreth, that you do not recognise me. It is I, Erestor of Imladris, who stands before you."

"Oh yes, Erestor, I remember you! By your insolent tone I surmise it is your memory that has lapsed! Have you driven from your guilty heart the hour that you and your kin brought upon mine a slaughter of irrevocable torment? My wife and son lie now in the Dead Marshes; never could I even bring their bodies home to rest!" At the close of this speech a discontented and outraged murmuring arose from the branches above as several more warriors voiced similar complaints relating to the Last Alliance.

The noiseless flight of a single arrow silenced everyone as it soared from the trees and plowed into the hard packed trail at the Noldo's feet.

"Enough!" called out Radagast and uplifted his arms, staff in hand. A strong surge of radiant heat poured up into the heights and the warriors shifted their positions as the fiery might of the Ainu rolled past. "I will see justice done, but not here on the pathways. Take us to Thranduil!"

Talagan nodded his head in agreement. He recalled glimpsing Erestor's name among the toll of degrading phrases etched upon the message sent from Elrond, and his King's words replayed through his mind. The Noldo Lord had turned the Wood Elf King against his own flesh and blood, then intensified that injury by visiting his destructive seductions upon the disinherited prince, and only after this debasement did Elrond reveal his ruse to Thranduil. These were offences as despicable as kinslaying, in Talagan's opinion, and Erestor had participated fully.

Yet the later actions of intrusion upon both the Greenwood and its champion could never have proceeded without the Judgement as a backdrop.

The veteran of the Last Alliance had often relived the aftermath of the Battle of Erebor and his dreams were populated with scenes of his vicious recriminations and harsh battlefield condemnation of Legolas. In the long days that followed, the worthy captain grieved for this as much as he regretted the death of Andamaitë, a distant cousin through his mother's lineage. It had taken only the passing of the initial wrath born of the heavy losses his company had endured to realise he had been rash in his judgement of the archer.  
   
_Nay, not merely rash and heedless. I allowed myself to seek a focus for my fury and divert my mind from the truth. I was the one at fault that day._

Too late Talagan had attempted to amend his report to Thranduil, taking the responsibility for devising that diversionary tactic with so little supportive forces to assist. Nor should he have left but one sniper to cover the Goblin. And how had he failed to note the emergence of foes along the ridge? As the company's captain, he had argued, he was ultimately the one who must bear the consequences for the ill-made plans and their horrendous outcome. In vain did he try to convince the King to withhold the Judgement. His subsequent guilty shame had caused Talagan to all but abandon the city for the harrowing duty of the Southern Patrol. Over the years, it had been his troop that had surreptitiously defended Legolas in his work to create the Orc traps.

Looking upon the Noldo interloper who had sought to find advantage from the disgrace of another, Talagan allowed his disgust to show forth. As for the other implications of the letter, the Sinda was not prepared to address such issues, but found it difficult to attribute any verity to the accusations. Legolas had never displayed lascivious behaviour and indeed the Sinda warrior could not recall the archer ever pairing up with anyone, excepting that one indiscreet messenger. Indeed, it was Talagan who, having been regaled with the lover's explicit stories, had encouraged the foul-mouthed elf to leave before he found himself reassigned to a more active role within the guards.

Recalled to the present by the Imladrian advisor's fidgeting, Talagan glanced up into the trees and quickly whistled a series of commands to his troop. Silently they melted into the cover and vanished, save for two who dropped down beside Erestor and seized him by the arms.

"Bind him!" ordered the Sinda, and his subordinates complied, securing Erestor's hands behind him and his ankles together.

"This is not necessary! Peacefully I will go with you! Aiwendil, explain to them that I asked you to bring me here," the seneschal pleaded as he struggled against the ropes, but Radagast ignored him, walking away with Talagan a short distance. Erestor watched in consternation as the two quietly conversed, glancing occasionally in his direction, and then saw the captain's lieutenant leading horses onto the path.

The warriors guarding him hefted Erestor up and slung him ungently over one of the animal's whithers. Talagan himself mounted this horse and laughed smugly as the Noldo craned his head backward in an effort to look the Sinda in the eye.

"I repeat, this is unnecessary, Talagan! I will make no effort to escape!" the seneschal tried once more to convince the warrior of his earnestness and thus gain the dignity of riding into the Stronghold of the Woodland King, rather than be toted in like so much baggage, or a hunting trophy.

The captain, however, had a rather faraway expression on his features, recalling another time he had carried a burden in such a manner into the Stronghold, and regretting the cause of that grisly scene. He felt no sympathy for the Noldo whatsoever, and merely gave the signal for departure. With Aiwendil mounted behind his lieutenant, Talagan and his comrades made for the mountain fortress.

These events unfolded beneath the rustling of summer-dried leaves on the swaying branches of the oaks and beeches, the Greenwood now nearly silent as the rowdy ruckus of nesting birds and fledging chicks was done and the scurrying scavenging of four-footers to harvest nuts and fruits for winter's dearth accomplished.  While Erestor attempted to dissuade his captors from treating him so shamefully, the current recipients of the King's hospitality were engaged in an intricately evasive side-stepping ballet.  The sextet divided, differentiating by maturity into dually equal groups, and while the more youthful trio worked in accord the other triad desegregated again by race, and the individuals sought to evade the company of the rest without alerting anyone to this intent.

It was at best an ungraceful attempt, and none of the three adults involved managed to master the steps.

Upon leaving the Tawarwaith's quarters, Fearfaron at once sought to shake off the other two.  He was certain he could not keep an eye on the young ones effectively if his comrades remained at his side, for only the carpenter, being elf-kind, would be quiet enough to follow without drawing notice.  He claimed to have remembered an appointment with the tailor to retrieve the remainder of the new garments he had ordered for Legolas.  While this was actually true, Fearfaron had no plans to leave the Stronghold or his adopted son.  The clothing could wait another day, for then Legolas would be safely ensconced in Annaldír's old room in his comfortable talan on the edge of the city.

Mithrandir stared at the elf that had just uttered this bald, misspoken half-truth and lifted both his bristling brows in open disbelief.  Usually an effective method, his stern silence did not goad the humble craftsman into admitting his true agenda.  Mithrandir frowned.  The wizard decided the best way to stop Legolas' plans was to be with him, and he also needed to learn more about how the recent infusion of energy might be affecting the wild elf.  This could not be done with the Man and the carpenter present.  Gandalf thus claimed that he could not truly get around in the city very comfortably as his wounded leg still pained him and he planned to retire to his rooms next door and rest for a time.  He had to catch up on a great deal of correspondence and then wash and trim his beard.

The scepticism with which the mortal greeted these statements was just short of open derision as he gawked from the elf to the Maia in turn, fists firmly planted on his hips as he surveyed them with an incredulous scowl. Mithrandir had already trudged down to the kitchens and back at least twice, and the carpenter was unlikely to care about when he picked up the laundry.  And yet, Aragorn did not challenge them openly, for he too had plans that he knew would be aborted if the wizard and the elf understood them. Instead Aragorn gruffly reported that he had some personal matters to attend to, though he was acquainted with no one in the Woodland Realm, other than these two and the young elves inside, such that he could not possibly have anything of a personal nature that would require his attention!

The three stood awkwardly outside the heavy oaken door to the wild elf's rooms in the torch lit hallway poised to move out to their respective destinations, each awaiting the others' retreat first.

Two minutes passed, the seconds flowing with all the speed of glacial ice, and none of them budged.

Gandalf cleared his throat.

Fearfaron sighed heavily.

Aragorn cursed through gritted teeth.  "Valar!  This is nonsense!"

"True," agreed Gandalf. "Each of us wants to remain with the young ones.  We know Legolas is once more following some dangerous course, else he would not have bid us all three to go."

"Aye, but what must be done?  We cannot simply follow him everywhere; he will think we treat him like a child!" added Fearfaron.  "It was my intent to shadow his movements in secrecy, yet this I cannot achieve with the two of you along!"

"I doubt he would be unaware of your attempt even if we left you to it," Aragorn disagreed.  "Legolas has keener senses than any I have ever met!"

"Aye, and an agenda we cannot guess, or rather one I fear to learn!" the carpenter hissed.

"We must confront him then!" growled the wizard and grasping the door's handle shoved it open.  The three stared into the chambers in surprise and then hastened within.  Quickly and silently they searched through every corner in vain.  The Tawarwaith's suite was empty.

In this Erestor had guessed correctly all those years ago: Legolas indeed knew the cavernous stronghold better than its delvers, and every means of vacating it.  Each room in the fortress had an alternate outlet that lead to a clever series of channels designed to guide the occupants safely from the fortress.  He had located the concealed hatchway marking his room's bolthole the previous day while Mithrandir was dozing before the fire.

The hidden escape route was less a series of tunnels than a network of narrow chutes, wide enough for single file movement on hands and knees.  Like the dendritic tributaries of a mighty river system, the cut passages wound sinuously through the stone from level to level, connecting the various chambers to the broader artery of the servants' steps.  But the tunnels also provided an ultimate exit from the stronghold apart from that utilitarian means of navigation throughout the structure.

Upon reaching the level of the forest floor, the cramped crawlway proceeded straight and true to an insignificant looking cave that opened upon a small sheltered cove on the banks of the Forest River, just upstream from the docks.  Within that unremarkable den were supplies and provisions, weapons and maps, and sturdy kayaks were stacked there should they be needed in the event of the fortress falling to enemy occupation.

Not toward this egress did Legolas lead his friend and sibling, however, but instead branched away from the main tunnel into an even narrower rock-walled tube.  So steep was the incline in this route that the walls and floor of the stony passage were worked to provide smoothed hand and foot holds within easy reach.

The trio proceeded in silence with Legolas leading, bearing a small silver lantern to grant them light in the close coldness of the entombing rock.  Lindalcon followed, carrying Gwilith, who stared wide eyed with thumb in mouth and the picture book clutched to her heart, at the dancing shadows and adamantine flashes of lamplight on muscovite.  Before long the two older elves were panting from the exertion, each relegated to but one arm to assist in the ascent, but their journey was short and presently Legolas set his lamp upon the floor of a small room above his head and hauled himself up.  Reaching back for Gwilith, he took her from her brother's arms and set her down next to him, then assisted Lindalcon in joining them.  They took a moment to steady their breathing.

"Well done!" said Legolas at last.  His side was throbbing and his leg felt practically aflame, but he was never one to let such pains hinder him, especially since he was certain the wounds were sufficiently healed over to prevent them tearing open again.

"Now, there is the connection to the back stairs," he said, pointing to another opening in the stone surface.  "Go take Gwilith to your Naneth and follow the rest of the day's schedule as you normally would.  I will make my way by this more covert means to the nursery rooms and meet you there at the evening meal.  Do not forget about the diversion, Lindalcon."

"Alright, but I still fear for the results this will bring," said the younger elf as he collected up his sister and half-crouched, half-crawled toward the gaping black hole.

"Limlas, come with Gwilith!" the frightened child's frantic cry rebounded loudly from the stony walls, dancing heavily among the shifting shadows cast by Legolas' lamp.  She did not like the way her brother's heart was pounding so ferociously within his chest as he moved into the tangible darkness of the tunnel.

"Ai!  How could I be so thoughtless!" replied Legolas.  "It will be well, Gwilith.  Here, take the lantern, Lindalcon.  The little one cannot bear such absence of light."

But Gwilith was gripped with an inexpressible terror, for within her childish mind had sprung the thought that once she could no longer see her new big brother; Legolas would cease to exist.  She tried to grab for him when he held out the lamp, but Lindalcon held her tight and she could not reach.

"Legolas!" she whimpered in despair and both her brothers heard her distress.

"Hush, Gwilith, there is nothing to fear.  We are going to show Taurant the book, remember?" the Tawarwaith coaxed her with a gentle smile.  "I am going this way now, but we will meet later."

"Aye, the quicker we go the faster we will all be out of this nasty place," added Lindalcon with feeling.

Gwilith looked from one to the other and returned her thumb to her mouth, not completely convinced but unable to explain herself better.  She gave a small sigh and kept her tearful eyes upon the archer.

Lindalcon lifted the lantern, illuminating a silent expression of gratitude for his friend, for he was not eager to face such total blindness himself, but allowed Legolas to see his worry also.  How would he fare in such conditions, in a duct even more confining?

"All will be well," the wild warrior reassured, placing a comforting hand on the younger elf's shoulder with a slight squeeze and a pat, a small grin upon his features as the lamplight drew sparkles from his gleaming eyes.  He had been in worse places.

They parted then, and Legolas waited until the faint gleam of the silver lantern faded into obscurity and the darkness took on a depth and consistency he had experienced only once before.  He inhaled deeply and groped forward, returning to the shaft that was barely wide enough for even his slender form to fit within without touching upon the sides.

The slope was gentle at first, yet he knew there were at least three more levels to climb before he would be near the Royal Apartment.  He had a clear vision of where he was heading; having spent some time figuring out exactly what rooms the suite comprised, and he kept this interior diagram foremost in his mind, seeing it with a keener sharpness now that the stimulus of sight was revoked.

With little to do but sit and think, he had used the days of confinement to recall the general layout of these interlocking conduits.  Though the arrangements of the quarters had been slightly altered, the rooms themselves were in no different places than they had ever been.  One simply could not fill a hole in stone, healing over the rock as though no delving had occurred.  So all he needed to understand was what the new chamber assignments were for the household. Through innocuously deceptive questioning of both Gladhadithen and Lindalcon, Legolas had managed to map out the location of the nursery and a probable course for reaching his destination.

He had not asked directly, for he wished them to be able to truthfully insist that neither had divulged this information, should any questioning follow and reprisals ensue.

The narrow tube began its incline, starting a steep ascent through the persistent darkness and Legolas was once more forced to use the grips cut into the stone, pulling himself hand over hand as though the exiguous gutter was a twisting ladder of monumental proportions.

In the blindness of the unending pitch and impenetrable shadow, the archer's hearing seemed acutely intense, and he could discern the rasping of grit slipping beneath his fingers and toes as he made contact with each groove.  The ricochet of minute fragments of rock, dislodged by his progress, was inordinately exaggerated, seeming as loud as egg-sized stones bouncing down the passageway below him to strike the landing with sharp finality.  Legolas knew the distance was not great and he would not be injured seriously by a fall, yet the noise was still unsettling.

He heard his own breathing, steady yet laboured, weighted more than it should be by the burden of over-exertion and stress upon a body not fully healed.  The sound made an eerie echo all around him, so that soon it seemed as though he had at least two more elves in his wake and followed behind another.  Thinking this reminded him of the spirits in the treasure chambers, and his heart began a more insistent staccato.

Now the increased tempo of this vital organ fairly thundered in his ears, and a minuscule bud of panic sought to bloom within his soul as the racing pulse thumped ever louder, mixing with the harshly resounding heaving of his lungs.  Legolas halted in the compressed space and sought to calm his mood.  He could not allow the stygian air to claim his reason and disorient him, for he could not afford to lose his way.  No matter his resolve and his bold reassurances to Lindalcon, the wild warrior knew he could not last long within the tenebrous confinement, yet refused to dissolve his plans.

In vain he tried to bring back to his inner sight the mental map of the interwoven tunnels.  Instead, images of darkly shifting shapes, formless yet coherent in their malignancy, loomed through his perception.  It was like the crawling terror spawned by the Wraiths, or the sinking in his gut just as he sensed a spider about to strike.  Legolas shook his head, hoping to dislodge the feeling of engulfing evil, for logic told him no one was in this conduit with him.

He attempted to link with Tawar, seeking a stabilising centre point for his confused impressions, but there was not even a desiccated root with which to connect and hundreds of feet of impenetrable rock blocked the joining.  An empty space yawned in his soul in the absence of this communion, unbearable and terrifying.  It seemed he might never know the Greenwood's consciousness again, and his sprouting anxiety grew rapidly into robust foreboding.

_I have entered into my own tomb! I will perish like a tree uprooted, for so do I also need the sustaining strength of Tawar's union!  The mountain seeks to consume me; my feä will join the bereft souls in the chamber of the three doors!_

The Tawarwaith forced his brain to work, compelling his reason to exert itself and refute such nonsense, chiding his foolishness even as he quailed against the tide of abandonment and isolation flooding through his being.  The tube had a beginning and an ending, a destination that served his needs.  He was not a prisoner here; he was escaping from one.  Merely an arm's span or two in any direction, though it be through solid stone, were rooms and hallways, caverns and alcoves wherein his friends and the household at large were going about their day.

_Lindalcon is putting himself at grave risk to aid me in this; I cannot fail here!_

He found he was trembling and sternly took himself in hand, demanding his legs to push him up, commanding his fingers to grope for the next slot in the rough-hewn rock.  His breath now was a wind of determined exhalations as he sought to vent the over abundance of nervous adrenaline pumping through his veins.  He counted each groove his fingers grasped and found this provided a distraction for his mind and slowed the racing pace of his vivid imagination.  Legolas closed his eyes and sought again to recreate the inner vision of the map of the tunnels, visualising his current position and estimating the distance remaining to the next level.  Even as he did so, his hand abruptly flailed into open space as he searched for the next handle, and with a great sigh of relief he pushed up onto the small, level landing.

For a moment he rested, drawing in long slow breaths as his heart returned to a less tumultuous rhythm and his terror subsided.  Only two more levels remained and he would be done with this repulsive journey.  Now he must take care and choose the correct passageway, or he would find himself upon the servants' steps and be forced to retrace his movements into the oppressive gloom.  Legolas was not certain, should he break into light in the wrong place, if he would have the stomach to return to the eternal eclipse.

Reaching forth into the void as he crawled forward on the tiny platform, Legolas' hand brushed a smooth spot on the rock wall, and this brought him to a halt.  None of the surfaces in such a place should be polished, for no one travelled such paths in leisure or by choice, and never would the finish be observed.  He let his fingers delicately inspect the area, sending the sensations to his mind so that he formed an image there even in the lightless murk.

There were runes carved into the stone, strange in form and unfamiliar to his comprehension.  Over and over he traced the incised marks, unable to decipher the meaning there, and in a flash he realised these were dwarven in nature.

At once he found the discovery reassuring, for somehow he had forgotten that living beings had made these burrowings.  He had begun to feel that he was truly in the bowels of a huge monster, slowly being digested, reduced to merely a source of nourishment for some foul and evil presence.

Dwarves he knew not, and though he had seen them at the Battle of Erebor and upon the Forest Road journeying to destinations he had never bothered to be curious about, he had not once spoken with any.  He was aware of the incarceration of a small contingent of the children of Aulë that had strayed from this common course through the forest several years before, but Legolas had not been in the Sylvan's city then, away on patrol to the north of the stronghold.

Now he wondered about this stalwart race of beings, composed by the love of Yavanna's husband of the stuff of the world, given the spark of the living Music as an afterthought of Iluvatar.

_Is this mark the name of one of the workers Thranduil hired?  Perhaps it is a sign, directions for navigation._

Somehow contemplating the author of the untranslatable writing steadied the woodland archer. The conduits were not designed to confuse and plague the inhabitants, keeping them hopelessly lost until hysteria and irrational terrors subdued them.  These shafts and ducts were safeguards against annihilation at the Enemy's hands.

The dwarves had taken care to make the tunnels safe and true, and he no longer felt that the mountain in which they were cut was malevolent. Instead he sensed the remnant presence of the stout and sturdy miners at their work, completely at home beneath the overwhelming immensity of the granitic core of the fortress, and the ease with which the dwarves negotiated the labyrinth bolstered Legolas' faith in his own ability to do likewise.

With renewed determination to reach his goal and a resurgence of his strong desire to behold the newborn prince, the Tawarwaith resumed his taxing climb with unflagging diligence.

Tbc


	48. Chapter 48

**Legolas thêl amarth o noss tîn **[Legolas Resolves his Family's Fate]

Kneeling on the rough stone floor just behind the hide covered entrance to the Prince's nursery, Legolas breathed long and slow, measuring his respiration to calm and quiet his exhaustion and his nerves.  He rested his cheek against the cool solidity of the abrasive texture, marvelling that the rock's temperature felt soothing against his skin.  Legolas was more overtaxed than he had realised, so absorbed had his attention been upon the gruelling task of moving toward this one spot.  Awkwardly he stretched his injured leg out in the cramped space, exasperated that he could not quite extend the limb fully and relieve the insistent throbbing in his thigh. The exacting demands of the climb through the tunnels had strained the knitting tissues and his body was not shy of complaining about it.  He sat with his sore limb bent to the side and leaned his shoulder upon the stone for support.

The darkness had retreated, dispelled by the faint illumination leaking from the chamber beyond, and after the total blindness of the narrow conduits the dim shimmering was as uplifting to the Tawarwaith as the first streaks of Anor's rays breaking over the great expanse of the Greenwood's canopy viewed from the heights of the Sentinel at dawn.  Legolas inhaled a long lungful and puffed it back out, not quite silently, from his open mouth to dampen the dispassionate walls with a fine film of his body's moisture.  Tentatively he reached out and trailed his fingertips down the thick leather curtain blocking both his view of the room and discovery by the occupants within.  At the pressure, the covering flattened against a densely smooth object.

_A cabinet of some sort, even as the wardrobe in my quarters guards the entrance to the escape chutes there_, he reasoned.  The furniture would be easy to shift, but doing so was unnecessary as the cupboard undoubtedly was constructed with a false back that neatly slid open to allow access to the hidden exit.  Legolas wondered who had been the carpenter, for Fearfaron obviously knew nothing of these clever contrivances, else he would have taken measures to secure the one in Legolas' suite.

_His father, perhaps_, the archer thought, and was aggrieved by the sudden realisation that he did not know who this elf was or where he might be, or even if he yet lived or waited amid the many feär in Mandos' abode.  _My adopted father deserves more attention from me than this omission admits! I will learn of Fearfaron's life before I return to the Tasks._

Beyond the bolthole, Thranduil and Meril were speaking together.  He could hear them, and for some reason this was a circumstance Legolas had not envisioned when constructing his plans for meeting baby Taurant.  The new parents were engrossed in their talk, obviously content in the presence of each other and their newborn, exchanging thoughts and emotions that would only be revealed by two who were completely assured of the bond of love and loyalty they shared.

Legolas listened to a conversation unlike any he had ever heard in all his lifetime.  He curled up on the small landing, knees folded and an ear pressed against the tough deerskin boundary, shamelessly straining to catch every syllable, every nuance of tone and timbre between the royal couple.

"Beloved, the joy you have brought to my heart nearly erases the scars wrought there by the loss of my parents and my brothers," whispered the King.

"As your love has vanquished my own grief, dearest one!" the woodland inu [female elf] replied gently.  "My sorrow knows a purpose in this creation of life between us.  Taurant is the nearest thing to perfection I have ever seen, is he not?"

"Such a question!  Of course he is perfect.  He represents the melding of all that is best in both our peoples.  His life will be marked by greatness; I could sense it the moment he was conceived."

"You may be slightly biased in that assessment, yet I find myself in agreement."

"We must raise him with the understanding of both halves of his heritage, Beloved.  I will undertake to teach him the ways of the Sindar, and you may initiate his instruction in Sylvan custom.  Together we will raise this child in wisdom and strength."

"Let us consider the education of both our little ones, Thranduil, for Gwilith grows more precocious by the hour."

This observation coaxed a light and sparkling laugh from the Sinda Lord, and in the humble alcove Legolas was shocked, for he had never heard the King generate such a sound.

"Aye, you are right there.  She has a fine mind, not unlike her Naneth.  Did you hear what she has decided to call our stablemaster?"

"Thîrheidad? [Face of Purpose]"

"The same.  From the first day I took her riding with me, he has been Thûlhaer. [Bitter Breath]  Even the warriors are naming him thus now!"

Both elves burst into merry peals of bright giggling at this unfortunately appropriate misnomer and could not contain their mirth for several minutes.  Mixed within their joyous outburst Legolas could just catch the gurgling glee of an infant's laughter and his heart contracted in sorrow despite the jovial mood within.  It occurred to him to wonder if he had ever uttered such a delighted chortling when a babe, for surely he had never joined in such harmonious interaction with his parents.  He tried hard to recall impressions from his earliest days, and was thoroughly flabbergasted when his mind completely refused to bring the memories forth.

_It cannot have been so bleak!  Naneth loved me then, even if there was no affection between her and Thranduil.  It is just too long ago for the images to have remained._, he reasoned, but this did not ease the uncomfortable tightness encircling his chest.

"Look how clever he is!  Taurant understands our joke," cooed Meril, and this earned a boisterous guffaw from her husband.

"He shares our merriment, but cannot begin to know of what we speak, Beloved."

"That is what you used to say of Gwilwileth."

"Aye, but even she did not comprehend the complexity involved in word-play when but days old!  We are safe to say what we please in Taurant's presence for some months yet, I would deem."

"Perhaps.  What then of Gwilith?  I will have less time than before, yet I do not wish for her training to be handed off to an aid, though that elf be chosen by myself with the utmost care. She is not yet even three years and needs our strength, too."

"True, yet I am here also.  We need not trust to any other for a time.  Let me take on the little one; she will lighten my mood when I must be away from you."

"Thranduil, what will you do with an active child in your council rooms?  I will not have our daughter subjected to gruesome reports of the activities of Orcs or for her first understanding of our home to be of the Shadow threatening us."

"Calm yourself, Meril," the Sinda soothed his wife.  "I would not have it thus either.  Nay, there is still Lindalcon to depend upon as well.  When I must meet with my warriors or discuss the encroaching Darkness, her brother will safeguard her at play in the gardens.  I need but arrange my schedule to accommodate time with her."

"Indeed, that you must, for I will not be shorted on your company either.  Taurant and I will still need the bulk of your strength in the days ahead.  Let the Council do their duty and assume the tedium of administration for a time.  You may be called upon for the important meetings and left in peace otherwise!  So shall I tell Iarwain!"

"Then so shall it be done, O Queen of the Woodland Realm." Thranduil was smiling around his words and the two shared a silent moment that was yet not totally quiet as the unmistakable sounds of lips caressing and hearts sighing in the slow and languorous enjoyment of the sensation filled the chamber's airspace and filtered into the tiny portal's vestibule.

Legolas clenched his hands and drew his head away from the covering instantly.  The euphony of their shared elation ignited a spark of angry denial in the Tawarwaith's heart.  This was not a proclamation Ningloriel's replacement deserved.  Thranduil's mate she was in truth, yet the fallen archer could not bear to think of any but his mother as Greenwood's Queen.  Nor was the romantic friction the couple were engaged in an activity he wished to witness, even removed from the sight of it as he was.

_Why could it not have been Ningloriel that Thranduil adored and my parents there beyond the blocked door, delighting in each other?_

Loyal to a fault, Legolas refused to admit that his mother deserved part of the blame for the antagonism between his mismatched progenitors, though his heart knew it well enough.  And the concept of Thranduil as a loving father helping with the raising of his offspring galled the former prince.  To this day, the King had not once touched Legolas nor spoken his name.

Too easily now did these memories arise unbidden into his thoughts. The shifting scenes flashed through Legolas' mind chaotically, mere minutes marking years rolling on like a river's perpetual flux, and his mental mirror revealed him to be a babe or a toddler one moment and a youth the next.  Legolas regretted his desire to relive his infancy and early childhood; yet once begun the images flooded his mind and overtook his body, instigating a surging swell of somatic responses.

The woodland warrior shook his head to halt the unwholesome replay of his growing years.  These were not the thoughts he wished to entertain on the threshold of meeting his infant brother and he refused to succumb again to the lure of lingering preoccupation with circumstances which had never been under his control in the first place and clearly could not be changed now. With a jolt Legolas realised his heart was racing and his ribs were aching from the nervously shallow breathing his distress generated.  It was the same old sensation of dread and self-loathing he experienced whenever he had to be near Thranduil.

_No wonder there is tension here; it springs from me!_ He was surprised that the source of discomfort was the ingrained conditioning begun in his infancy, for he had automatically attributed his worries to current events.  _I am a child no more, nor have I been for many long years.  Worse than Thranduil have I endured!_ he admonished himself soundly and drew a steadying inhalation in the close confinement, holding the air a few seconds before releasing it.  _I must not bring discord to the little one, or it would mar forever Taurant's thoughts of me._  The struggle to master his childhood reflexes became easier as his notice was drawn again to the occupants of the nursery room.

The infant prince was fussing over the loss of attention suffered due to his parents' incipient spooning and cuddling.  The Wood Elf King snickered and then the sputtering, wet sibilance of lips against a ticklish tummy preceded a bright bubble of bliss bursting through the air as the babe laughed as loud as his lungs' capacity permitted.  Meril joined in the gentle horseplay and soon the air resounded with their admixed laughter, punctuated by the noisy razzing.

In spite of himself, Legolas chuckled too as he vividly imagined this scene and clearly acknowledged his brother's delight.  As soon as the softly melodic giggle left his throat he clamped a hand over his mouth and stared wide-eyed at the dimly outlined entrance.  His heart rate surged anew as he waited for the inevitable thudding of the King's boots across the floor.

Taurant became silent all at once and in response his parents did likewise.  For nearly a full minute the chambers were quiescent, and then the infant let out an irritated wail nearly as voluble as his previous peels of joy and gregarious whoops.   The abrupt change in mood spurred the adults to action, yet no one approached the hidden hatchway, for though the inadvertent laugh had seemed loud and resounding to Legolas, the happy couple had been too engrossed in their play to notice the vocal accompaniment to their private hilarity.

"Ah!  He is hungry and wet, I wager," spoke Thranduil sagely.

"Very well, since you cannot feed him, you may make him dry," retorted his mate with a light laugh.

The child continued to whimper and cry as movement within the room was documented by the sounds of the creaking bed when the father rose to care for his son.  Thranduil murmured soothingly while his concentration was tendered to the task at hand.  That Meril had arisen also was evident from the new location from which her words emanated, joined by the almost soundless pressure of wooden rockers upon a plush fur rug.

"Here let me take him now," her voice was gentle and sweetly maternal, the way Legolas remembered her speaking to Lindalcon when he had first met Valtamar's family so many years ago.  Soon the new child ceased his crying and as she nursed the babe Meril filled the comfortable peace with a lullaby all Wood Elves must have heard in their infancy.

And though this was not his Naneth, nor was he held in the warm security of loving arms, still the song comforted Legolas and he relaxed again within the stony cocoon, relieved to remain undiscovered. The Tawarwaith needed the respite after the strain dealt his body by the lengthy toil to climb the tunnels. The unnerving realisation of the hollow drear of his earliest days in comparison to Taurant's perinatal experiences was draining in its own way.  He allowed his mind to be lulled into reverie, content to pretend the lullaby was for him, too.

Legolas did not care to mark the passing of time as he rested in harmony with his little brother.  It might have been hours or days; such minutia was irrelevant.  This was the first experience of true reverie he had enjoyed since before encountering the Noldor and he intended to claim the soothing state of being as long as possible.  He could do nothing until Lindalcon arrived and the couple left for their repast on the balcony anyway.  He let his wandering feä roam the mountain's bowels, hoping to merge with the timeless and unconditional acceptance of Tawar.  As before, no means of breaching the inviolability of the rock presented itself, and yet Legolas did find one source of comfort open to his errant spirit.

Momentarily stunned by the unexplained sense of the wild elf's presence near him, it took Mithrandir a few seconds to comprehend what was going on.  Once he determined that he was encountering the archer in reverie, the wizard encouraged fusion between them, and welcomed Legolas' dream-walking soul into his own.  Gandalf was intrigued to say the least.

He tried to send his thoughts to the archer, but met a firm barrier against communication. He was unable to ask anything of Legolas, for the warrior was not open to him in that way, nor could Mithrandir determine where, in physical terms, his friend was resting for the same reason.  The wizard found that he was not required for advice or counsel, the Tawarwaith merely needed a protected place to confront his reality.

Gandalf found himself a witness to this elven state of mind in a manner few even among elf-kind were privy to observe.  Every thought, feeling, and memory that passed through Legolas' brain for the next hours was shared entirely with Mithrandir.  The Maia was quite touched by the trust the wild elf placed in him to permit this.

Engrossed in their search for the Tawarwaith, the carpenter and the mortal noticed the abrupt change in the wizard and waited for an explanation of his dazed and abruptly silent demeanour.  Yet Gandalf found he did not want to explain to his comrades what was going on, feeling too much would be read into such a communion in light of the arguments against his previous aid to the archer. So he merely explained away his amazement by saying Legolas had contacted him and the warrior was safe.  Fearfaron was far from satisfied with this response but all his questions were pointless, for truly Gandalf knew nothing of Legolas' plans.

Safely immersed within the encompassing and compassionate spirit of the Istar, Legolas could evaluate his situation more calmly.  While pleased and grateful for the wizard's welcome, he still sealed himself away from Mithrandir's highly active intellect, for the distinction between the Maia's spirit and that of the forest was striking.

Endlessly expansive, joining to Tawar granted the incongruous perspective of enveloping distance, allowing Legolas to see his existence as he might view the Greenwood from the canopy. Confluence with the Istar's mind, however, would be more like cataloguing the number and shape of individual leaves on every tree, assigning a reason for each specific variation discovered.  The Maia's consciousness was aflame with dazzlingly complex, often distractingly contradictory systems of thought and fraught with the futile energetics of managing details.

The primary enlightenment Legolas achieved during this union was the separation between his soul and Taurant's.  Perhaps this might seem an obvious distinction, yet the former prince had fallen into the trap of likening the little elf prince to himself, and then became disturbed by the vast inconsistencies between their situations.  The time of introspection also granted him the opportunity to assess the interconnection between his past and the current reality he inhabited.

What had been before had nothing to do with what was occurring now, and yet none of this could have come to fruition had the events he so regretted never taken place.

Ningloriel would still be here, spending her days between Elrond and Maltahondo, Greenwood and Lorien, a bright but seldom seen presence in her son's world.  Legolas missed her, but all of his lifetime he had yearned for her loving care even without understanding what it was his heart required. She was gone from him, yet had she ever been with him fully?  Nay, and if she had remained, so would he continue to endure that longing.

Elrond and Malthen.  The father he wished to love bedded him instead and the lover who bedded him turned into the father he was seeking to love.  Here the wild elf's courage failed him and he could not look upon these injuries and find peace in their rendering.  Too much pain was concentrated within these wounds to accept them as necessary.  Legolas' panicking subconscious shied away from these two embodiments of his tormented self-hatred, turning his contemplative eye toward the centre point of his new existence: the carpenter.

Fearfaron would be only a friendly acquaintance, quietly going on with his simple life in the talan shared with Annaldír, had nothing changed.  As strange as it seemed, Legolas was actually closer to Annaldír's soul now than he had ever been when the warrior was living.  And the vast chasm in his life that Fearfaron now bridged was an incomprehensible void to the archer, and he could not bear to realise the depth of the emptiness he had accepted as his lot prior to the sorrow that had drawn them together.  The Tawarwaith would remain fatherless but for the sacrifice of Annaldír in battle that day and the humble carpenter's outrage against the injustice of the chastisement twelve years later.

Lindalcon would be training for the guards, eager to follow his father's example, had Valtamar survived.  Legolas counted the young elf more than a friend, through Gwilith and Taurant the two were now really brothers, and the archer felt pride to be accepted as such by the unwilling usurper.  Even when everyone else refused to honour his father's bravery, Lindalcon did not become bitter nor rescind his avowment of Legolas' innocence.  The youth's personal sacrifice of a warrior's calling, traded for the privilege to associate with the outcast archer, was in itself enough to bind Legolas' loyalty to him.  But as much as Legolas valued this friendship, he would willingly relinquish it to secure an end to the suffering and grief Lindalcon experienced.

As for Meril, she would not be the King's consort, nor would Gwilith and Taurant exist had he succeeded in his duty and made his shot at the Goblin King.

Could he balance the feär his actions affected, good result against ill-fate, the Release of one and the births of two against three immortal deaths?

_Nay, for the measure is still weighted in Darkness' favour, and I have yet to confound its intent.  Those three warriors were not the only lives ruined._

In his heart the Tawarwaith could not reconcile the deficits his actions prompted.  Not even for the return of the lives of Valtamar and Andamaitë would he bid the Valar to rescind the creation of his brother and sister.  Yet the joy of these new souls was not sufficient to set free the spirits of his comrades, who even now awaited his actions to Release them, together upon the shores of the Great Sea beneath the brutal sun.

And what of Thranduil, the father he did not choose who chose not to love his first-born, who shunned and denied his own blood out of petty jealousy and personal pride?  That coldly hostile Elda was not the same elf as the one within the nursery now, three meters distant from Legolas.  This was Thranduil as he should have been, before sorrow and grief, bitterness and anger tainted his feä and blinded his insight.

The Sinda noble was transformed through his love for Meril and his overflowing delight in the generation of his second and third children.  That the King held dearer than his own life Legolas' brother and sister the archer doubted not.  He could hear it in his voice, compellingly borne within even the humblest of syllables referencing his son and daughter.

_How can Gwilith and Taurant not love him in turn?  It is right that they should do so.  How will they love him still should the truth of Erebor come to light?_

Legolas beseeched an answer from Tawar, for the quandary was tearing his heart, but Tawar could not hear him.  When the Council convened, the outcome would strike a wound upon the King from which he would be unlikely to recover.  It was inevitable that what impacted the parent would not spare the children.  No wish had the outcast to visit the despair of his own experiences upon these little ones.  His love for them was equal to their parents' devotion.

Indeed, he found he could not even uphold a grudge against the cruelly distant husband of Ningloriel when that elf was no longer present.  Neither could he condemn the inu who usurped his Naneth's place among their people, for this was the same elf that nurtured Gwilith and Taurant.  With the power to destroy the unity within their fragile family, could Legolas rob his siblings of that which he had been denied?

_Nay, that shall not be so.  Even though it be deemed their fate by Manwë and Iluvatar, yet will I strive against it!_

The decision made, Legolas returned from reverie content with the calm resolve that filled his mind.  His purpose was clearer now than he had ever known it, and he found his wretched rancour towards his estranged father removed.

At this moment Lindalcon entered with Gwilith and the child squealed with delight to see her baby brother. The awakening infant prince promptly responded to her piercing welcome with a startled outcry that resolved into a series of affronted shrieks.  Lindalcon's scolding could be heard beneath the cajoling of the King of the Woodland Realm entreating his little son to shush, which opposed the indignant if barely intelligible protests of Gwilith to her gwador beleg [big brother], as Meril tried to soothe them all.

Legolas grinned and did not worry about his light laughter drawing attention from the elves embroiled in the domestic pandemonium within.  Gradually the infant settled and Gwilith became less agitated, and more coherent converse was possible.

"Nana, Gwilith hold Tauron!" the toddler demanded.

"Nay, Gwilith, you are too little!"  her brother cautioned.

"I am not!  Tauron little!" the haughty retort drew her father's indulgent laughter.

"Yes, Gwilwileth, you are much bigger than Taurant.  What is this you are calling your baby brother?" the King demanded lightly, yet he was not entirely content with such a commonplace designation for his prince and heir.

"Tauron!  Me and Limlas show Tauron the book!" the childishly petulant voice explained impatiently and inspired a sudden gasp from the concealed outcast.

"Limlas?" this was Meril's voice.

"Aye, just another of her pet names, Nana.  I promised her we would share the picture book with Taurant this eve," Lindalcon smoothly covered the young one's slip.  He hurried on with his planned speech.  "I hope you are both feeling quite hungry tonight, for there is a special dinner prepared and waiting, with all your favourites, Nana!  And to honour Mereth od Estol Arad [the naming day ceremony] tomorrow, I have asked for a concert below the balcony, so that as you dine you may judge if my choices for this event are appropriate."

_Clever!  I had not realised it was already time for the naming to take place.  Taurant has been among us a ten-day already._ Legolas approved of Lindalcon's excuse for the serenade.

"Why, that is thoughtful of you, dearest," Meril murmured in words that sounded slightly damp with joyous pride.

"Indeed!  Thank-you, Lindalcon," Thranduil added, but only silence met his remark.

Lindalcon did not attempt either to acknowledge the false gratitude of the King or the discomfort his refusal to reply generated.  Taurant fussed and the mood quickly shifted again.

"Very well, my little one, you may go to your older brother now!  Here, Lindalcon, he misses you!" Meril said and passed the newborn over.  The babe settled contentedly amid the soft cooing of Valtamar's son, and Legolas grinned to hear such gentle gibberish from his young friend.

"Lind'on!  Lind'on, let me hold Tauron!" this demand from Gwilwileth was met with warmly sounded laughter from her parents.

"Alright!  Here, sit on the sofa next to me and I will help you," Lindalcon at last conceded to her strident pleas.

"You have things well in hand, Lindalcon, and so we will go to enjoy this special feast you have arranged," said Meril, voice brimming with happiness as she observed the tableau of her three offspring upon the comfortable settee.

Here was the realisation of her long held desire to quell once and for all the bitter thorns of despair and grief that had pierced her soul and threatened her existence. For Lindalcon's sake she had exerted her will to bring all this about, for she could not bear to leave him orphaned or suffer him to fade along with her.  Now both of them were firmly attached here with these children, and their family was healed.  If Meril chose to ignore the discord between her new mate and her oldest child, perhaps it was because she knew of no remedy that would not cause her first-born further pain, and for this a mother may be forgiven.

The unobtrusive steps marking the retreat of the royal couple sounded as loud as hoof beats on stone to Legolas, who could scarcely breathe in his anticipation of at last joining his siblings in the room beyond.

He waited.

Faintly wafting over the breeze from the courtyard garden, the pleasing strains of a quartet lifted in song accompanied by harp and lyre entered the stronghold, and signalled the arrival of the King and Queen upon their balcony.  Amid this soft serenading, Gwilith's imitation of her mother's crooning cadences for Taurant was quite endearing, and Legolas could endure the separation no longer.

With impatient fingers he lifted away the deerskin hide and searched for the grip on the cupboard's backing that would allow him access to his family.  Footsteps alerted him to Lindalcon's approach and in seconds the bright light of the chamber streamed into the dreary alcove, momentarily blinding the Tawarwaith as he struggled through the cramped opening on hands and knees.  He felt Lindalcon's hand grip his arm to help him up and then he was through.

With a couple of blinks his vision adjusted once more to the normal light level and he beheld his baby brother for the first time, nestled contentedly in the crook of Lindalcon's arm, gazing serenely right at the wild archer as if he had quite expected to find him there.

Wordlessly Lindalcon transferred the infant to his brother, his smile nearly matching the exuberantly broad grin gracing Legolas' features as he took the tiny bundle up.

Legolas sighed in relief, for Taurant was not a bit afraid to find himself in strange arms.  The two studied one another intently, each apparently committing the face and form of the other to permanent memory, recognising the blood bond between them as feä met feä for the first time.

Tbc.


	49. Chapter 49

** Legolas and Meril**

Thranduil's first-born scrutinised the newborn's features thoroughly, searching for some outward sign of the internal connection he sensed, in vain.  True, the babe was so young it might be difficult to determine exactly what his adult appearance would come to be, yet it was already plain that there would be little resemblance to the former heir.  This child was as much an image of the Woodland King as Legolas was a mirror of the previous Queen.

Bright and intelligent, Taurant's eyes were green and fathomless as the unreadable depths of the sea, rimmed in gold and flecked as if Ariel had dipped her hands into the searing sun and shaken away the excess drops of light upon the little elf.  His thatch of golden hair was not the colour of windblown wheat bleached white under Anor's glare, as was Legolas', but rather the rich hue of honey harvested late from the hive, the very shade of his sire's long locks.  The shape and set of his rose tinted lips already bespoke the firm resolve for which his father was renowned. Even his cherubic chin bore a hint of the headstrong resilience it would surely come to profess as he aged, marking him as Thranduil's own and Oropher's grandchild.

Legolas was disappointed.  None would ever see the link between either of his siblings and himself, and so the rumours would go on concerning his paternity.  Why he had thought there would be some indication of his relationship to the babe he could not now imagine, for his appearance was so strikingly similar to Ningloriel's, to whom this infant had no connection of any kind.  Taurant looked Sindarin through and through, for no resemblance to Meril could be discerned either.  No wonder Thranduil was so overjoyed; the heritage of his heir was indisputable.

Lindalcon gently tugged on his friend's arm and guided him to the small sofa where Gwilith was patiently waiting.  As soon as her big brother was seated she snuggled against the Tawarwaith and smiled up into his joyous countenance.  Valtamar's son stepped back to better appreciate the sight of the three siblings, overwhelmed by the absolute contentment gracing the beleaguered warrior's eyes as Legolas gazed first upon the babe and then to his little sister in turn.  It was difficult for Lindalcon to reconcile the pyjama clad elf before him with the diminished and suffering soul he had been watching over for the last two weeks, for Legolas looked totally at ease in this domestic attitude.

At last the archer lifted his face in Lindalcon's direction and bestowed a look of such staggering gratitude that the younger elf could not hold back and joined the trio, throwing his arms around Legolas gleefully.

"I can never thank you properly for this, Lindalcon," Legolas whispered, unwillingly breaking the silence, concerned he would break into tears if he tried too many words.  Lindalcon squeezed tightly in response, apparently unable to master speech yet either.

Gwilith was not so handicapped.

"Limlas, now show Tauron the book!" she decreed and flourished the tattered volume of pictures she had held to so firmly during the terrifying journey through the tunnels.  The child was unable to express how relieved her heart felt to find Legolas here with her again.  Gwilith only knew that the three of them belonged together in the same way that she and Taurant belonged to Lindalcon.  And while she could not make any sense of the sorrow surrounding her grown-up brother, she instinctively felt his soul's rejuvenation in response to the bond being forged between them all.

Legolas took the book with a smile and shifted Taurant so he could see, though he knew well enough the infant could make nothing of the images.  This was for Gwilith, after all.

_And for me._

He paged slowly through the book as Gwilith proudly announced the name of each animal and plant displayed, looking alternately to Legolas and Lindalcon for confirmation as she uttered the syllables carefully so as to instruct her baby brother correctly.  The older two were highly amused by her insistent accuracy, given her enjoyment of substituting memes so freely when the ideas concerned proper given names.  Perhaps it was not so unusual, though, for surely she would want Taurant to grasp the cleverness of her little game once he grew a bit.

But Taurant was only days old and more attuned to his body's responses than anything else.  Having been dressed in dry cloths and fed to satisfaction, and now held in the warm comfort of his oldest brother's embrace, the babe was soon drifting into sleep.  He exhaled a soft sighing yawn that forced his delicate lips into a perfect oval as his gleaming eyes hid behind thickly lashed lids squinched shut in the effort of the involuntary action.

Legolas turned him to rest more comfortably, soft velvet cheek against his shoulder, and was close to rapture to find that the infant had grabbed up a fistful of his ungainly locks and with the same hand planted a chubby thumb into the softly sucking mouth.  The archer carefully leaned his cheek against the downy strands of baby hair, smiling to feel his brother's heart pattering against his own so strongly.  He glanced at Gwilith, who had stopped her recitation and was staring at the two.

"It is alright, Gwilith, Taurant saw most of the pictures.  You can show him the rest when he wakens," said Legolas softly.

"Shhh!" the Woodland princess shushed him indignantly with a severe scowl upon her dainty face such that both her older brothers had to struggle to refrain from bursting into laughter at such a display of affronted wrath upon so angelic a countenance.  "Tauron sleeping now, Legolas, do not wake him up!  You be very quiet and I say the rest.  Next time, you say pictures," she commanded, unmindful that her voice was as new to her baby brother as Legolas' and would be just as likely to disturb the infant's sleep.

More to the point, Meril's sharp ears would easily detect the presence of an unexpected speaker and bring her inside forthwith to confront whoever dared intrude upon her family's privacy, and so Legolas thought it wise to accede to Gwilith's request.

Legolas wrapped his free arm around Gwilith and drew her closer, realising there might never be another opportunity such as this, desperately hoping his siblings would remember their brief moment of familial unity.  As Gwilith spoke, he hugged them both, carefully but tightly, fighting back his sorrow at having to leave them soon.  He wanted them to recall their big brother with happiness, knowing he loved them fully and would never part from them under normal conditions.

_They must not think I abandoned them!_

Legolas suddenly became horrified that this would be so, for in fact he must return to the Tasks.  He would be forced to forsake them.  With abrupt clarity he registered the dismay this would cause, for a child could neither be told of such things as the Judgement he faced nor be fed lies.  Elflings were especially gifted in comprehending the distinction between falsehood and verity; no explanation would allay the undertone of disgrace colouring his departure.  Even as he had fled from the woodsmen's village without a good-bye to Cemendur and his sisters, Legolas would go from the city and his sibling's lives. He switched his pleading gaze to Lindalcon.

The younger elf understood somehow and patted the wild elf's shoulder for reassurance.  His smile conveyed his promise to remind these little ones of their warrior brother, for he knew what it was to have a loved one forgotten and would never allow such a grief to befall his brother and sister.

Gwilith had become silent once more as she felt Legolas' tension and she stared into his worried eyes with compassionate distress.  She quickly plopped the book upon his lap and scrambled up on her knees in order to reach his face.  Thereupon she planted a quick succession of kisses, covering as much of his visage as she could with her tangibly damp adoration, arms worming their way through his hair and past the slumbering babe's head to clasp around his neck.  Drawing back to observe whether her usual remedy for her Ada's troubled spirits worked on her brother, the child was rewarded instead with the gleaming sparkle of tears pooling in the Tawarwaith's orbs.

"Legolas, you say pictures now.  I say them next time," she whispered into his ear, thinking in her child's mind that this was what her big brother wanted and having denied him she had caused his sadness.

Legolas smiled and blinked back the threatening flow, unable to stop a couple of determined drops from making their way free of his lashes.  His baby sister did not allow the proof of his distress to travel far, however, and whisked them away with two delicate swipes of her gentle fingers.  For added measure, she repeated her initial contact with Legolas, pressing her palms against his cheeks to force his mouth into a ridiculous pout, which she then kissed with a delighted laugh.

"Say pictures, Limlas!"

"Nay, you say them.  I will listen and remember.  It is well, Gwilwileth," Legolas whispered back.

"Aye, finish the book, Gwilith.  Legolas cannot stay long and he wants to hear you name all the pictures perfectly!" Lindalcon added to distract the child from her oldest brother's despondency.  Sure enough, the order from Gwilith's second oldest brother drew a petulant frown to her lips and a defiant shake of her chestnut locks.

"Lind'on, be quiet!  Me and Limlas share the book!" she retorted, drawing a snicker from the Tawarwaith.  There was no doubt who ruled the household of the Woodland King.

Before Gwilith could resume her recitation, however, there was a muffled call from the courtyard below and the music of the quartet ceased abruptly.  Another shout from the guard at the postern preceded the noisy and typically dramatic arrival of Talagan's troop from their successful campaign upon the Orcs of the Misty Mountains.  The cargo they had acquired raised an astonished hubbub among the occupants of the barracks' grounds and, true to the inquisitive nature of the Sylvan folk, a large crowd gathered and talk began at once concerning the unexpected prisoner.

Thranduil leaped to his feet, knocking over a pitcher of water in his haste, and strode to the edge of the balcony to stare in disbelieving amazement at the chaotic scene below.

_My eyes must be bewitched for surely that cannot be Erestor of Imladris trussed up like a common thieving poacher from Laketown!_

A smug grin caressed the Woodland King's lips.  This was an unexpected boon; here was the final proof of the conspiracy he envisioned, for what possible excuse could Elrond's most trusted advisor have for being at large within the Greenwood without the shield of a diplomatic errand?

_Unless Elrond has demoted the seneschal to messenger!_

Radagast the Brown was dismounting and Talagan, grabbing his unwanted guest by the back of the leggings, gave a laborious heave and shoved him head first over the charger's shoulders into the dust of the well-trampled yard.  Laughter greeted the outraged cry of pain, both for his injury and his pride, that issued from the Noldo Lord as his face met the hard packed earth.

"Enough!" intoned the Maia and moved over to assist Erestor, who was trying to right himself to at least a sitting position as blood streamed from his bruised and swelling nose.  The seldom seen Istar noticed the couple on the balcony above and met the King's glittering gaze.  "Thranduil, come down please." Aiwendil asked politely but left no room for argument; a wizard of any colour outranked an elf, even though he be Ingwë himself.

The Woodland King raised imperious brows and sent a furious frown in Radagast's direction at the peremptory command but turned to Meril to make his apologies nonetheless.  He found his mate had risen also and stood with arms crossed and a definite glare of displeasure marring her comely features as she gazed upon her husband's captain.

"Go then, make no requital for this, Hervenn nîn; Talagan shall bear the burden for removing you from my side so soon upon my maternity's completion," she growled quietly yet loud enough for the soldier to hear her.  It mattered not to the heir's mother that the Sinda warrior had not been present to know the nativity had been accomplished.

Talagan grimaced to note her displeasure, for Meril's influence over Thranduil was paramount, and he could expect the King to initiate some sort of discipline, even though they had been comrades in arms since the Last Alliance and friends from their childhood days.  Talagan wondered that the value he held had diminished so quickly after the second wife moved into the stronghold, despite all his long years of service for his Lord and King.

Wordlessly Meril presented her cheek for the fleeting impression of Thranduil's lips and smoothed her hand against his shoulders as he turned and headed down the rock-hewn stairway to the garden below.  Her attention followed his progress as he strode beneath the bobbing heads of her favourite, the sunflowers, and passed through the wrought iron gate to the courtyard.

Then, with silence only a Wood Elf could achieve, the Royal Consort traversed the balcony to its adjoining archway with Taurant's nursery.

The sudden cessation of the harmonious strains from the gifted elven singers had alerted that cosy chamber's occupants to the calamitous disruption of their cautiously constructed conniving.  Lindalcon jumped with as much alacrity as had his stepfather; he pulled insistently on the archer's arm to force him up as well.  Gwilith saw Lindalcon's frenetic attempts to steer Legolas back toward the frightful tunnels and placed herself on the opposite side of the fallen archer, shoving against his legs with all her might.  She did not want her Fish Leaf to disappear into that darkness again.

"Hurry!" Lindalcon hissed in a barely audible whisper, "Gwilith, stop that!" Yet neither elf obeyed him, and the Tawarwaith seemed to be resisting the attempt to eject him from the room as much as the little princess was.  Lindalcon ceased shoving and opened his arms to accept his infant brother, assuming this was the reason, but Legolas stood firm while an unaccountably stubborn expression of denial overtook his features.  Lindalcon's mouth gaped and his eyes widened in alarm at this turn of events, but before he could speak further he heard the step of his Naneth upon the threshold to the open porch.

"Nana!" Gwilith sang out in delight and danced over to grasp her mother's fingers, tugging to coax her further into the room from the spot upon which she had frozen.  "Limlas is here; we show Tauron the book!" she exclaimed with gleeful pride and pulled more insistently when her Nana remained still.  The elfling's merry smile dimmed when she tilted her cheerful features upward to examine her mother's expression and found her rigid and angry, eyes locked upon the sight of Taurant asleep in the arms of the kinslayer.

"So I see, darling." Meril found her voice at last as she stared upon the fallen prince cradling her little son protectively against his chest. _Protectively!_  She had to make a great effort to banish the wary belligerence from her voice and manner as she met her daughter's concerned eyes and smiled warmly.  Meril would not allow the seamy side of the Wood Elves' world to taint her child at so young an age.  There was no need for Gwilwileth to be told why this elf was unwelcome.

"Naneth, I can explain this," her first-born began, and wished instantly he had remained silent when her livid gaze of restrained rage turned upon him fully.  Lindalcon flinched and stepped back, remorsefully dropping his head to avoid having to look upon her unspoken accusations.  This would not be soon forgiven.

"Nay, Lindalcon.  Take Gwilwileth to her rooms for she has missed her tea and must be hungry.  I will make all the explanations required," spoke Legolas boldly before the irate inu could express her wrath against her oldest child.

"Oh yes, Lind'on!  Gwilith so starved!  You kept tea away!" The little one returned to her pattern of baby-speech in response to the obvious strain in the atmosphere.  She understood Naneth was angry with Lindalcon and hoped the reason was this oversight.  The elfling only wanted everyone to be happy again and smiled at Lindalcon endearingly as she darted to his side to clasp his hand in hers.

Lindalcon glanced quickly at his mother, noting her brief nod of assent, and then once more looked to Legolas.  The Tawarwaith met his eyes with a calmly reassuring smile as he softly stroked the silky strands adorning Taurant's crown, and in an instant the young usurper's anxiety vanished.  He found that he was not sorry at all for what he had done.  He was quite proud, in fact, and squared his shoulders before he faced Meril again.

"It was right, Naneth," he said firmly and then made his retreat.

Just before the brother and sister reached the door, Gwilwileth snatched her hand free and flew back to Legolas' side, wrapping her chubby arms around his knees and hugging hard as she bent her head back to make sure he was smiling.

Indeed he was, and Legolas crouched down to encircle his little sister in a final embrace, resting his brow upon the top of her head before settling a sound kiss there.  When he pulled back he discovered the child beaming happily and he returned the exuberant grin.

"Thank you Gwilwileth; you said the pictures perfectly.  Go and have your tea now."  He released her reluctantly and stood.

"You say them next time, Legolas!" she rejoined and skipped back to Lindalcon's side, pleased to have restored the status quo as she exited the room with the carefree jubilation of innocence.

As soon as the door shut Legolas strode to Meril and handed over the babe.

"I would speak with you, Meril," he began before she could utter a sound.  "Tuck Taurant in and let us speak softly, for what we discuss should not become the little one's burden, ever."

Meril was struck dumb by the events she had just witnessed and could only stare in undisguised shock as she mechanically reached out and collected her infant up in her arms.  Vision fixed upon the wild elf, her perception recorded the incongruous impression of both menace and tenderness emanating from his person.  Somehow Legolas had managed not only to meet and befriend her daughter but had clearly established a strong bond with all three of her offspring.

_I was wrong to allow Lindalcon this friendship, for it has generated this unseemly connection!  Gwilwileth must not be marked by his ill-fate, and Taurant need never know he had a predecessor._, she mused, cautiously regarding the recovering warrior.  Perhaps Thranduil's assessment of his potential as an adversary was not exaggerated.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded coldly, pacing across the room and back as the infant stirred in her rigid grasp.

"As I said; we must speak together for there is much I would say to you," Legolas replied. Though mild in timbre and tone his voice remained as steady and strong as the trees he held so dear, his words clothed with the power of Tawar even as green leaves draped the branches of the canopy in summer.

This was not the soft-spoken, unassuming archer she remembered from her days as Valtamar's mate.  Meril faced the Tawarwaith, wild and primitive, barely withholding a deep rage she quailed to have revealed.  Somehow the fact that he held this anger in abeyance did not quiet her uneasiness.  Abruptly she strode to the cradle and did as he had bid her, trying to assemble some remnant of the calm authority her role as the mother of the Woodland Realm's new prince granted.  As soon as she faced Legolas again she realised her promotion would not impress the forest's champion.

Yet, she would not concede so quickly.  Folklore's precedent or not, Legolas was still noss-dagnir, accursed off-shoot of an illicit affair, abandoned child of the faithless Queen and Meril felt she should show the outcast his proper place.  She lifted her chin and folded her arms against her bosom hiding her trepidation with what she hoped presented as cold contempt for the condemned perpetrator of her first husband's demise.

"You speak with assurance you have no right to assume!" she began.  "I have neither need nor desire to hold discourse with such as you."

"Then Thranduil has not revealed to you his plans?"

"Nothing does the King withhold from me.  Our union is not such as you observed between him and your mother."

"Truly?  You are both fortunate and blessed.  Yet, I would not have thought you so eager to have Erebor brought up again." Legolas retorted with sharp and icy ire. _How dare she speak of my mother!_ He had the supreme satisfaction of seeing the King's consort startle and turn an unnaturally pale shade as this statement met her ears.  "So, he has failed to enlighten you," he gloated without even trying to mask a sneering smirk.

"I do not believe you!  Thranduil has no intention of reopening such a grievous hurt upon our Realm."

"No need have I to be false.  Such an investigation can do no further harm to me, yet would I forestall it.  I am not as ignorant of all that transpired as some would imagine, Meril, yet for the sake of my brother and sister I would rather none of this come to light."

"What?" she spat indignantly to cover the impact of that sentence and sought a place to sit before her strength failed her.  Lightly she lowered herself to the rocker, never taking her narrowed and hostile eyes from the wild archer's penetrating glare.  "I do not understand you!" she prevaricated.

"Aye, you do.  Yet your guilt prevents you from owning your responsibility.  However, I am not the one you should worry over; there are several others who suspect the same.  Indeed, it is through Mithrandir that my comprehension of this mess was clarified.  Fearfaron determined the truth independently, but he has not kept the ideas to himself and has shared with Iarwain."

"What?" she sputtered feebly and her hand found its way to her face to pass shakily across her suddenly parched lips. Eyes locked upon the elf's before her, the belligerent attitude shaping Meril's expression transformed into an outlook of unabashed dread under the blaze of righteous vehemence highlighting the archer's fair face.

And then Legolas pitied her, for he could see she did not understand his motivation and could only sense her world about to devolve into a more bitter sorrow than that which she had already endured.  He sighed lightly and his steely gaze softened as he held up a hand and shook his head.

"I am not the one you need to fear," he restated.  "That is my brother sleeping there, and Gwilwileth is my sister.  For them do I act; even as you wish to safeguard their hearts so do I," he said as he pointed to the cradle.

Instead of inspiring confidence in his faithfulness, she viewed his compassion as weakness, and surmised the whole scene was no more than a bluff.  He was playing upon her instincts as a mother, trying to stir her heart with false claims of filial devotion toward her young.  This idea enraged her.

_It is all a ruse, he knows nothing for certainty and neither does the wizard or the counsellor!_

Fearfaron she cared not a whit about, for everyone knew he was besotted with the fallen prince.  With a renewed sense of control Meril snidely sent him a brittle smile of dogmatic disdain.

"Unwarranted confidence or rather foolish pretence brands your speech!  Whatever you imagine in that depraved mind of yours is no concern of mine or of the Council's.  And I am sure of your relationship to my offspring, child of Ningloriel, for it is non-existent!  I am one of the few who knew of your guardsman's coupling with the faithless Queen."

Meril flaunted her gift for gathering gossip and winnowing out the germ of truth from which it sprang.  She flung out this rebuke with deceptive carelessness emphasising her indifference with a toss of her bronze-hued hair.  She was pleased to see the confirmation of her deduction in the flash of pain that shook the wild elf's frame as he unconsciously wrapped his arms around his body as though a sudden blast of winter's breath had found its way within the stronghold.  Yet, she did not understand the true cause of the archer's distress, and learned all too quickly that he was not ashamed of his mother's behaviour.

"That is twice now you have let reference to my mother pass your lips with less than kindly intent," he uttered in low tones as he raised his fiery gaze once more to her smug complacent one.  "I will not hear another," he warned and heard her gasp as her soul responded to this command.  "I say again, for myself no worse can conditions be, for I am already banished and outcast.  My siblings, however," he emphasised the relationship, "have much to lose!  If you love them, as I know that you must, then cease your sniping jibes and hear me."

"I hear you!  Why should you seek to halt the investigation, for you have much to gain if you can convince the Council of your innocence!  What trickery are you about, hecilo?  There is nought you would speak that I need know of," her words were bold yet her voice trembled and the potency of their impact waned under the stern appraisal of the Tawarwaith.  Meril drew in another audible breath and darted her eyes towards the balcony, desperation overcoming her artificial pretension once more.  "Go from here, or I shall scream for Thranduil!"

"Would you so terrorise your child?" demanded Legolas incredulously.  "Taurant and Gwilwileth must not be forced to live under such a weight of shame that forebodes to crush them!  Are you truly willing to chance their future well-being rather than trade words with me, whom you have wronged?"

"Wronged you?  How can you accuse me, when it is Valtamar whose life was wasted and Lindalcon who suffered that loss, not you!  I am the one that should be angry and you have no right…"

"Silence!" Legolas took a step towards her; fists clenched and face flushed though his voice was pitched low.  "I have every right and will hear no more of your threats.  Do not dare use your children as your shield!  Know that I consider Lindalcon as much my brother as Taurant and I will protect him!  Do you understand, Meril?  I would have him forever ignorant of the truth of Erebor."

"What is it that you want, hecilo?" she whispered harshly, fear shining in her emerald green eyes.

"No outcast am I!  The Council's Laws have not the power to sunder me from Tawar!" he hissed back as he leaned over her.  "If you cannot speak my mother-name, then use the woodsmen's christening: Tirn-en-Tawar!"

"What do you want?" she could scarcely contain her wail and had to cover her mouth to keep from waking the infant so near at hand.

Legolas drew a steadying breath and backed away.  He had not set out to frighten her yet her words had angered him more than he would have liked and triggered this outburst.  He reminded himself that Meril was cornered and fighting with any means at her disposal to get free of him, and might in another moment of panic rouse Taurant or even shout for her husband.  Somehow he had to make her calm down and understand him.

"I want you to stop Thranduil from holding this investigation.  If it goes forward, everyone will have to be questioned, Meril, everyone," he said more gently and gazed at her with all the compassion he could muster.  "Whatever happened then means nothing.  What matters is the future of these young ones, Lindalcon included!  Do you not agree?" he pressed hoping to uncover that strong maternal instinct he had seen evidence of so often in the past, and had heard in her voice just hours ago.  He watched her intently as her thoughts churned, mentally writhing between relenting to trust him and stubbornly protecting her singular interests.

"Thranduil truly loves me.  We are right together!" she said with frantic insistence.  "Our children are innocent and do not deserve to be harmed by a past they had no part in."

"And so it must remain, then, this union you have forged," said the wild elf gently and nodded to encourage her to continue.

"He would not believe any lies spoken against me!"

"Nay, he would not.  But the truth, that is another matter.  He would not be able to deny what he knew in his heart to be true.  I for one do not wish him to have the opportunity to learn what that entails."

"How would he be taught such knowledge, Tawarwaith?  Your words would never sway him, nor does he hold much regard for Maltahondo.  Talagan already tried to have you cleared and Thranduil heeded him not!"

"The words will not be his to heed or deny.  It is the Council that will hear these things, and they who will instruct your husband."  Legolas sighed and sat down on the settee facing her, relieved that she was rational enough to reason out the situation.  "The hearing will be public, all will be allowed to attend.  Lindalcon, as Iarwain's page, will be there.  Every warrior that was present at Erebor will be questioned."

Deep silence weighted the air in the room as the gravity of the fallen prince's declarations eclipsed the Meril's radiant vision of her children's carefree future.  She considered carefully the archer's words and recalled each of her first husband's comrades.

"Nay, not every warrior!" her eyes gleamed in triumph and her hard-heartedness reasserted itself.  "Some are dead, and one has gone to the West."

Legolas frowned, for he knew not how to make Meril view the situation objectively.  What she said was true, but he had already come to understand that none of the warriors had been unmarked by the battle, and all of them must have their memories and dreams haunted by the replay of the dreadful day, even as were his.  What Fearfaron had surmised and Mithrandir suspected, surely some among the company's remaining soldiers had reasoned out as well.

A cavalry of archers and spear-casters knew each other, depended upon one another's skill and loyalty, understood and counteracted individual's weaknesses to strengthen and maintain the unity and integrity of the company.  Centuries of daily sparring, patrolling, fighting, and surviving shaped these groups into a form of colonial symbiosis unparalleled in other facets of Sylvan culture.  Everyone in Talagan's troop knew who were the broken threads within the sturdy cloth of their interwoven lives, and not even Legolas would place himself in this category.  The warriors knew: the tragedy of Erebor was not a product of the Tawarwaith's flaws.

His opportunity for rebuttal was non-existent, however, for he discerned the all too recognisable footfalls of the Woodland King crossing into the outer sitting rooms and parlours of the royal suite.  The disowned heir was not ready to confront his estranged sire and he rose from the sofa quickly.  With a last glance upon the slumbering infant, Legolas made his escape, hastening through the open archway to the balcony and down the steps to the garden below.

Tbc


	50. Chapter 50

A/N: For the story of Eluréd and Elurín, see The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien, pp 282-284

**The Sons of Elrond**

Now stood the sons of Elrond upon the howling heights of the Redhorn Pass gazing out over the living schema of all Rhovanion below, marching out for leagues and leagues to a Northern horizon hidden behind the obfuscation of the Greenwood's dense curtain of wood and leaves.  The elevation of the treacherous thoroughfare rendered all but the wild forest in reduced proportions.

There flowed Anduin, diminished to a sleek ribbon of shimmering gleam flung down against the variegated mantle of verdure garbing the lowlands, olive and tan, the customary colours of meadowed fields.  At the fingertips of Hithaeglir where the stony-souled shoulders of the mountains were gently rounded into soft hills clad in life-giving loam, crowded in the crux of the Great River and the Nimrodel, clung the isolated weald of Mellyrn Taur [Mallorn Forest].  From this vantage, the Golden Wood looked less the realm of eternal elven dream that was Lorien and more a disenfranchised legion, still a proud and fearsome army, forced back and amputated from the body of its defences until, no further retreat possible, the enchanted woods held what little glory remained in Arda against the onslaught of a darkening future.

Directly across the thin strip of the river's flood plain spiked the black spire of Dol Guldur, an obscene protrusion of Sauron's handiwork amid the majestic might of Yavanna's oaks and beeches, aligned with eerie precision to sight the approach to the High Pass.  Identical eyes of dauntless sable gazed upon the vile tower yet faltered not, though surely the sense of malevolent appraisal returned upon the Imladrian Lords was not imagined.

Elladan and Elrohir did not fear the minions of Melkor's apprentice; they hunted them with predatory persistence.

Neither did the brothers, standing side by side firm upon the snow cloaked stone, quail under the vicious temper of Caradhras.  Drift crystals spun through the sharp clarity of the thinned air, defining the shape of the wind that swirled in gusts and shoved against the twins in shearing down-drafts designed to loose them from the slender slickness of the granitic path.  Clasped about their shoulders, fur-lined capes whipped out and around them, alternately furling and uncurling upon their knees, hugging close upon them before fanning away to snap and twitch in muffled, repudiating insolence at the breath of Redhorn.

Shoulder to shoulder, proud and bold, tall in the manner of Tuor their forebear, Elrohir and Elladan stood battle ready and armed for combat.  Mithril mail protected their hearts and their hungering broadswords, too long starved for the taste of Orc, were belted at their hips, Elladan's to his left and Elrohir's upon the right.

Now like unto their masters were these weapons.  Even as the brothers were born of the same seed so were these blades forged of the same metal.  Imbued with equal amounts of strength and power, blessed with perfection in beauty and cogency, aglow with the light of Aman yet harbouring an unquenchable thirst for squelching the essence of the Enemy, the twin swords were unmatched upon Middle-earth except in their opposing symmetries.  Once whetted, their appetites forever craved the scent of death, yearned for the sticky flow of darkness spilling from black wounds, sought the absorption of minuscule metallic components released from the scurrilous fountain upon their steely edges to settle deep within hearts never sated.

Orthoron [Conqueror] was Elladan's blade while Elrohir's sword was Daengeredir [Corpse Maker] and together they decreed retribution and dealt vengeance upon the Shadow's soldiers.

Sable were their eyes and sable was their hair, and if black was the colour of captured light then truly the brilliance of Illuin and Ormal [Lamps of Aulë] must have been caught within the glossy tresses, so richly resplendent was the sheen of vigour upon these lengthy strands.  Bound back with impeccable precision, the locks lay heavily down the brothers' spines, three thick plaits preventing grappling with the gusty hands of the mountain while two long tendrils on either side, wrapped tight in tri-coloured ribbons of sea-blue, foam-white, and ruddy earthen red, framed faces fair and set in grim ferocity.

In countenance and body were these two the mirror of each other, as was renowned among all elf-kind for the rarity of the occurrence.  Yet Elladan and Elrohir favoured not their sire nor was their appearance similar to the looks of Celebrian their mother.  It was said that the triple heritage of three races gave them a unique beauty and regal dignity not beheld upon Arda since Dior met his doom rather than surrender the Nauglamír to the sons of Feanaro.

Great was the weight of that cursed history upon the sons of Elrond, for the ancestor's of one branch in their noble lineage had slain the kin of their forebears within the other, all for lust of the remnant of living light of the Two Trees enslaved forever within the Silmarils.  And the curse was not through with the bloodline of Finwë, for the darkness had stolen away the gentle brightness of Celebrian such that no longer could the burden of life upon Arda be borne and she had departed for Aman. Upon the day she sailed had the brothers made their choice; they must in the end go over sea or forever be parted from her.

Yet, not before the vile seep of Sauron's insalubrity was cleansed from the lands, not until their insatiable swords had incised away all the pestilential infestations of Melkor's blighted progeny.

There within plain view of their sharp sight sprouted the beacon of evil from whence the Dark One broadcast his foul desolation over the lands, and from there had come the poison that had robbed Elladan and Elrohir of their mother.  How many others of elf-kind had met a similar end, or a worse one?  What beleaguered souls from among the woodland folk remained imprisoned there in the fuliginous vacuum of the turret's dungeons?  Were those piteous eldar, tortured and twisted, maligned and marred, the source for the unending succession of generation after generation of loathsome Orcs that plagued all the peopled lands?

Such were the thoughts of Elrohir and his heart ached to know these ponderings.  Beside him Elladan shuddered in horror of this image wrought in his brother's brain, for what one twin knew in his mind the other understood simultaneously, and what the other experienced in spirit his counterpart's soul felt in equal fullness.  So complete was the link between the two that seldom did words pass spoken between them.  Physically they mimicked this interior communion such that never was one seen without the other close at hand and the gemini moved through life with unison of purpose and predestined ardour to accomplish the will of Eru and undo the corruption of Arda.

With precipitous synchrony the brothers turned from contemplation of the compelling citadel and began their descent to the Dimril Dale and the borders of Lorien.  Behind them on the path their mounts needed no orders to follow and stepped forward after their masters with footfalls as silent upon the snowy carpet as the tread of the brothers' elven boots.

Solid, strong, intelligent, and beautiful, the horses were worthy of the First Born who had trained them up from spindle legged colts into mature warriors in their own rights.  Their coats gleamed in the wan sunlight, richly brown in mahogany tones except for the broad equine foreheads, each of which was starred with a single round dot of pure white hair.  No gear or tack adorned them, but upon their sturdy legs were bound mithril gaiters, for the brothers would not suffer the stallions to be lamed in battle, Orcs being notorious for attacking horses' limbs to unseat the rider.

The present steeds represented the descendants of the twins' first war horses, long dead for nearly an Age; their lineage documented one hundred and twelve generations back along the stallions' male bloodlines, according to the custom of the Noldor.  Elladan's mount was Nirmë [Act of Will] and Elrohir's charger was Namië [Judgement] and the brave beasts were as eager as their masters to meet the Orc hordes of Dol Guldur in combat.   

Elrohir felt strongly the pull to confront the putrid powers sequestered in the Dark Fortress, and Elladan's hand moved to rest upon his brother's shoulder, drawing him back to the immediate task.  Always was it thus, Elrohir sought to hasten the completion of their mission while Elladan supplied the rational caution their perilous life's work demanded.

More than the tower called to the younger twin, for long had his thoughts hovered near the wild lands and the savage eldar dwelling hidden in xenophobic seclusion beyond the forbidding gloom of the forest's eaves.  Elrohir was first alerted to these folk when he had been but an elfling under a mild punishment for a not too minor offence.

Against Elladan's protests, he had released the contented, domestic livestock of the Last Homely House from their well-kept pens into the freedom of the open fields and orchards of Imladris, where the cattle had done much damage to neighbours' crops and homesteads.  After securing the animals and apologising to every elf affected by the liberation of Yavanna's lesser creations, he had been ordered to clean and catalogue a long neglected stack of old scrolls and obscure books.

The real punishment, however, had been his separation from Elladan, who had not been included in the consequent reprisals for the ill-conceived return of the lowly beasts to their natural state nor allowed to succour his brother through the dreary chore.

Elrohir had read more than he had worked, and had found an account of the attack upon Menegroth by Celegorm and his brothers.  Of all the terrible deeds documented against the Noldor, the abandonment of the twin sons of Dior made the strongest impact upon the impressionable youth.  Too close to his father's history, and thus his own, was this sad legend and ever after Elrohir's heart wandered after the fate of Elurín and Eluréd.

Even when full-grown and a seasoned warrior, the youngest of Elrond's offspring sought out any hint or rumour relating to the time after the fall of the Sindarin Realm in Beleriand.  Only Elladan knew the true extent of this obsession, and was perpetually redirecting his twin away from the interior of Thranduil's Realm for Elrohir had convinced himself that their great-uncles would be found among the Danwaith, or at least knowledge of them discovered.

The ongoing attention Elrond had bestowed upon the Greenwood, or rather upon one particular citizen thereof, only served to fuel the intensity of his son's curiosity by giving him another possible relative to seek out: the child of Ningloriel.

Elladan no longer attempted to deter or forestall his brother's mental quandary over these elusive and ambiguous kinfolk.  Such an activity would be as futile as Elrohir's efforts to know the truth.  Moreover, there was nothing illogical or far-fetched about the younger twin's reasoning and in fact Elladan agreed with his brother's deductions.

If the accounts of the history-makers were true, then Elurín and Eluréd had been seized and dragged away from the cooling bodies of their parents even before the life-blood had ceased to gush from the mortal wounds.  Inspired by rage for the death of Celegorm, his trusted servant, a female warrior reputed to be the Noldo's paramour, commanded the action and lead the small group away into the heart of the forest beyond the former bounds of Melian's protection.  There in the deep wilds were the young ones left, overwrought in grief and terror, to starve or to fade or to become fodder for wolves.

Now Elrohir had often pointed out that these woods, while appearing to the Noldor rugged and inhabited only by beasts and birds, were in fact home to scattered groups of Green Elves.  Surely these eldar must have seen all that transpired and would never have left two elflings defenceless and alone, especially knowing the identity of the pair, as they must, for long years had Dior dwelt in Ossiriand and there his two sons were born.  Nay, the Sylvan elves would have gathered up the orphans and escorted them over Ered Luin to be adopted among the Danwaith of the Greenwood, there to abandon not their life and breath but only the names that marked them as the heirs of Thingol, for word spread that Maedhros was diligently searching for the twins.

It was a great tale, and Elrohir believed it wholly, and in his own heart Elladan also hoped for this to be the completion of the history of the sons of Dior.  Yet there was no remedy for the mystery, for the lands in which the search would take them were forbidden, by their father as well as the Woodland King.

Faster than an eye can blink the entirety of Elrohir's lament against the cruelty of fate and the obdurance of destiny flowered and was collected instantly within Elladan's consciousness where he matched the melancholy rage of his brother with equally vehement passion against the darkness overshadowing their family.  Within Elladan's spirit arose the summation of their calling and the hope of freedom their work promised and this image of noble sacrifice flowed back into his brother's psyche to soothe the bitter emptiness in both their souls.  It comforted them to address the unchangeable doom of the Silmaril's protectors in this way.

Halfway down the steep incline the brothers halted and gazed upon the southernmost borders of Greenwood, for a figure on horseback emerged into view, racing with all speed the steed could command toward the safety of Mellyrn Taur. The rider, an elf dressed in the colours of Thranduil's warriors, urged the weary animal on and drew farther into the brown, desiccated plains dividing the enchanted realm from the looming blackness of Mirkwood.  Now his pursuers could be discerned as well: Warg Riders, three in number, howling obscenities and brandishing short stubby sabres encrusted with gore and rust.

Too far away to be of aid, Elladan and Elrohir froze, tensely transfixed, and witnessed the deadly race.  From above the rate of progress appeared sluggish and slow, yet the twins knew the horse was running with every ounce of endurance its muscles could supply.  Keen eyes allowed them to note the sweat-lathered flanks and flaring nostrils of the steed and the calm demeanour of the Sylvan upon its back. Together they judged the skill and speed of messenger and mount sufficient and relaxed as the elf drew ever closer to the eaves of Lorien.

The Wargs seemed tireless, driven by fear or demonic magic, and ran with jaws slavering and fangs revealed, hungry and mad with it.  The equestrian paid no attention to the shouted threats or the low gurgling growls of the beasts on his charger's heels.  With determined insistence he made for the Anduin, and steadily increased the distance between them. The river was reached and the horse plunged into the current while the Orcs halted abruptly amid a thick cascade of arrow fire from among the tree-lined banks of the opposite shore.

Elrohir and Elladan smiled gloating grins to one another and continued their journey eagerly; anxious to hear what news the Woodland courier bore to the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.

Not as fortunate was the Greenwood's rider sent to bear the King's tidings of triumphant joy in the birth of the new Woodland prince to Imladris.  This messenger only made the trip alive due to the loyalty and intelligence of the courageous charger, for the hapless elf ran afoul of the remnant of the defeated legion from the Misty Mountains returning to the stinking holes that served as abodes for the vile servants of Sauron.  Upon discovering the elda the Orcs gave chase and, unlike their counterparts in the southern regions, these beastly creations were armed with bows; one unleashed an arrow that anchored into the rider's thigh.

Nearly unseated, the Sylvan warrior could only pray the barb was untainted as she quickly armed and aimed her weapon, releasing whatever served as souls for Orcs from the three persistent enemies crowding the Dwarven Road.   On the opposite slopes of the Mountains far from the limit of the Sinda Lord's holdings, the messenger wrapped her fingers through the mare's mane where it streamed from the horse's neck and leaned in anguished distress upon the steed's heaving shoulders.  It would be a near thing, making the ford of the Bruinen before her strength gave out, and she drove her fleet-footed companion on.  She dared not halt to tend the wound, for should she pull it forth and it was poisoned, then the increased flow of blood would move the venom more quickly through her veins.

The war-horse was of the sturdy stalwart breed raised among the trees, not as tall of limb or as broad in breadth as their cousins adapted to the plains of Rohan or those powerful chargers trained for combat within the walls of Minas Tirith. The Woodland equines mimicked Eru's fair Children of the Greenwood.  Slight of frame and compactly muscled, the Sylvan's mount was agile and swift, made for slipping through the bolls and bracken with alacrity and stealth, and her coat of glossy fur was splattered and dappled white upon brown in imitation of patches of sunlight that crossed the forest floor upon Anor's trek through the heaven's each day.

Indeed, the sun had set twice before the ford was reached, and by the dawn of the second morn the rider had lost consciousness and lay draped upon the horse's neck.  Then did the mare's step quicken yet retained the unrivalled balance and soothing gait that somehow looked more a dance of elegant display than the desperate run for help which in truth it was. Under the faint gleam of Ithil's slender sickle in the closing hours of the second night's passing, the charger scented water and the unmistakable essence of horses bearing elf kind.  As the advent of Anor's return lit a band of brightness below the departing black and diamond glimmer, three sentries rode forth from the banks beyond the river and waded into the stream to guide the mare across.

The riders and their horses were all known one to another, for this Sylvan was the assigned courier to the court of Imladris.  Friendship there was between these soldiers, nurtured by the common ground of shared experience and long travail against the deepening darkness accosting both sides of the dividing range of jagged peaks.  Once safe within the domain of Elrond's protection, the warriors gently lifted the wounded messenger from her steed to rest in the arms of the fastest among the three and straightaway he sped for the Last Homely House and the healers there.

But the arrow point was dipped in toxins and so, ere Anor set a third time, far from the comfort of homeland and kin, fell the only elven casualty of Legolas' battle against the Orcs.

Of such events the Lord of Imladris must be advised, and so Glorfindel knew, yet he hesitated to take the news to his esteemed colleague.  Elrond's manner had been strange of late.

Short of patience and quick to temper, the son of Eärendil spent less than half his usual time with his council, delegating the cares of state to Lindir and Gildor Inglorion.  Little did he sleep, even by the standards of elf-kind, and long hours he spent roaming the manicured grounds of his peaceful haven, yet no ease could his troubled mind and worried heart obtain within the sheltered valley.  As now, his attention strayed to remembrance of the month's worth of days spent among the towering trees of the Woodland Realm in the company of the feral son of his former lover.

_Was it but one cycle of Ithil's waxing?_

Legolas had become a constant presence in his thoughts and a burning torment to his body as his loins longed for lunging completion within the constricting channel between the lean and lanky shanks of the wild elf.

_How can it have been only once?_

As on other days since his return, Elrond's restless mind directed his steps to paths that would ensure his isolation from the rest of the household.  He stood upon the cliff overlooking the falls where the Bruinen dived down into the hidden haven.  Here the roar of the turbulent cascade emulated the torrent of emotions flooding his soul and the virulent flush of the western sky afire with the passing of Anor mocked the heated, florid hardness within his groin.  Not since Gil-Galad had Elrond known a need so insatiable.

It was his father's uncle, heir of the noble line of Fingolfin, who initiated Elrond into the illicit delights of carnal coupling with his own sex.  The affair with Ereinion had been his first and only such relationship until the taking of the wild archer.  More than mere physical attraction had drawn him to the High King and Elrond's heart had been compromised; the fabled warrior had been the herald's first love.

The damage done to the younger son of Elwing upon the destruction of Gil-Galad was nearly lethal.  Only a deathbed vow to stay and complete the route of Sauron's evil held Elrond's feä bound to hroa and both to Middle-earth.  That, and Vilya.  Duty, obligation, and honour became the scaffold upon which the Lord of Imladris maintained a semblance of the majesty and might of the eldar in the First and Second Ages in his hidden haven in the hollow between the natural protection of the Loud Water and the mist mantled mountains.  The vale still sang with elven voices, but its master's no longer joined the song.

And love he knew never again except as the gleam of pride for his offspring and the comfort of comradeship with their mother.

Thus the noble Lore Master, revered healer, Keeper of Vilya, and esteemed member of the Council of the Wise was stunned to discover the stirring in his stymied heart that accompanied the stimulation of his libido whenever his imagination was overtaken by the image of the fallen archer.  What to do about it he could not determine, and a blinding panic attended every episode of daydreaming which featured the Sylvan outcast.

_Legolas!_

Elrond's reason swayed to extremes, on the one tilt decreeing an exorcism of the robust hallucinations and a return to the sober-minded stability for which the Noldo Lord was known.  Yet in its next contraction his heart surged boldly, demanding its right to know the fullness of love's promise hinted at in the person of the Woodland warrior.  For Legolas had offered Elrond something not even Gil-Galad had supplied: compassionate acceptance.

Neither did it escape the Imladrian's excited comprehension that Legolas would submit willingly, completely, and beg to be taken if denied this subjugation.

That the High King had been fair beyond measure among the members of the House of Finwë was indisputable and the orphan of the Mariner and his elven wife had been easily smitten and enthralled by the magnetic appeal of the powerful ruler.  But the coupling of the pair had never resulted in anything less than Elrond's surrender to the Noldo King's zealous penetration.  However, during their passionate liaison, no complaints had the herald against the delights their joining brought him.

But the Last Alliance was broken when Isildur sealed his fate and that of all the free peoples, dooming his line and suffering death under the ring-bound might of the very enemy he had felled.  Too many were sacrificed to secure this galling defeat within the glory of victory, Gil-Galad among the brightest and most valorous of the Star Children killed that day.  When the burying and the burning were done then did Elrond find his desire, for male or female, had died as well, and the needs of the flesh faded to dormancy in the bitter gloom of his sorrow and grief.

Later, when the newness of the tragic loss and the sharpness of his agony had dulled, friends and kin gently reminded the leader of Lindon's refugees of the importance of continuing the lineage of his forebears, and Elrond had half-heartedly agreed to an alliance by marriage.  Upon that scene of impending matrimony broke the maelstrom that was the fiery feä of Ningloriel, flaunting her beauty and her profligate lust to rekindle the flame of lascivious craving in the neglected hroa of the new Noldo Lord.

Astounding was the contrast between the two females, for Celebrian was refined without hauteur and noble beyond the need of outward signs, coolly calm no matter the situation, assured of her place and her future.  Where Celebrian was imbued with gentle strength, an elegant hind darting through the well-worn paths of the world she commanded, Ningloriel was a tigress, stalking with eyes burning in ravenous hunger for any means to secure another morsel of power and prestige.  Celebrian negotiated and compromised, Ningloriel devoured what she desired.

That both had traded any meaningful commitment for the sake of kindred and homeland was a similarity of circumstance that would have kept them friends for life had the situation developed differently.

Yet the elven ladies, as radically different as were their personalities, exhibited startling accord in their attitudes surrounding sexual resources.  Access to their carnal charms was a gift, a precious privilege to be savoured and nurtured.  If Elrond failed to appreciate and properly attend to each one's distinct demands, the concession would be revoked, for there were many others who would not be loath to acquiesce to the ladies' needs.

Until Legolas, none of this had seemed burdensome nor had anything specific been found wanting in the physical aspects of Elrond's union with either of the females sharing his life.  He had enjoyed their bodies and they his, each finding release and satisfaction for their cupidity that never touched upon their souls.  None of them invested an ounce of emotional attachment in the other nor harboured any illusions of being so cherished.

_Legolas, wanton and wild, beautiful and powerful, compassionate and giving.  Strange, within the one are blended the qualities that singly each of the other three possessed._

Vastly different was the archer's training concerning sexual gratification, for he was conditioned to seek completion only after enduring lengthy torment of spirit and body, held on the brink of escalating ecstasy by the application of pain, compelled to submit to whatever humiliation his partner desired to secure his own pleasure.  And this Legolas required, nay demanded, to a degree Elrond had never observed firsthand before.  The fallen archer deemed it normal and right to find release in this manner, and so strong was the desire to be possessed that Legolas would allow any cruelty, every punishment.

_And if he is misused or abused in receipt of such pleasures then such is his due when he has chosen to partake in the act._

Legolas granted access to his body not as a gift to be cherished but as a treasure to be plundered and despoiled solely for the exhilarating sensation of power and control such degradation granted, both to himself and his partner.

Before encountering this perspective of sexual depravity, Elrond would never have considered himself amenable to such practices.  Certainly he had never wanted to hurt Celebrian, and while the desire to take Gil-Galad had definitely manifested itself in dream and fantasy, never would he have thought to accomplish this through force.  Ningloriel, however, was a case apart.  Often had the Lord of Imladris imagined wringing her erotically slender, elegant throat while in the throes of their passion, achieving his ejaculation at the instant the light of her mind fled from her flashing blue eyes.

He hated her for that, for making him a killer even if only within his imagination. He despised her for refusing to do without Maltahondo, for making it impossible to do without her insistent and lusty sex, for leaving him so easily while he still yearned for her body.

And so Elrond felt that he had a certain right to claim Legolas for his own.  It was his due for all the long years of self-denial and deprivation he had endured, for bearing the demands of family, duty, and honour at the expense of his own fulfilment, for tolerating the cruelty of Ningloriel's self-centred outlook and selfish retreat from the wreck of her marriage.

_I will have Legolas, his body and his heart, and both I will break utterly just for the pleasure such destruction will garner!_

With a bone-jolting shiver Elrond roused himself from such vile introspection, horrified both to have entertained such black desires and to yet remain aroused in the aftermath of this demented meditation. He shouted his fury over his inability to control this obscene obsession, a stream of curses against the Valar and Eru and Legolas poured into the deafening clamour of the river pounding the rocks below even as his hands hurriedly unveiled his intransigent cock and began pumping it brutally.  He leaned back upon the boulders amid the spray of the cataract's descent and reached into the pocket of his opened robes to retrieve the stolen memento from his initial acquisition of the feral warrior.

Elrond wrapped the long, ropy lock around his penis, gasping at the sensation of Legolas' hair upon his sensitive flesh, and began pulling and squeezing again, pivoting and rocking his pelvis, shoving his cock through the tightening grip.  He closed his eyes and imagined the roughly wound strand passing over his shaft was the scarred interior of the younger elf, and thrust harder.  He envisioned the archer on his back beneath him, long limbs hooked over the Noldo's shoulders, writhing against the pain of being torn by Elrond's excessive girth drilling deeper with every heave.

Lost in the fantasy, Elrond heard Legolas pleading for more.  He felt him struggling to push back, hands scuffing frantically upon the shalely ground to secure support and allow an increase in the depth of the bruising impalement. The wild elf spurted his essence shouting Elrond's name, while the Elf Lord's heavy testicles rubbed against the archer's yielding arse each time he forced his swelling member back inside the vice-like confinement.  This phantom sensation raised a savage shout from his gut as Elrond spent himself violently, waves of euphoric elation washing through nerve and sinew as the strongly scented fountain of warm semen issued forth and oozed over his clenching fist.

Pulse hammering and breath ragged, bathed more in sweat than the mist of the waterfall, Elrond's delight rapidly diminished as his penis deflated, and in disgust he cursed Legolas' existence once more, flinging his hand through the air to rid his fingers of the sticky evidence of his futile attraction.  This was as close as he would ever get to fucking the wild elf again, and Elrond was overcome simultaneously with rage for the deprivation and self-loathing for succumbing to so base an inclination.

Yet as he knelt by the streaming water to cleanse himself he took care to rinse away the smear of seed from the keepsake he harboured and returned it to its secure confinement within his robes once more.

The Lord of Imladris found his feet and straightened up, adjusting his clothing back to resume his usual appearance of refined dignity and turned to leave.  He found the pathway blocked by the presence of his Master at Arms.  The expression upon the Vanyarin warrior's features turned Elrond's countenance crimson with unbearable shame; Glorfindel had witnessed his unseemly act of masturbation.

Tbc


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have made the construction of the Dwarven Road a pre-First Age event, though that is not mentioned in Tolkien's writing. The contention this caused between the two races is not meant to be offensive to any Dwarf fans, for I am one myself, but merely a way to explain the bad feeling Tolkien tells us grew between them.
> 
> Also, not much is written in Tolkien's published works regarding Erestor's origins. Please allow the liberties taken here by recalling that this is a fanfic, and an AU one at that. There is no indication that Erestor was ever at Gondolin, or any translation given for his name that I have run across. I completely contrived the meaning from the following words: Erui=alone (Er), estë=rest (est), oré=inner heart (or), reasoning that a distraught and rather dramatic young elf might do the same under the unbearable grief and guilt I have mired him in!

Amarth od Erestor [Erestor's Fate]

An event like this was a rare thing.

Scant was the number of visitors invited within the protecting seclusion of the Greenwood's innumerable trees; even among elf-kind few that did not permanently dwell there ventured into the eternal dusky dim under the branches. Was that a welcoming gesture, those reaching limbs clad in stiff, unyielding bark of brown? Or were the woody-fingered plants, arms outspread in a defensive stance of open-handed leaves, in fact grasping to detain and devour the unsuspecting guest?

Of those that wandered therein, whether by chance of fate or by bold proclamation to discover what was unseen and reveal the place to all, seldom returned any to home and hearth.

Other than wild creatures and things with no voices, what manner of life could abide the oppressive proximity of the unending ranks of Yavanna's legions? The very air meant to supply breath instead stifled and gagged the lungs. The wind was barred entry and the stagnant exhales of loam and leaf held in thrall, denied escape by the vertical barriers of the trunks and the awning of thick verdure overhead.

Rich earth spread upon the rolling lands exuded the heady, organic aroma of fertility, yet the essential nutrients were jealously gathered and hoarded under the clutching, rooted toes of the towering trees. No agriculture could flourish there, even if the darkness was dispelled by felling the trees.

Bright and warming sunlight, as equally beneficial for raising hope and happiness among more mobile beings as for infusing the woods with substance, was seldom seen. Anor was allowed only the occasional peek amid small gaps between the leaves.

Precious water, the syrup of vitality for all life mighty and meek, flowed either sluggish and sleepily, spilling into bogs when blocked by treefall or dammed by muskrats, creating an atmosphere too wet to inhale, or thrashed through cataracts and chasms, treacherous to challenge, impossible to tame.

Greenwood was not a gentle garden of idylls and roses.

Truly, only a people seeking to disappear from the knowledge of the world at large would choose to shelter in such a land, insinuating their lives into the impervious, unalterable resilience of the forest. Long before the rising of Ithil had even been imagined among the Valar, centuries over centuries prior to the first dawn of Anor, ere Melkor had succumbed to the will of his contemporaries and the chains of imprisonment, even before then had the reluctant Nandor of the Teleri abandoned their brethren on the march to the sea, stepped among the bolls and roots and simply gone no further, for they were home.

Already great in number, the elves increased and made the woodlands sing with joy, and sorrows did not seek them there, for a time.

For other peoples in other lands, the forest was an obstacle, demanding a lengthy delay on any journey west where every stop gave evil opportunity to strike. The sturdy race of Aulë emerged from the depths of their cavernous halls to explore and establish new holdings in peaks they could glimpse from afar. The trek to the Iron Mountains from the Misty Mountains took them all the way around the forbidding ranks of Greenwood's oaks and beeches, laurels and myrtles. Once colonies had become established and trade between Durin's folk proceeded, the woods were an ever present blockade, though if they could but cross through then many leagues would be deducted from the total distance travelled, and the time in transit lessened considerably.

The Dwarves cut their road right into the heart of the woods, hacking down oaks centuries old and beeches not much less ancient, and all species of trees that stood upon the track they had surveyed. No intent had they to bring harm to any being, yet they did not perceive the trees as sentient nor understand the concept of Tawar. No permission did they ask, for to whom would they send a delegate to negotiate such a venture? The talk of Wood Elves was already fraught with myth and legend, for had any actually seen these Nandor? Quickly the children of Aulë received their education and many of the mountain miners met their end under arrow fire from unseen foes.

Three times were the Dwarves' engineers wiped out and their corpses burned upon the defilement of the cleared gash of land before emissaries sought to approach the elusive inhabitants and arrange a proper treaty. Was it any wonder, having paid their passage with the blood of their kin, that the mountain folk were loath to bargain further and bitter in agreeing to the tolls demanded?

And why should the forest folk, witnessing the blatant desecration of their beloved Tawar, deign to negotiate with the perpetrators of such sacrilege? Even had the Dwarves asked first, what need had Wood Elves for a road they would never use?

Indeed, the diplomacy failed and the bargaining stalemated, as neither party was willing to soften their demands. The Dwarves would have their by-way; the Wood Elves wished it not.

The sons of Aulë then forced the co-operation of the Children of Eru, and the means employed to do so left an irreparable rift between the two peoples. They had threatened to set the forest ablaze if the elves would not allow the construction to resume, and the First Born had scoffed at this until a series of brush fires arose in too many places simultaneously to be of natural cause. To end the fires, the Woodland folk were forced out of the cover of the leafy limbs. As the elves had worked to control and eliminate the threat, the Naugrim had attacked, killing exactly the number of Sylvans in one sortie of swaying axes as Dwarves had previously been slain by the hidden archers.

The grief for the loss of their kin and the outrage for the lack of respect for both green and immortal life threatened to transform the formerly complacent elves into a rampaging throng bent on the destruction of every Dwarf breathing air. Yet they comprehended that they could not do both, protect their lands and avenge their dead, and that to do the latter required abandoning the former as consequence.

For their part, Durin's people felt the matter settled, death for death setting the two races back in balance one with the other, the debt of blood repaid.

Grudgingly the Wood Elves resumed negotiations and accord was reached. The road was completed and thereafter the tramp of booted Dwarven feet upon the hard-packed earth resounded through the trees.

Besides their stoic nature, fierce battle-axes, and goods of gems and metalworking, the Dwarves carried news back and forth upon this highway. Through them the Sylvan elves heard word of the kingdom of Doriath in Beleriand, and likewise the Sindar learned the struggle of the Nandor against the spreading evil of Melkor from the north.

Desiring the prosperous security ensured by Melian's Girdle, Denethor used the route to lead away a fair sum of the Wood Elves, collecting also scattered bands of Avari as he crossed through Eriador and at last over Ered Luin, to dwell in Ossiriand nie their sundered kin.

The road brought back the remnant of these folk after the Battle of Amon Ereb, yet without the son of Lenwë to guide them. Thereafter, the traffic of Laiquendi and Sindarin refugees increased to a steady trickle, becoming a flood of flight as Oropher led his people to dwell once more amid the mighty shelter of the Greenwood before the Second Age concluded.

Yet, long before that day, in the third portion of the First Age, a smaller group of Green Elves had journeyed east upon the road, and with them brought for the first time prisoners of elf-kind bound for judgement: Noldor involved in the sack of Menegroth.

Thus, two Ages separating the events notwithstanding, the Wood Elves poured out from their talans to see the eerie repetition and mark the recalcitrant stain of bloodlust in the Deep Elves' feär.

The courtyard of Thranduil's stronghold was mired in elves as virtually the whole population jammed the open space to catch a glimpse of the Noldo Lord and behold their King's incisive inquisition of the interloper. What the Imladrian elf had done was unknown to the populace, yet they intuitively associated his timely arrival with recent events and the great disturbance among the trees.

The good folk held back, granting a healthy distance between the Brown Wizard and themselves, not wishing to invite his attention individually, for the tension surrounding the Istar and the Noldo was filled with Aiwendil's anger. In the overwhelming silence, everyone could discern the elf's soft murmur of thanks as the Maia unbound his ankles and wrists, assisting him to rise.

Thranduil emerged from the gardens and strode across the grounds with assured and commanding steps, neither hastening to the wizard's call nor lagging back to establish dominance. This was his own fortress, no question of his authority had room to arise and no need had he for any outward show of that supremacy. As he walked in soundless progress his senses catalogued the numberless host around him lining the perimeter of the yard, clogging the pathways both on land and amid the over-arching branches of the encircling trees.

Here and there, dotting the collected masses like cedars among firs, stood an elf a bit taller, shoulders a mite broader, gazing upon the King through eyes that had opened first upon other trees in vanished lands. The remnant of the Sindar was but a scattering of garnets in a vein of green stone.

_My people are all but extinct!_

The realisation was a substantial blow and Thranduil nearly stumbled as he looked more carefully upon the grove of faces. He could no longer tell who among the later generations were hybrids born of mixed heritage and which were purely Sylvan. The next instant the concept achieved full fruition, as he comprehended that his own offspring were among this new breed of mingled blood, Sindarin no longer.

His momentary hesitation was largely unremarked, however, due to a great commotion erupting among the crowd near the exit from the scullery as two figures shoved through the masses, dispersing elves with chaotic thrusts right and left as they moved.

"Erestor!" the human called out excitedly, for it was he and Gandalf that approached.

"Estel!" the Noldo turned in disbelieving astonishment and rushed forward to meet the Man as he emerged from the throng. Never would he have imagined that the mortal mentioned by Talagan would be Elrond's foster-son. "How have you come to be here?"

The two embraced and Erestor laughed until he pulled back and beheld the look of accusation and disappointment haunting his dear friend's eyes. The seneschal dropped his gaze in shame for it was abundantly clear that Aragorn, whom he had helped to raise and tutored in statecraft as well as swordsmanship, knew everything.

"Erestor," the Man said again, more quietly, the dull tones of defeat sounding through the syllables. Aragorn had held onto a faint hope that somehow it would all be proved untrue, some grotesque misunderstanding of immense proportions, that some rational means of explaining his father's actions would be revealed, but any chance of that fell away as he observed the guilty admission within the Noldo's eyes.

Mithrandir joined them and the two wizards moved apart a space, sharing whatever news they would without the need for speech as two sets of sparkling black orbs traded the light of knowledge. Aiwendil's expression turned appraising and even somewhat disapproving as Gandalf's took on a stubborn defiance. The Brown wizard gave an imperceptible shake of his head as his Grey brother minutely shrugged.

By this time Thranduil had reached Talagan's side and all attention fixed upon the Woodland King. The Sinda Lord waited and watched as the seneschal from Imladris disengaged from his human friend, a circumstance the Woodland ruler found distinctly unpleasant, for Mithrandir had neglected to inform him of the Man's connections to Rivendell. With awakened interest the King scrutinised the mortal more carefully, and chided himself for not paying closer attention. The signs that this was not a mere woodsman or town-dweller were obvious. He gave a small sniff of amusement, for the Man was bold and returned his stare with calm regard.

Erestor took a deep breath as he stepped away from his small knot of friends. Covered in dirt from crown to soles, his dishevelled clothing smeared with droppings and his own blood, the hero of Gondolin made a deep bow from the waist with all the dignity his renowned history engendered, left hand upon his heart.

"My Lord Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, I beg pardon for my trespass within your lands, uninvited and unannounced. Yet grave is the cause that brought me hence, and I hold disturbing information that must be made known to you! Let Aiwendil, esteemed Istar of the wild lands, vouch for my voluntary surrender to your guard!"

Now Thranduil had expected some form of protest for the obviously rough treatment the noble elf had endured, and these words were not the ones he had thought to hear.

_Not for nothing does Erestor of Imladris bear a reputation for cunning statesmanship!_ the King reminded himself grimly, for he noted the effect this brief speech produced upon his subjects.

An agitated murmur flowed through the assembly as the regal manner of the intruder was remarked and his gracious disclaimer and entreaty discussed from lip to ear throughout the gathered population.

"I do so attest! By his own request was I leading this elf to your fortress, that he might speak with the Lord of the Woodland folk," averred Radagast.

Thranduil was no fool and had little desire to repeat his mistake made at the Council of the Thrashing Trees. No concessions would he speak here in the forum of public observation.

Beside him, Talagan was dismayed by Erestor's bold proclamation and unspoken accusation of his handling by the King's warriors. The captain hissed a foul curse and moved to land a kick designed to put the Noldo on his knees, but Thranduil's hand upon his arm and the icy glare upon his features forestalled the assault.

"Erestor of Imladris, I have already learned of your presence among my lands and the reasons for it. Still, I will hear your claims and receive this information in your own voice, the better to judge the quality of the intelligence presented me thus far," spoke the Woodland King.

Now it was the seneschal's turn to be surprised and he looked to Mithrandir for explanation. The glint in the Maia's eyes was unpleasant to behold and the Noldo turned from him as Thranduil resumed his speech.

"Talagan, escort our guest to my study, please. Mithrandir, Aiwendil, I would be honoured if you would accompany us there and bear witness to the events."

"As you wish," Gandalf inclined his head in assent. "And if I may suggest, allow the human to join us, for he has knowledge of Imladris more intimate than mine, being the adopted son of Elrond, Lord of the sheltered valley."

Upon this utterance the murmuring elevated in volume to the pitch of excited chatter as the Wood Elves jostled and pushed one another to have a better look at this anomaly of a Man. All knew the story of the battle of the Tawarwaith against the Glamhoth and the part the human had played. Here was a conundrum indeed! Their forest champion had fought side by side with and had risked life and limb to preserve this mortal. That alone was enough to make the Man legendary, yet now his status was disclosed and they beheld more than just a confederate of the Noldo Lord but Elrond's own foster-child!

For his part, Aragorn was not so certain this was a wise move. What if the Woodland King kept both the seneschal and himself hostage and demanded retribution from Elrond? He had no desire to become acquainted with the decor of the dungeons beneath the stronghold and sent the wizard a perplexed expression.

"Indeed! I would be glad of your insight, human, for no doubt your knowledge will be of great value. Forgive me if your name has escaped my notice ere now…" the King prompted, no less amazed than his subjects.

"It is I who have been remiss, my Lord, in providing a formal explanation. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, called Estel among the elves of Imladris. I thank you for the hospitality you have granted to strangers amid your lands," said the Man, bowing in perfect imitation of his old tutor.

Thranduil scanned the human's face keenly, certain his ears had detected a sarcastic undertone to the polite words, but no hint of disrespect or umbrage graced the mortal's visage.

"You are most welcome, Aragorn," the small group began moving toward the main entrance to the King's halls as he preceded them, a slight gesture of his hand inviting their accompaniment. "Allow my seneschal to change your accommodations to better reflect the noble House you represent."

"You are indeed gracious, my Lord, yet if you will grant it, I prefer to remain close to Legolas, my war-brother."

Such a remark was but a thinly cloaked reprimand, for it exposed to all that while their King had fulfilled his promise of aid to Tirno, he had not been generous in the allocation of his resources. Aragorn had learned of Thranduil's forced commitment from Lindalcon and had been displeased to see how slight was the Sinda Lord's concern for their comfort. While it was not wise to bait a warrior as fierce as Thranduil who had lost so much at the breaking of the Last Alliance, the Man could not quite help himself, knowing the torments the outcast elf had suffered while the King remained insulated in his luxury.

However, if Aragorn's statement was an affront, the King permitted no indication of it to be displayed before his people. Instead he smiled indulgently at the Man as they closed the distance to the Chamber of Starlight.

"That is well. If the healer proclaims the Tawarwaith strong enough to be moved, then new rooms can be arranged for all," he said amiably, but Aragorn's words had done little to endear him to the King.

As the group entered the Council Chamber, both Imladrians exhaled gasps of dazzled appreciation, for it was already tinnu under the eaves and the lamps of the cavern were lit, filling the air with the dancing glimmer of flickering light gleaming among the embedded crystals in the blackened rock of the ceiling. They halted and stared up in wonder at a sky neither had ever beheld, familiar yet completely different as recognisable patterns amid the stars gave way and merged into new constellations with names unknown to them. There was no time for further inspection of the spectacle, however, for the captain urged them to continue with a rough shove upon each of their shoulders.

Aragorn spared the Sinda warrior a forbidding scowl before he moved again, but Talagan just chuckled mirthlessly.

From an archway deep within the chamber's bounds came a bustling clutch of robed elders, hurrying forward behind Iarwain to meet the King's entourage. Like everyone else, they had gone out to see the activity in the courtyard, and had scurried inside through a side door in order to intercept the group. The ancient Eldar stopped before Thranduil and eyed him warily.

"What is happening here, my Lord?" he said quietly, casting his glance in Erestor's direction.

"A visitor, Iarwain! Erestor brings important news from the outlanders, and we will speak within my study. Rest assured, if the matter impinges upon the spirits of our people you will be informed and your wise counsel sought at once." Thranduil barely kept the sneer from his tone as he spoke.

"As you say, my Lord. The Council will await word of these proceedings." Iarwain frowned upon the haughty Sinda Lord but stepped back out of the path to allow their progress to continue.

Aragorn and the wizards had followed this brief exchange with interest, but Erestor's attention had been drawn to the carvings on the stone pillars. In awe he stared at the huge frieze before him, for they had stopped before a section which depicted the Final Battle of the Last Alliance before the gates of Mordor.

In perfect detail, every Sinda and Sylvan elf lost in the war was rendered as he or she had appeared on their last day of life upon Arda. Oropher was easy to distinguish, for he had been known to Erestor, and likewise his sons' identities were clear. Yet it was not among these the Noldo's eyes remained. His regard had frozen upon two warriors among the host of nameless Wood Elves, for they were twins, identical one to another, and bore an uncanny resemblance to his own beloved charges, Elladan and Elrohir. He was given no chance to question this unlikely coincidence, however, for their group was moving forward again and quickly left the starlit chamber.

Their progress was not disturbed further, continuing until the study was reached and all entered into the windowless cavern. With disturbingly loud finality the heavy oaken door was shut and bolted, and the King moved to stand behind a tremendous desk of laurel wood. He smiled a frost-fringed grin and motioned for them all to sit, for there were many comfortable chairs ringing the sturdy table.

"Talagan, see to the fire and fetch our guests some fitting refreshment," Thranduil ordered and did not care if his old comrade was angered to be addressed like a servant. With no knowledge of the strenuous journey made by Erestor, the King assumed his colleague and life-long friend had perpetrated all the injuries visible upon the Noldo's person.

Too often had Talagan's zeal for exacting penance from those he deemed threats to his Lord brought about complications Thranduil was forced to contest. And now, when the King should be closeted with his infant and his mate, he must be here, unravelling yet another of the captain's debacles.

Once everyone had a goblet of the King's finest vintage in hand and the blaze was springing up cheerily in the grate, Thranduil shared his chilly grimace with his guests again.

"Now, Erestor of Imladris, tell me what Elrond Peredhel has been up to in my woods."

The seneschal stared into his goblet, watching the liquid swirl, casting violet hued flashes upon his features from lamplight reflecting on the fluid's surface as he twisted the stem between his fingers. Over the course of his journey he had taken careful thought as to what he would say to the Wood Elves' King, but that was before he knew Pen-rhovan was safe if not sound. It had been easy to know the right thing to do, for he wished to retrieve the distraught archer and bring him out of the Greenwood to be healed by the golden magic of Lorien. He had been positive he would be able to convince the Sinda Lord that it would serve everyone's interests to lift the part of the Judgement preventing Legolas from seeking refuge among the other elven Realms.

Now the situation was not so simple, for the wild elf was among his own and apparently being cared for somewhere within this very mountain fortress. What right had Erestor to make any claim that Lorien would suit better, even if he felt it to be true? Such a statement would no doubt be taken as an insult upon the Greenwood and its King.

Further, he was now on less firm moral ground concerning his disregard of Elrond's trust in him and his duty to Imladris. With Legolas no longer endangered, how could he justify betraying his countrymen and revealing the plots of his Lord, however much he may disapprove of the actions? Erestor was equally to blame, afterall, and it seemed dishonourable to indict the son of Eärendil when he was not present to defend his actions.

_Dishonourable! A fitting word to describe my deeds to date! Whence comes this newfound devotion to noble sacrifice?_ the seneschal brooded. But he already knew; it had arisen at the rebuke of Aiwendil and the recollection of the fall of Gondolin.

For centuries uncounted Erestor had borne the chafing sting of these memories and felt the thorn of bitter anger against his father pressed deep within his hidden heart. Then a youthful Noldo warrior barely past his majority, he had been ordered to leave Damand's [Long Hammer: Erestor's father] side and safeguard the retreat of Tuor and Idril along with their child and as many of the innocents as could be salvaged from the ravaging of Morgoth's fire drakes and Balrogs. As the second born child, it was not Erestor's right to claim a place by Damand and fight for the King; to his elder sister was that privilege awarded. The last he had seen of them the entire palace of Turgon had been engulfed in flame, and only his sworn word given as the last token of respect he could make to his sire allowed Erestor to turn and leave them there to burn.

That, and absolute terror.

_Valour did not serve me then, and to my kin it rendered death as a reward for their adherence to its demanding creed!_ he reflected, and recalled that from that time forward he had considered the term substantially inadequate considering the price paid for possessing the quality. On that day had he made the name Erestor [Alone Rests the Inner Heart], and he wondered now if any other than himself remembered that he had once been Sigiland [Long Knife].

As his long life continued he had seen so many immortal souls offered upon the altar of this elusive concept that it sickened him, and never was Arda made a better place for the loss of these elves. In fact, the cause of honour robbed the First Born of their greatest and wisest time and again, while this relentless entropy fed the twisted purpose of the Dark Lord.

Yet, Erestor had already begun his re-evaluation of this virtue's worth before setting forth with Aiwendil, and had come to accept a new definition of honour within the character of the Tawarwaith. Somehow, Legolas had managed to reverse the usual process, dredging up courage and fortitude out of disgrace and degradation, wringing greater power from his low caste than he had ever exercised as the Greenwood's prince, choosing to redefine himself in terms of the lands that cherished him rather than the elves who disowned him. Legolas had no intention of relinquishing his life to retain his honour, for that had been stripped from him. Rather, the former prince lived honourably in order to achieve a very personal victory against the Shadow threatening his homeland.

This stood in stark contrast to the esteemed Lord of Imladris, who had done just the opposite: using his influence, prestige, and exemplary reputation to achieve the destruction of an unsuspecting innocent and score a low blow against the Sinda King.

Erestor felt his bile rise, disgusted with himself for being party to it all, willingly, while acknowledging that he, too, had been used. He was really quite angry with Elrond Peredhel, and suddenly it did not seem so traitorous to betray his machinations.

As his silent ruminations stretched into minutes with no indication that he would reply to Thranduil, the two Istari shared concerned gazes and Aragorn loudly cleared his throat to try and get his mentor's attention. The seneschal raised his eyes from the shimmering wine and regarded each individual with calm detachment he did not truly feel in his heart. He exhaled audibly and set the goblet down upon the table as he rose and faced the King.

"Forgive my reticence, Lord Thranduil," he began, "it is not always easy to look upon one's own failings without seeking a means to cover them over or assign them elsewhere. I would simply say that you have been deeply wronged and the Lord of my lands has attempted a blatant espionage to gain knowledge of your fortress. Elrond hoped to use Legolas as a source for this information, but I am pleased to report the venture was unsuccessful."

Thranduil gave a rude snort at this pronouncement, but Erestor ignored it and continued.

"As for myself, I wish I could claim no association with the plot, but to do so would be a lie. I am mortified to have to admit to you my full complicity, even in the damage wrought upon the Tawarwaith…"

The seneschal's speech was interrupted by the abrupt rise of Thranduil, livid in outrage, an impatient gesture of his hand underscoring his wrath.

"Enough! None of that is news to me, Noldo spy! You stand here and mouth these half-truths, thinking I am too dull to comprehend the real design behind this undertaking? I will have your full confession: Imladris seeks to provoke an uprising among my lands using this, this forest champion to rally my people against their King! Admit your Lord's avarice, Erestor! He seeks control of the Greenwood through manipulation of that depraved bastard he got with my former Queen!"

All eyes stared in disbelief at Thranduil as this shouted accusation reverberated within the confines of the small study. Talagan frowned, confused, for he had been under the impression his Lord now believed the outcast was truly his offspring. Likewise, Mithrandir found the outburst suspicious for according to Fearfaron Thranduil accepted his paternity. Aragorn and Radagast, while in the dark on that notion, nonetheless found the crude recrimination reprehensible.

Erestor winced at the reference to the likely parentage of the wild archer, for he still believed this himself and his guilt assailed him mercilessly. He had suspected this from the start, and had done nothing to stop Elrond from the sexual debasement of the feral warrior. Indeed, he had aided his Lord and done the same himself, playing the fallen elf's exhaustion and loneliness against him to take what he desired.

But ruling the Woodland Realm had never been a part of their scheme.

"I assure you, Thranduil, Elrond has no intention of extending his boundaries across the mountains!" chided Mithrandir.

"You wish to assure me?" scoffed Thranduil and directed a venomous glare upon the wizard. "Perhaps you are not in possession of all the facts just yet, Mithrandir. And how quickly you have forgotten your bond to my lands and Realm."

So speaking the King bent to unlock a drawer in the desk and rummaged about a moment before drawing forth a small rolled parchment. This he brandished in the air and then slapped it down on the table right in front of Erestor.

"Pick it up; tell me whose hand wrote that letter. Read it aloud to your colleagues," he said with vindictive glee. "For let me be the one to offer assurances to all of you, those words will be made known to every elven Realm upon Arda."

Thranduil sat again to enjoy the expression of horror that quickly began to cloud the seneschal's eyes, as Mithrandir rubbed his hand across his brow and Radagast got up to see for himself what the Sinda Lord had produced. Aragorn sought to rise also, and hurriedly Gandalf grabbed his arm to stop him, but this only fuelled the human's curiosity more and he pulled away to take a place on Erestor's left. Before the Man had done more than acknowledge the hand of his foster-father, a groan left the advisor's throat and he dropped back upon his seat in disbelief.

Without thinking, Erestor let Radagast take the scroll from his hand, and the Brown wizard opened it out as Aragorn crowded forward to peruse the document with him.

An inarticulate cry, a mixed outpouring of disgust and anguish fled the mortals' lips and he forcibly grabbed the paper from the Istar's fingers, shaking his head in futile denial. Soon his entire frame was racked with quaking as revulsion and dismay ran through his body in rippling contractions against the poison introduced by this unforeseen glimpse into the dark black pit that occupied the place where Elrond's heart belonged. With a sob he regained his chair, cast away the vile evidence, and covered his face in his hands.

"Ah, Valar!" he whispered as he wept, "Ada!"

"Please," the seneschal's voice was barely audible. "Tell me that Legolas has not read this."

Thranduil was astounded at the reactions his revelation of Elrond's baseness produced. His aim had indeed been Erestor, but never would he have imagined the Noldo's first response would be to inquire after the disinherited prince.

And the human was so overwrought that the King wondered if mortals could succumb to grief, feä rending from hroa to flee the obvious agony Elrond's foul descriptions had generated in the Man. As he watched, Mithrandir sought to comfort the mortal son of the mighty Elf Lord, but Aragorn refused to be consoled.

"Nay, the time has not proved propitious to inform him of his lover's true feelings concerning his worth," replied the King at length, "but I am sure that will change in the near future."

Erestor's relief was thus tempered with dread as he regarded Thranduil with repudiation.

"It serves no purpose to make him learn this!" intoned Aiwendil angrily. "Why punish him, for he is the one Elrond has sought to injure. Are you so eager to join the Noldo Lord's disgrace?"

"I am in no danger of that!" hissed Thranduil. "The sovereignty of my Realm has been compromised and the outcast made that possible. He put himself in this position. What are your thoughts, Mithrandir? Do you think Elrond should be spared his just condemnation in order to protect your bond-mate?"

The King's mocking tone drew Aragorn's sorrow-bowed head up and sent Erestor to his feet, backing quickly towards the sealed doorway as both Olórin and Aiwendil stood and filled the room with their majestic presence. Even Talagan receded from his usual spot at the King's shoulder in fear of the insulted Maiar.

"Be careful, son of Oropher!" growled Radagast and banged his staff upon the stone floor with a clash that shook the room, "for if your words are true you must prepare to welcome the ire of the Ainur!"

"You have exceeded the boundary of your status," Olórín added. "Perhaps a new leader for the Greenwood is not an outrageous concept."

In spite of his distress, Aragorn admired the Sinda's mettle, for he rose and faced the challenge boldly, daring the wizards to act against him, though a brief tremor ran through his arms as he pressed his palms upon the surface of the desk.

"You would defy the Valar you serve to interfere in what should to you be a paltry concern?" he said derisively. "Somehow I do not think so! I wonder if the Powers would sanction your bullying and threats against the rightful ruler of the Woodland Realm? I seem to recall you are sworn against such interference.

"What I may choose to do with this written testimony to Elrond's treachery is my own concern and no other's. How I deal with that degenerate perversion brought forth by Ningloriel is not for you to decide, Mithrandir, even if you have linked your essence with his. Rather than raising his esteem in my eyes, your entanglement has only served to debase the respect you formerly enjoyed.

"Both of them will be exposed; let the free peoples understand the deceits the noble house of Eärendil has committed!"

"Nay!" A horrendous cry issued from Aragorn's lungs and he leaped up, his red-rimmed eyes awash in tears now gleaming with unchecked fury as he snatched up the discarded parchment and leaned over the teak-scented wood of the forest Lord's desk.

"I am not foresworn!" He waved the scroll under the King's nose and then with defiant determination he ripped it in two and then in twain again, never letting his gaze falter from Thranduil's.

"Echil úmaer gwaur! Coth firin! [Unfit, dirty human! Mortal enemy!]" thundered Talagan at this brazen disrespect from the Man and his sword sang as he unsheathed its length and lunged forward.

Aragorn let the remains of the paper flutter from his hands as he spun to meet the challenge, kicking his chair into the captain's path and drawing forth his broadsword to counter the warrior's advance. The collision of the blades unleashed a disharmonious, unholy screech of metallic friction as the pealing toll of combat rang through the room.

"Baw! Far! [Do not! Enough!]" shouted Thranduil. "Daro, Talagan!" He side-stepped to dodge his captain's sword as it swept an arc through the air scant millimetres before his face and landed with a resounding crack upon the previously pristine polish of the finely crafted table.

As the soldier realised his error his attention diverted momentarily to his King and only elven reflexes saved him from a grievous wound to his side as Aragorn pressed forward.

The mortal let his fury fuel his muscles, knowing full well he could not win against this seasoned veteran yet compelled to continue, venting his anger and hurt upon the Sinda. He parried a powerful blow that sent him reeling back and stumbled, catching himself on the arm of a chair as he vaguely registered Erestor jumping out of the way of the spilling flames of an oil lamp shattered upon the rock hewn floor.

"Estel, this is madness!" shouted the seneschal as he tore off his tunic and used it to stifle the burning puddle. "Stop before we are all killed!"

Yet neither fighter heeded the orders and the confined space lent their duel no leeway for caution regarding the other occupants. The furniture was brutally abused as first Erestor and then Aiwendil were forced to use the elegant seating to fend off the sweep of the human's blade as he forced the captain back toward the hearth.

The next instant both warriors cried out in pain and threw their weapons down upon the stone, holding their hands away from them and staring upon their scalded, blistering palms. On the floor, lying amid the discarded scraps of paper, the blades were aglow as though newly pulled from the fires of forging. Then in a bright flare of yellow flame the fragments of Elrond's corrosive correspondence ignited, disintegrating into a plume of smoky ash.

All eyes turned to Gandalf.

"There now, perhaps we can all manage to be a bit more reasonable and polite," he said dryly. The Istar bent to right his dislodged armchair, pushing the horsehair stuffing back down where it was protruding from the deep slice Talagan's sword had bitten through the soft, supple leather. He sat down with casual nonchalance, as though nothing untoward had taken place.

Breathing hard under the exertion of the conflict and the searing of his hands, Aragorn could not help but break into a triumphant grin and a jovial chuckle. He leaned over and clapped the wizard soundly on the shoulder despite the burning sting across his fingers. He removed the broken-legged remains of his chair to the corner where the firewood was stacked, dragging another to take its place.

"Well done," he said to Gandalf, retrieving his cooling sword gingerly from the floor. He met Talagan's eyes as the elf also bent to reclaim his weapon, and the two froze a second. "And to you as well," the Man stated with a grim smile.

"Aye, worthy is your skill, for a Man," the captain graciously conceded. He refrained from meeting Thranduil's furious glare as he sheathed his sword and returned to the corner at his Lord's back.

With relieved sighs and a scraping of wood upon rock, Radagast and Erestor also calmed down and resumed their seats before the King's deeply scarred desk.

Only Thranduil kept to his feet, for he was anything but amused by this outburst and the manner in which it ceased. The situation had quickly escalated beyond his control and this he found unacceptable. The human had defied him, Talagan had ruined his study and nearly beheaded him, and the wizard had destroyed the tangible proof of Elrond's perfidious actions. His gaze fell upon Erestor and the light of triumph returned to his countenance.

_The seneschal shall bear witness against his Lord! By his own admission, he was party to all that transpired between Elrond and the outcast._

"Indeed, Mithrandir, your words are wise even if your actions are without precedent. All of this must be brought to light, but in an acceptable manner and within the proper forum.

"In two days time my Council is set to convene regarding the events of Erebor. As I have said, I believe the cause for the tragedies that day involves certain parties interested in creating havoc within my Realm.

"By his own hand, Elrond incriminated himself. Despite your attempts to eliminate this evidence, wizard, too many have already beheld it to deny its existence. And even were that not so, here is Erestor, acclaimed advisor and life-long colleague of Gil-Galad's Herald, who has already confirmed the truth of my claims. I shall of course require your candid repetition of these facts to my Counsellors, Erestor."

The dismayed glances the four friends shared restored the King's good humour; his hand was once more firmly wrapped around the throat of Elrond's reputation, ready to throttle the vital gleam from the Noldo's elevated esteem.

"Well, that is an unusual demonstration of reasonable and polite behaviour," mumbled Aragorn sardonically as he scowled up at the King.

"Indeed, you speak truthfully, for rather than consign you to my dungeons and the torments of the eternal darkness there, I am graciously offering you both the opportunity to explain your homeland's invasive, covert activities upon mine," snapped Thranduil.

Abruptly his discourse stopped as his whole frame tensed, his eyes flashing as his countenance blanched and then flooded with colour. He fairly leaped over the table and, unbolting the door, threw it back upon its hinges and raced from the study.

Meril had not the ability to far-speak, nor did she require the gift to call her mate to her side. Thranduil had keenly felt her alarmed distress for their newborn and drew his dagger as he took the stairs in threes and fours to reach his infant son.

Tbc


	52. Chapter 52

Dregad Trihant [Flight Through the Garden]

His heart was racing again even as his feet flew soundlessly down the incised stone steps in the steep rock wall of the mountain fortress, pumping four beats at least for every tread his bare toes touched. Legolas expected to feel the pounding vibrations of Thranduil's boots crossing the floor of the open balcony and listened with elevated trepidation, hoping to make the ground before this occurred, anticipating the heavy weight of an angry father's grasping hand upon his shoulder any moment. Knowing the depth of Thranduil's love and pride in his newborn only made the inevitability of pursuing the intruder more certain, thus when the sound did not come Legolas grew even more fearful for the fate the King might seek to apportion out for so serious an infraction.

He trained his sensitive hearing upon the garden below. Had there been time for guards to be alerted? Were they waiting for him there?

Surely not, unless Thranduil knew what I was about, and that could not be., Legolas tried to reason logically with himself but found he was tensed as if about to step weaponless into an encampment of Orcs.

Legolas leaped the last few meters to the pathway and ignored the piercing intensity of agony lancing through his injured limb upon impacting the earth, speeding away with perhaps a bit less than his usual agility. He knew this garden well and hoped that Thranduil was as averse to roaming its sheltered by-ways now as he had been all the years that the fallen archer had dwelt within the stronghold. For one familiar with the terrain, here was ample space to elude capture and find an obscured entrance back into the fortress or out into the courtyard, and other than Ningloriel no one was more certain of the landscape's layout than he.

Ignoring the delicate perfume of honeysuckle mixed with rose attar, Legolas did not pause to appreciate the changing collections of flora within the wide tract of open land encircling the fortress. Remaining well back from the sandstone masonry protecting the haven from the bustle and dust of the barracks and stables, Legolas sought the interior of the manicured groves and artificial glades. He headed straight for the maze, a cleverly constructed topiary emblem of his mother's name, formed by carefully training a tall hedge of evergreen yew, and darted between the concealing boughs.

At the exit he did not slow to gape at the bedded blossoms dappling the luxuriant green carpet starred with pale blue periwinkle like constellations in a moonless night. Did anyone save him recall that the careful placement of these beds did actually represent the position of the stars on the day of his mother's conception? The realisation that there was no similar commemoration of his own creation stung more than his healing thigh.

His swift passage did not prevent him from wondering at the hours Ningloriel must have spent coaxing the unyielding earth into nourishing the incredible variety of plant life around him. Strolling through the paradise she had created was like journeying to foreign realms, for she had imported and transplanted all manner of exotic flora, replicating the natural environment in which the species thrived as closely as possible. As an elfling, Legolas had adored this place, and it was within the security of the enclosed stone walls of Ningloriel's utopia that he had first learned of and yearned to see other realms and distant lands beyond the Greenwood's trees.

He had no time to sample these memories now, yet that did not disallow the flash of comparison between the centuries of care tendered to the plants and the same centuries of indifference to his own nurturing.

He crossed a bamboo bridge that seemed to float centimetres above the gurgling surface of a narrow brook, remembering how his curiosity for understanding what held it up cost him a drenching in the cold water. He had been so small then, but had dived in to discover that the slender, hollow reeds were supported by finely spun hithlain threads from which the bridge was suspended at either end.

The flow itself was formed by diverting a portion of the stronghold's water supply through a hidden sluice amid a wild tangle of blueberry stalks. It was impossible to see the small aqueduct without knowing where to look, but Legolas was well aware of it and veered towards the outlet, following to its origin in the body of the mountainside.

The grounds declined along the mountain such that this part of the garden was terraced and dropped below the level of the main gate by the stronghold's courtyard. Here there was a small grotto delved by the welling waters beneath the stone and the little spring had formed a deep silver pool from which the household drew the day's requirements for cooking and bathing and washing up. The rear of the small cave had a stepway that led within to the scullery and thus to the kitchens. And on these steps Legolas at last halted and sat down, for he was out of breath and far sorer than he would have liked, and he was fairly certain he had averted capture at least for the moment.

He breathed and listened to his thumping heart as it slowly calmed and wondered at his uneventful traverse of the gardens, for he had been certain that Meril would divulge his visit and his accusing words to her husband.

At least she will not speak of Lindalcon's part, and he will have only her displeasure to endure rather than the severity of a thrashing or a stint in some black pit underground.

Legolas shivered just to think of it, but he had decided even before enlisting the younger elf's help that he would not allow Thranduil to imprison Lindalcon should his part in the adventure be found out. Dark demons or no, he would go in the dungeons to free Lindalcon if required.

As yet it may be, if Gwilith talks of this to the King! he suddenly realised and abruptly stood up, yearning to know what Thranduil was doing and assure himself that his younger brother was not in any danger.

Just before he was to dash back into the stronghold and find Lindalcon reason asserted itself and he regained his composure. Meril would never allow her husband to lock away her child in a cell, regardless of how much she loved Thranduil. Legolas drew a deep lungful and sat back down, finding himself a little shaky and terribly tired.

But a minute had he been seated when footfalls alerted him to an elf's approach, though these did not mimic the hastening thunder of searching guards or the furious staccato of Thranduil's wrath. Instead, the barely discernible patter spoke of feet clothed in thin leather slippers and indeed they brought in a female water-bearer, stone jar balanced upon the crown of her head. She froze upon the landing with an expression of nervous disbelief rounding her golden eyes to impossible dimensions. Legolas looked over his shoulder to meet her astonished gaze and exhaled a weary sigh.

"Nenvylliel [water-bearer maiden], go and find Fearfaron, tell him I am here," he said quietly as he rose and reached for the huge jug. Silently she relinquished it and watched as he descended to fill it then carried the brimming burden back and lifted it up for her. She stooped a bit to aid in placing it more securely and then straightened and turned to regain the inner caves, leaping up the steps as though she bore no weight upon her neck at all.

Legolas ascended to the small triangular turning in the stairs and sat again, stretching his aching leg out and down the three steps below it. He reclined on his elbows to take the pressure off his side and let the back of his head drop to the stone behind him between his hunched shoulders. He shut his eyes rather than stare at the disconcerting image of the inverted passageway and listened to the activity of the staff in the chambers above.

A lot of loud whispering and scurrying around attested to the water-maiden's rapid dissemination of her news, but this disruption in the night's tasks was more overtly proclaimed by the eventual silence that descended over the generally talkative folk of the stronghold's staff.

Footsteps again, a double set this time, very faint, excruciatingly hesitant, and punctuated by an audibly whispered "Bado bo! [Go on!]", made Legolas smile slightly as the chosen emissary of the curious descended ever so slowly. He waited and did not open his eyes.

Four steps above his head the elf stopped, and then the sound of earthenware utensils gently contacting the stone as they were set down met his hearing, followed by an energetic rustle of fabric as the visitor retreated.

But not too far! Legolas thought and his grin grew larger. He raised his lids a minuscule portion in time to see a small chestnut crowned upside down head peer around the turning of the stairs, enough for the elfling's eyes to see the Tawarwaith, and then pull back again with another resounding murmur to his comrade: " Úrinc ho!" [He does not move!]

Legolas chuckled and turned on his good side, still propping his body up on his elbow, and righted his vision to see there upon the step a mug next to a plate with two generous slices of honey-coated yeast bread. He pulled himself up beside this offering and leaned against the stone wall, for as everywhere in the stronghold this utilitarian stairway was but little more than a wide rounded chute with footholds.

The smell of the syrup-saturated bread made him realise he was very hungry, having skipped luncheon and dinner, and he consumed the simple repast in haste, gulping down the mug's contents before registering that it was not water but wine he had been given. Legolas gave an appreciative exhale and lifted the mug and his gaze up toward the top of the stairs, where the elfling's face retracted immediately behind the barrier of the curved stone.

"Hannad!" [Thanks!] he called softly and wiggled the cup in the air. "Ananta, alfar! Adpartho, saes!" [But yet, not enough! Refill, please!] A flurry of hushed arguing followed this command.

"Man cerim?" [What do we do?]

"Adpathram, hand'wathren!" [We refill it, dim-wit!]

"Bedich ten toltho!" [You go fetch it!]

"Nay, bedin medui!" [No, I went last time!]

"Grogach!" [You are terrified!]

"Aye!"

"Úveren!" [Coward!]

"Avbedo sen, Cemendur!" [Do not say this, Cemendur!]

"Baw!" the Tawarwaith's quietly distinct rebuke interrupted them. "My thirst is not so great as to warrant such discord between brothers!" He rose and climbed the stairs to confront them, for the utterance of that name struck a chord in his heart and he wanted very much to see these two more clearly. The elflings, however, could not bear the idea of facing the forest champion, yellow pyjamas notwithstanding, and with dismayed gasps bolted up the stairs and out of reach.

"Ai! Watch where you are going, young imps!" a familiar voice scolded the retreating elves and soon the carpenter was at the top of the steps to greet Legolas as he emerged from the dark stairwell, cup and dish in hand. He bent awkwardly to set them on the floor and then gave an apologetic smile as he straightened, waiting for his foster-father's reaction.

Fearfaron did not know if he wanted to hug Legolas or cuff him soundly for causing so much worry among his friends, but of course it was not really a debate and he swept his adopted son into his relieved arms and pressed him against his chest tightly.

"Please do not do that again! I feared for you! Have you no concern for a father's heart?" he admonished quietly, gently caressing the head of golden hair leaning upon his shoulder.

"I am sorry, Ada, but I had to see Taurant," Legolas said, knowing this would only make Fearfaron's concerns grow, yet he had no wish to hide the truth now that it was done. He felt the Spirit-hunter stiffen and simultaneously push him out at arms' length, searching his eyes, and the archer let him see for himself how important this event had been.

Fearfaron sighed and drew Legolas close again, resting his chin on the crown of the warrior's head as he rubbed his back consolingly. He was relieved the wild elf no longer worried he was the product of his mother's dalliance with Malthen, but the ferocity with which the archer claimed his new siblings was almost as extreme as his grief had been. Once more his love for another would result in harm to himself, if he continued in this manner, yet the carpenter was not sure how to change this.

It would be pointless to harangue the Tawarwaith for his rash behaviour, for what had transpired could not be changed, and Fearfaron understood that even were this possible to achieve Legolas would never allow it. Whatever the price demanded, he would count it as nothing compared to the opportunity of seeing the child.

"I have no idea what will happen now; Meril found me out. I tried to talk to her, but I do not know what impact my words may have." Legolas said calmly but gripped his father's waist tighter as he spoke.

"Valar! I have a fairly concrete notion of what will result, and it is not good! On top of that, Talagan returned with Aiwendil and the Noldo Lord from Imladris. Thranduil is treating him like a guest and Aragorn and Mithrandir are with them now also. The King is not likely to be in good humour and Meril will tell him of your folly!"

"What Noldo Lord?" asked Legolas, terrified and shocked into rigid tension, dreading to know which one of the pair would be so bold as to follow him into the heart of the Woodland Realm.

"It is Erestor." Fearfaron felt Legolas relax and shift and he released him, taking the archer's arm in hand, but Legolas would not meet his eyes.

"I must leave here," he said very quietly. "I want to go to our talan now, please? I do not wish to have to see him."

"That plan I do approve! I do not think it can cause harm to leave now since we would have gone in the morning anyway."

He did not add that before minuial there might be orders to prevent them from doing so, given Legolas' impetuous trespass upon the nursery of the newborn prince. He led his adopted son away, noting with concern that the archer was favouring the injured leg again and unconsciously let his arm wrap around his sore side. And still he would not face him. These were not things to address here in the pantries, however, unless Fearfaron wanted the entire Woodland Realm to know within the hour what they discussed.

They ascended to ground level via the servants' stairs amid the kitchen elves' silent gawking and rapidly averted eyes and Fearfaron hastened their pace to the more formal and thus less populated halls. His goal was to reach the Council Chamber and the open archways there, thus avoiding crossing the barracks and the possibility of encountering Malthen.

Yet they did not succeed in their departure for the passage was quite suddenly blocked as Talagan ran from a room just ahead and on their right, sword drawn, following his King's footsteps to aid if he might. He halted as he nearly skewered the carpenter and Legolas responded by shoving Fearfaron behind him and scowling up at his old captain. The two warriors glared in silence for half a heart beat.

"I am sure you did not mean to threaten an unarmed citizen of the Greenwood!" snapped the Tawarwaith.

"And I am equally certain that whatever is going on to cause Thranduil to bolt from an important meeting, dagger in hand, has something to do with you!" countered Talagan and allowed the point of his sword to tap his prized sniper's breastbone lightly.

"I am not responsible for his behaviour!" shouted Legolas, though he had a fairly good idea of what had prompted Thranduil's action, and swept the blade away, neither feeling nor caring about the narrow gash the sharp steel bit into his palm.

"Nay, Legolas!" cried Fearfaron and pulled back on the archer's arm strongly, fearful as the dark trickle of scarlet dripped to the floor.

"Enough of this!" Aiwendil stepped out from the doorway. "What fool put a sword at your side yet did not teach you when to wield it?" this insult was followed by a sudden burst of energy as he cracked the gnarled bulbous end of his tall beech-wood staff into the back of Talagan's skull. The veteran warrior toppled over without a sound as his sword made a clanging crash, loudly echoing as the metal impacted the polished granite floor.

Legolas stared with mouth agape as Aragorn hurried over and knelt at the captain's side, feeling his neck for a pulse. Mithrandir left the study and ambled over to Radagast, an amused twinkle in his dark eyes as he arched his bushy brows in mock censure of his fellow Istar's loss of control.

Aiwendil ignored the teasing; he had borne no love for Talagan before, knowing his part in the Judgement, and this day's events only exacerbated his dislike. Mild of mien the Bird-lover might be, but it had been a long journey and he had as yet been offered nothing but a cup of wine. Thanks to the captain's short temper, most of that was now all over his long walnut coloured robes rather than soothingly warming him from inside out.

Behind them Erestor stood in the doorway and held his breath to learn if the warrior lived, suddenly much more appreciative of the Brown wizard's restraint in the use of that stout pike over the last few days.

"He has a concussion, I am certain, but I do not think any permanent damage will result. He will awaken with a most unpleasant headache!" Aragorn said without too much sympathy as he glanced up at Legolas and stood. "I daresay he spoke something akin to the truth, though," he added with a tone of disparagement to the wild archer. "The whole day we have been searching for your whereabouts!"

Legolas did not answer, nor did he really hear the Man's complaint, for his eyes had found those of Erestor and while he wanted to say something he simply could not find adequate words that were fit to speak. It was all too mixed up to sort into any coherent phrases.

He was absolutely enraged at the Noldo for hiding the truth and aiding Elrond, furious for being lied to and used, outraged to have been handled and groped, fucked and sucked. Ashamed that this elf knew every inch of him, inside and out, humiliated to have so readily allowed it, and utterly mortified that everyone present was aware of all these private things. Yet he could not deny that he had encouraged and enjoyed it, had even felt a deep sense of gratitude for the tenderness and acceptance Berenaur had shown him. How was he to reconcile guilt with joy, indignant wrath with humiliated shame?

How would he ever be able to call this elf Erestor? 

"Forgive me, Pen-rhovan!" whispered the seneschal and turned away from those azure irises that served as mirrors of his besmirched character and low repute. It was so much worse than he had thought, for he had debated whether Legolas would attack him on the spot or collapse from the torment of his shattered soul, but had not envisioned this stunned and empty expression upon the wild elf's face. It did not look as though there was any spirit at all in those eyes, and Erestor, who had seen fading before, could not bear to observe evidence of it here.

The archer could not really recall how the awful confrontation ended, for he was lost in the daze of his conflicted heart, reliving the experiences he shared with the Noldor, trying to find a way to make it a reality he might endure without wanting both to kill and to die. He only realised that Fearfaron had steered him away when the carpenter shut the door to the humble quarters the King had granted them and was guiding him to the bed. With a shudder he returned from his despairing fugue and looked about in frustrated confusion.

"I thought we were leaving here!" he wailed and in a near panic tried to get back to the door, but Fearfaron held him firm and pulled him into a tight embrace again.

"Nay, Legolas, we cannot go now. You did not notice, but the clamour aroused the household and several warriors were called. They were only reluctant to lay hands on us due to the presence of the wizards and the direction of Iarwain.

"Try to understand, Talagan is their captain, and you alone have reason to bear him a grudge. They believe you are responsible for his injury, despite Aiwendil's claims to the contrary! Until the warrior wakes and names his attacker, we are all to remain!"

Legolas stopped struggling and sighed in exhausted capitulation. Of course they would think him responsible, and Fearfaron would never leave without him, nor Aragorn or the wizards, and he supposed Bere- Erestor was really under house arrest despite the pretence of hospitality. Thus they all must stay within this suffocating cloister until the Council convened. He let himself be helped under the covers and as before Fearfaron climbed up beside him and gathered him to rest against his heart. 

"Tell me what happened," said Legolas.

"Ah! It was a sight I am sure! Three guards, swords drawn and ready, ran in from one side of the fortress while the counsellors arrived from the other! I know not who gave the alarm. No doubt everyone's meal was interrupted and soon the hall was absolutely packed!

"Aragorn cursed something quite vile, in Dwarvish I think, and unsheathed his broadsword also, blocking them from reaching us. Then Erestor dashed inside the study and I thought he was off to hide himself in safety, but he raced back out, armed with a most impressive sabre of his own, and shouted 'An Damand ar Gondolin!' [For Damand and Gondolin!] as he took his place beside the Man!

"That cleared out all the lookers-on quite effectively!

"Aiwendil tried to calm everyone down and explain, for Iarwain and his associates were shouting at the warriors to put up their weapons, who were yelling back that they would do so only when the Imladrians did. Mithrandir made no move at all, but kept his eye on you the whole time. He was as worried over your lack of responsiveness as I was!

"Gladhadithen made her usual timely entrance and instructed the guards to carry Talagan to the healing house and for me to put you to bed. She ordered Erestor to go bathe, Aragorn to find him rooms, and the counsellors she shooed back to their dusty chambers to finish their dinner! The wizards she commanded to find food and drink for you, for she pronounced you in shock and exhausted.

"And as always, everyone obeyed her without question or argument! It is difficult to disrespect the wishes of someone who has saved your life or that of a loved one!"

Legolas relaxed as his adopted father retold the events, and agreed with his explanation of the healer's gift for getting her way. With spider venom and Orcs' poisoned weapons as never ending threats, she had probably treated everyone in the Greenwood at one time or other.

He vaguely remembered the scenes detailed for him, but as though he had watched from some distance rather than caught in the centre of the turmoil. He smiled a little, not because he found the description amusing but because this was not what he had wanted to know.

"I meant, what happened during this important meeting from which the King fled?"

Fearfaron was silent a moment and then the two shared a small grin at the misunderstanding.

"Well now, as to that, I have no knowledge! I was not invited and felt it best to keep searching for you!"

A knock on the door preceded the entrance of Radagast and Gandalf, staffs tucked awkwardly under their arms creating a stilted hesitance in their movements. The former bore a tall pitcher and a tray of mugs and the latter carried in a platter heaped with an assortment of bread and fruit.

Fearfaron got up to help, clearing everything from the bedside table and placing the food there as Mithrandir took both sturdy canes and leaned them carefully against the wall in the corner.

Aiwendil just set his burdens upon the floor and leaned over to embrace Legolas and beg his forgiveness for not intervening, for failing to decipher the subterfuge of the elves' false identities, for trusting Erestor to keep him safe.

Legolas was too drained to feel any more anger this day and merely nodded his acceptance of these explanations, face pressed down into the soft woollen cloth of the Maia's nut coloured robes.

Fearfaron reclaimed his place and firmly disengaged the Tawarwaith from the Brown wizard. If the Istar found this an affront it was not apparent and he sat at the foot of the bed perched on the edge of the mattress. Gandalf took the armchair still situated by the bedside and helped himself to a plum from the plate.

"Where were you?" he demanded sternly but quietly, sending his most daunting scowl from under severely creased and puckered grey brows.

Legolas snorted at that, for Mithrandir had not the power to frighten him when the wild elf knew his heart so well, and shared an unimpressed smirk with his foster-father. Fearfaron's serious countenance returned him to a more sober disposition at once, however.

"Aye, he has done something very foolish and how we will get him out of this one I know not!" the carpenter answered the wizard as Legolas uttered a cry of disbelief.

"Nay, not foolish!" he protested vehemently.

Before the story could be told the door was thrown back and Lindalcon burst in, out of breath and wild-eyed, and slammed the heavy oaken barrier behind him so hard he winced from the shock to his ears while Fearfaron and Legolas covered theirs.

"Naneth has betrayed us!" he warned as he threw the bolt. "The Council will convene at dawn and Legolas is charged with attempting to harm the babe as well as striking down Talagan while trying to escape!"

And then he could not hold back the anguish wrought of Meril's deceit and rushed to fling himself into Legolas' accepting arms as his grief poured out in tears and noisy sobs.

tbc


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Originally, this consisted of three chapters, due entirely to inability to get it to post anywhere in full. Here it is as it was intended to be, for all of this happens at once on the same day. My apologies to readers forced to read it in parts when it initially posted elsewhere.

Govadel o Erebor [Council of Erebor]

Not since the Herald of the High King had called for the aid of the Danwaith at the Last Alliance of Elves and Men had so many of the Greenwood's elusive, unobtrusive inhabitants collected at the locus of their Council's authority. Long before Thranduil had built his fortress here, Orod Im'elaidh [the Mountain Amid the Trees], brother to Orod Ereb on the plains of Erebor [the Lonely Mountain], had served as the meeting place for the Elders among the forest people. At the feet of the green-skirted peak, the shy Sylvans met whenever troubles befell them.

Whether the trials were as simple to correct as a dispute over where a neighbour might locate a talan or as unfathomable as the Dark origin of Orcs, the forest children had come to regard this site as their seat of wisdom and the centrepoint of their community.

They came now to learn the fate of their champion, for word of the new accusations had raved through the branches like a gale of warning before a storm, not in any agitation of the trees but rather a rush of voices passing the scandalous news from flet to talan. If the claims were true then their Tawarwaith was false and what hope could remain if the defender of the forest could be the bane of their prince? Should the opposite come to light, then what of the heart of their King?

Dissension among the people was widespread for some recalled that until they accepted a King no Wood Elf had gone to war since Denethor and his folk perished in the First Age. Others contended that without the Sindar's wealth no forces could be equipped to hold back the swelling cyst of the Shadow's purulence from the East. Whatever the outcome, the Sylvan folk hoped the Elders would reveal this dissonant chord in the Music of their woodwind world as the counterpoint to a theme of such magnificence that all of Arda, and Eru himself, would turn in wonder to hear the voice of Tawar.

Excepting warriors bound for patrol every Wood Elf was present within the city at dawn's arrival and a great number of them were pressed inside the Council Chamber. So closely were they fitted that dignity and modesty were summarily shoved to the backside of awareness as neighbours stood fronts against backs, shoulders rubbing, and the slightest shift displaced elbows into ribs, heels upon toes, and swaying locks against cheek and chin. Only a small semicircle of open space remained ringing the dais where the relevant parties were collected before the Woodland King.

The heat generated from too many bodies in contact with one another added to the unbearably, albeit predictable, sweltering temperature of the humid air everyone was attempting to breathe. Had the room not been open to the courtyard beyond, more than a few eldar would have eventually succumbed to a dwindling supply of oxygen and lost consciousness.

The breezeless atmosphere did little to ease the discomfort of the remainder of the Woodland folk crammed in the surroundings outside the formal hall. The dense earth of the outer courtyard, compacted by centuries of the weightless tread of elven feet, was obscured beneath hundreds of those very feet. The limbs of the surrounding trees were bent with the burden of Eru's Children, sturdy talans threatened to give way, the pathways and the branchways were unpassable, the barracks grounds and the stableyard, all were clogged with the citizenry. Only Ningloriel's walled garden and the Sentinel escaped occupation.

Yet despite this uncountable multitude the forest was utterly quiet. 

The invocation was spoken, two in fact. One by Iarwain, traditional and known by rote to all who regularly attended these enclaves, and another by Mithrandir that no one could recall ever having heard before this day. And that was true for there were none among them, neither Sindar, Noldor, or Sylvan, who had ever been to Tirion and listened to the Litany of Iluvatar sung from Mindon Eldalië at tindómë. As Gandalf prayed the timeless praises Aiwendil droned a most unsettling chant no one could interpret in tones so deep the vibrations were felt across the skin and in the core of the soul rather than heard within the inner ear.

As the final overtone of this mysterious and foreboding sound died away, the Istari simultaneously thudded the blunt bases of their staffs severely upon the bare stone floor and the hollowed mountain rang with a clear, subterranean echo like the toll of a tremendous bell sounding somewhere in the depths. Silence followed, so complete that the beating of hearts was audible to sensitive elven ears, and all attention fixed upon the Ainur.

Majestic, transcendent, imposing and wise; these humble servants of the Valar were among the mighty upon Arda and thus were they revealed in this moment. To the Wood Elves, who had never seen the Powers, the two appeared glorious and omnipotent.

No longer was Radagast merely a simple charmer of birds clad in rough homespun garb. Instead Aiwendil stood before them transfigured, his mild eye now keen and hawkish, his gnarled fingers as talons sharp and fell, his kindly face bold and cunning as any raptor in flight.

The Grey Wanderer was vanished and in his place they beheld Olórin the disciple of Irmo, a dream-spirit clothed in glowing incalescence instead of drab and misty robes. His hair and beard fell about him like a flow of molten antimony yet to cool, his dark eyes seemed to draw the souls of those that dared gaze therein, and from his hands a fiery haze of his vital essence spilled and coalesced around his shimmering form.

Long tendrils of this visible ether stretched forth searchingly into the room, broke free into curls of glitter and spun away to seek the Tawarwaith, to be assimilated immediately upon touching him. 

Then, gusting through the open arches, a sudden draught swirled about the high domed cavern, extinguished the flaming lamps and caught up a sheaf of parchments, dancing them in a whirlwind round the disconcerted elves. A few murmured anxious whispers to each other and one spoke aloud the name Sulimo in dread.

Out over the floodplain of the Anduin, the disk of the sun separated from the cold, dark line at the join of earth and air and hung exposed above the rim of Arda, freely shedding her warm, irradiant splendour.

Through a breach in the canopy and into the Chamber of Starlight shot a single slender shaft of rich golden gleam. Arien's finger paused momentarily to point out the Tawarwaith, bathing his simple suede garments in a glow of creamy orange light, passing through his unruly hair until the heavy strands glinted in gilded glory, illuminating the pale skin of his fair visage with a faintly roseate glow.

Then the narrow beam of radiance tapped into a prismatic crystal of calcite and divided, exiting as a truly iridescent rainbow. Anor painted the room in a spectrum of hues seldom seen in nature, so vibrant were the colours, stealing gasps of delight and awe from the assembly before vanishing behind the shadow of the clouds and the leaf-fingered hands of the trees.

Thus was the Council of Erebor begun.

The King presided from his customary place upon the dais. Less than a throne but more than a chair, the seat was crafted of golden oak and carved with the names of all his ancestors, both on his paternal and his maternal sides. The seasoned wood also displayed runes marking spells of power and drafting a future in a scatter of stars adorning the seat's back, the bearings of the constellations at Thranduil's birth.

More than the positions held by the stars visible now, these configurations included the gifts of Varda none could see behind the bright glare of Anor, even in the dark of Ithil's absence in the blackest corner of night's hours. But Thranduil was not impressed with such signs and divinations, and had never cared to ask about the predictions in the patterns.

Yet even the sceptical Sinda Lord could not ignore the dominant presence of the Ainur and the sanction of the Valar they brought to this forum.

Though these were his lands and he the only elven King left on Arda, Thranduil appeared before the gathered folk not in formal state attire but the gear of a warrior prepared to defend his homeland. Chestnut brown were the leggings he wore and his tunic was emerald green, sleeveless over a silk shirt cast in blue as pale as frost, the colours of the Woodland Realm.

Tall leather boots encased his long legs up to the thigh and a jerkin protected his vital organs; the armour much scarred and abused over uncounted sorties against the enemies of his House, both in Beleriand and the Greenwood. About his waist was belted the blade of Dior, a relic for which he had traded with Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, relinquishing much wealth to possess the weapon. Unlike Oropher, Thranduil was a swordsman and scorned the quiver and bow, and other than the deadly antique carried only a curved dagger sheathed where his right hand might easily find it.

No crown adorned his head and his long locks were bound back in the manner of the Sindar rather than the Sylvan elves, gathered in two perfectly equivalent four-part braids that fell over his shoulders and down his back. He did not need finery to proclaim his noble heritage and despite his love for jewels none adorned his person.

The King of the Wood Elves adjusted his posture with regal restraint and gazed upon the crowd, noting where each of the key participants in the day's proceedings was situated, and let his vision linger first upon his illustrious guests.

In an alcove between two pillars were Aragorn and Erestor of Imladris, standing with their backs to the King as they watched and waited upon the Istari's next move. Occasionally one would lean near the other and quietly mumble something in Quenya that they undoubtedly imagined no one here would understand, other than the wizards. They were dressed simply in the rugged clothes they had worn into the realm, though the garments were now clean and neat. Each carried their swords at their sides and rested a hand casually upon the hilt, and the Man had also a leather jerkin with battle scars enough to rival the King's.

Erestor's lengthy ink-black tresses were tamed in Noldor style; two long tendrils on either side of his serious face were wrapped, from cheekbone to an inch above their ends, in the tri-coloured ribbons of Imladris. Upon his back three braids lay thick and heavy against his spine, each tied off with a single ribbon: one of sea-green, one of clear white, and one of darkened red, leaving a thick two-inch tassel below. Though his was so much shorter, resting just below his shoulders, Aragorn's hair was worn exactly the same.

The seneschal's head turned ever to his left. As a father watching over elflings at play in the forest so his attention hovered there. Or a lover jealously minding his conquest. Thranduil tracked the line of his sight to the source of this interest and tensed just slightly when the flash of the Tawarwaith's eyes met his for a half second, and the King withdrew from the icy blue rage.

On the opposite side of the room and between equally substantial pillars, Talagan and his lieutenant flanked, but did not touch, the accused. The King allowed his vision to loiter on his captain briefly and then beyond this stalwart presence. Behind him and packed all the way back against the inner walls were the remainder of the archer's company from Erebor, and indeed all the warriors in the city were jammed along this side of the chamber, and Maltahondo was among them.

'Maltahondo has had him, too.' Elrond's words ran through Thranduil's mind as he raked the guardsman over, wondering if this was true or another of the Noldo's lies. The warrior did not know he was being observed for his regard was focused elsewhere, and the Sinda Lord flicked his glance upon the object of this scrutiny and let it stay, for the fallen archer was once more the centre of contemplation. Truth, then!

Legolas was aware the guardsman was there; how could he not be? Yet the outcast refused to turn his gaze over his shoulder no matter how strong the sense of the warrior's eyes running over him grew. Instead Legolas kept his sights turned to Fearfaron and Lindalcon where they stood with the Counsellors near the centre of the room, for neither could he bear to look ahead and meet the guilt-laden stare of Erestor.

The clothing Fearfaron had ordered for his foster-son was simply designed but well made, and the kindly craftsman had been surprised when the tailor had volunteered a more expensive fabric and then refused to accept payment. His reasons centred on his daughter's tale of the Battle against the Orcs, for she was a warrior under Talagan's command and also a devotee of Tawar, and fervently believed Legolas was chosen to release the Greenwood from Shadow.

Thus Legolas faced his fate in soft woollen leggings tinted as black as the Noldo's hair and a short, sleeveless tunic of undyed buckskin. Beneath was a fine linen shirt in blue almost the colour of his eyes, collarless and uncuffed with long sleeves that flared slightly at the wrist. Upon his feet he wore soft leather shoes instead of boots and a black leather belt closed the tunic about his slender waist. As the accused, he was not allowed his weapons.

Legolas had put these garments on with great relief, for he had dreaded to attend the solemn trial in the yellow silk sleeping clothes. He had fought his unruly tangle of a mane into reasonably respectable confinement, gathering up the handfuls of the twisted locks that hung about his face and securing them back with a leather tie. Within a prominent side-lock draped against his chest the eagle's feather proclaimed him a warrior of the wilds, a member of a community these tamer folk could but faintly glimpse.

It was somehow an odd juxtaposition, the comely clothes of elvish design upon the primitive Tawarwaith, a savage incongruously clothed in silk. Thranduil's eyes narrowed as he scanned his disinherited prince. The sense of uneasiness he felt gazing at the figure before him was more than the result of tangled tresses decorated in eagle's plumage. Even if he were arrayed as every other warrior here, hair braided back in traditional format, denuded of the single feather, even then this elf would still stand out among the others, for it was what moved in the depths of his soul that set him apart.

He does not look like an outcast. Instead the elf looked as though he had somehow traded in a lesser title and minor office for greater nobility and a place amid heroes and legends. Something more than the carpenter has adopted him. He held himself with understated dignity and an intensity of purpose that was at least as uncompromising as Thranduil's.

The Tawarwaith's dilated cobalt eyes pivoted to challenge his examiner; the feä within this resilient and resourceful elda, looking aeons ancient instead of scarcely an Age upon Arda, stared deeply into the King's. Legolas did not avert his gaze from Thranduil; indeed he seemed to be trying to force the Woodland Lord to acknowledge him.

A soft nondescript sort of snort gave the King the excuse he craved to break the defiant, and somehow strangely pleading, glare as he shifted his frowning countenance to the Councillors and found the eldest Elder regarding him with sardonic mirth. Iarwain had noticed with some amusement that it was Thranduil who could not endure the Tawarwaith's scrutiny, rather than the indicted being cowed by the might of the King.

Iarwain stood before the Sinda ruler, first in the ranks of his councillors, imbued with all the status granted by over ten thousand loa of walking the branchways of the Greenwood. He was dressed in elegance by the standards of the Sylvan folk, with formal robes of thick jacquard satin the colour of birch leaves in autumn. A long linen surplice of snowy white was draped about his shoulders and upon this was embroidered a scene depicting his legendary encounter with Oromë at Cuiviénen.

Directly at the Elder's back the remaining five Councillors clustered, dressed less ornately but no less formally than their revered colleague. Upon each of these waited their respective apprentices, excited to be part of such auspicious proceedings while trying not to betray it. Behind and to Iarwain's left were the Istari while Fearfaron and Lindalcon stood upon his right.

The youthful face of Valtamar's son was pale and haggard, and painful to behold was the incongruous mixture of despairing grief upon features yet so fresh with the innocence of childhood. His brown eyes shown no more with the clear brilliance of wonder and delight in all the world offered but held instead a mature awareness of the marring of what was meant to be good and the thwarting of that which began straight and true. His Coll o Gweth [Coming of Age] might be three years hence by counting, but he had shed the last of his nescience in the early hours of the previous night.

After leaving the nursery with Gwilith, it had required levels of self-control he had not known he possessed to concentrate his attention on his little sister while his heart was wild with worry for Legolas' well-being during the confrontation with Meril. Lindalcon served the child tea and cleaned it up, and when the bath was filled supervised her toilette and washed her hair for her.

Gwilith had recently discovered, upon inquisitive scrutiny of Taurant while Naneth was bathing him, that her body was not the same, and learned that she was inu [female] and Taurant was anu [male]. She had decided to ask Lindalcon for details about the specifics of his physique. Upon realising this caused her big brother some discomfort, she naturally expanded her interrogation with an unending series of 'why's' and a whole roster of elves she wanted categorised by appendages or lack thereof, and the ensuing discussion of gender distracted him for a time.

Then it was bedtime and Gwilith was verily inconsolable that neither Ada nor Nana came to tuck her in, and so settled for Lindalcon, demanding an extra story, three renditions of the Tengwar song, and a peek out the balcony to make sure Ithil was there watching over her home. At last the elfling's eyes sought the inner planes of gentle reverie, which Lindalcon knew were as yet filled only with memories of her waking hours, for but recently had Gwilith reached the age where her eyes remained open during rest.

With the child asleep he could bear the suspense no longer and decided to use Legolas' method of moving unseen through the stronghold, easily discovering the entrance to his sister's escape chute beneath a cabinet in the bathing room. Legolas' silver lantern in hand, Lindalcon lowered himself into the cramped conduit and edged cautiously along the narrow tube. He came to a connecting tunnel and instantly saw the signs of recent use in the clean track swept through the fine coat of rock dust on the surface, and followed this trail. As he had hoped, the passage brought him to the tiny alcove outside the nursery where the wild archer had awaited his chance to meet the infant prince.

Lindalcon settled himself in the exact same spot and pressed his ear against the heavy leather curtain to learn what was passing within the room. However, it was not the voice of the archer that conversed with his mother, for Legolas had fled the chamber some time ago. Instead, the son of Valtamar overheard the King and his consort discussing the day's events and the repercussions these would cause.

So distraught she had sounded, her words distorted by tears and choked with quiet sobs, and her husband's soothing consolation had underscored every sentence uttered. The sincerity of her grief and fear was appalling in the context of the fabrications she spun, weaving a lace-work curtain of half-truths and insinuations that Thranduil readily filled in with his own prejudiced ideas which she chose not to correct. Lindalcon listened to his mother's manipulations and felt sick.

He heard her suggest that Legolas had coerced him into co-operating, holding his father's feä as if hostage from Release should the youth refuse. Lindalcon cringed upon hearing her assert that the fallen archer had named her the instigator of the very crimes for which he had been judged responsible. He listened to her say that the outcast had threatened a dire future for Gwilith and Taurant if the investigation of Erebor was not halted. He quailed to hear the despairing pleading in her tone as she begged Thranduil to stop the Council from digging deeper.

Lindalcon could discern the verity of her speech, and if he could do so through the muffling drape of the deerskin hide then even more compelling must Thranduil find her woe. But in his heart Lindalcon felt the echo of fraud, perceiving that most of what she recited was removed from its correct context and the actual intent of the phrases thus skewed to serve her purpose. The King could not share this intuition, however, for his eyes had not beheld the Tawarwaith's overflowing joy as he had cradled the infant heir against his shoulder.

Thranduil heard only that the kinslayer had threatened the life of his children, and his rage was such that Meril had been required to reverse their roles, calming him ere their newborn son awoke frightened and confused. The persistence of his mother's requests to let the past remain forgotten stunned Lindalcon and by this he was almost convinced that she desired just the opposite, but for the desperate note of panic furled within her trembling pleas. And Thranduil responded by declaring that he had means to rid them of the outcast forever and begged that she trust him to secure their offsprings' future happiness and security.

How she had railed against this and cajoled her mate to leave her and their babes free of entanglement in these affairs! She had no desire to appear before the Council and accuse the kinslayer to his face; she could not bear to leave her infant in the care of others so soon upon his birth. In horror Lindalcon heard the King assuage her doubts by stating he would call her first-born child to reveal what had been done and give evidence against the forest champion. The youth's tattered confidence in his mother's benevolence dissolved when she assented to this plan. Now he must choose to support either his Naneth or his sworn brother, and this was a bitter choice he could not reconcile, and he knew this was her punishment upon him.

Unable to bear more, Lindalcon had scooted back down the tube and into his sister's rooms, flying from her chambers and down the back stairs to find Legolas. There in the secure embrace of the Tawarwaith's arms he had vented his sorrow and confusion, anger and despair, until exhaustion had claimed him and consciousness fled. He had awakened curled up in the archer's lap, who in turn was supported by Fearfaron, with the comforting sound of the warrior's fair voice crooning an old song from the days of endless starlight before the silver disc of Ithil had first shown forth.

The wizards were still there also and long hours had they all debated on how to forestall the doom of daybreak, to no conclusion. Legolas wanted no change in the status quo and was adamant that only harm could come to his siblings should the Council probe too deeply. Lindalcon was appalled, insisting his father would want the truth to come out and for Legolas to be cleared. Fearfaron agreed and Aiwendil was undecided, but Mithrandir dissented, siding with the archer.

The only bright note the Maiar could add to the developments was the assurance that with the destruction of Elrond's letter the population at large would never learn of its contents. Of the slurs in this diatribe Lindalcon had not been informed and the archer was relieved for that fact as well.

Finally, Mithrandir had broken the stalemate, saying that often the desire to protect those one loved by shielding them from truth resulted in far more serious consequences and a breaking of trust that was at best difficult to repair.

After a silence during which the Istar and the Tawarwaith conversed in mental accord, Legolas had kissed the crown of his brother's head and murmured that he loved him, and wished no harm upon him. What followed was an account of Erebor the youth rejected and in his wrath struck out against Legolas and spoke words so foul he wondered later how the archer did not eject him from the room. But Legolas did not, and wept bitterly instead, holding the younger elf and repeating that he was sorry, that he loved him, until the anger gave way to grief unlike anything Lindalcon would have thought possible to endure.

And after all of this was past the decisions came so easily, and seemed logical and right. Lindalcon made his choice for Valtamar and for Legolas, for Taurant and Gwilwileth, and while the forest champion agreed to all that was discussed regarding the morning's trial, his younger brother felt there was yet something held back. Too much heartbreak had he already suffered to enquire farther, however, and Lindalcon was relieved to be given the mundane task of fetching garments for Legolas, Fearfaron, and himself.

So now he stood facing the King with all of the Sylvan folk about to witness his part in it, and he did not permit himself to be bowed by the weight of the truth he hoped to reveal. Often his eyes sought Legolas' and he drew strength from the encouraging trust and confidence found therein, and from the undeniable sense of Valtamar's presence. Lindalcon had not felt so close to his father even in the soldier's life, and decided this had to do with the passing of his adolescence and the marks of grief his soul must surely bear, as starkly indelible as any wound upon the body earned in battle would be. The knowledge that the Lost Warrior approved of his courage filled Lindalcon with pride and resolve.

"My Lord Thranduil, it is with gratitude we greet your attendance. The concern you show for understanding all that befalls the Danwaith is heartening to our people," Iarwain stated formally.

"The King is always present for his people's needs," replied the Sinda Lord.

"Of course," the tone of the ancient counsellor's concurrence left no question as to his lack of faith in his Lord's assurance. "At your request we are gathered, so let your charges be stated clearly that all may understand the cause of your apprehension."

"Our Realm has been trespassed, our heir has been threatened, and the captain of our guard assaulted within the halls of this very stronghold," Thranduil announced and was pleased by the excited murmuring this provoked among the crowd. "In light of these invasions and treacheries, I have come to understand that these events originated with the disgraceful waste of immortal life at the Battle of Erebor. And at the heart of all these disturbances and crimes stands the exiled kinslayer, the child of Ningloriel!" The King rose and pointed dramatically at Legolas.

But the archer did not flinch and indeed stood forth boldly as the rustling whispers of the assembly instantly died away.

"I declaim these charges; they are false!"

"So noted!" called out the Councillor of Records as he moved to stand beside Iarwain. "What say you to Erebor?"

"What of it? Erebor is past and Judgement have I accepted; there let the matter rest."

"Nay! The matter cannot rest! There is at work an unwholesome element seeking to weaken our people and interfere in our lands. Shall the sovereignty of a free realm be thus disregarded?" demanded Thranduil loudly.

"Let us put aside Erebor for now and examine these recent actions," interrupted Iarwain.

"So noted!" intoned the Councillor of Record before the King could object. "What witnesses can speak of these events? Any with knowledge are bound by honour to make themselves known and reveal the truth as they have seen it."

"I gainsay the second charge for I was with my baby brother during the time of this alleged threat!" Lindalcon called out clearly and sent his brother an encouraging smile as Iarwain squeezed his shoulder in approval.

"I can refute the first accusation and will explain the charge of invasion!" shouted Erestor.

"I have knowledge of this trespass also. As for the third charge, I am the culprit who committed this assault," spoke Radagast amid astonished exclamations and gasps from the common folk.

"Aye, 'twas the wizard that struck me down," said Talagan dispassionately meeting his King's furious and perplexed glare.

The captain was not chagrined to so embarrass his old friend, for Thranduil had acted solely at the behest of his consort in the haze of irrational rage over the perceived threat to his child. Talagan felt his loyal service and complete dedication had been disregarded, he had a tormenting ache at the base of his skull, and was sure to face censure for his lapse of caution in the hallway. All in all, he was not disposed to support his liege at the moment. Talagan's lifelong comrade had failed to consult him and not only was the veteran insulted by this oversight, he considered it irresponsible behaviour on Thranduil's part.

"I witnessed Radagast's brief moment of temper, but must assert that he reacted to the carpenter's near impalement upon the captain's blade," added Gandalf.

"I was there, too, and swear Legolas bore no weapon, and was himself threatened at the point of Talagan's sword," Aragorn joined his voice to the growing volume of testimony and sent the Tawarwaith a small smile. "Hold up your left hand, Legolas, and show the cut of the blade you swept from its place against your heart."

Legolas obeyed and loud, disgruntled, cacophonous babbling accompanied the display of the long brown scab across the warrior's upraised palm. Thranduil sat back down in his chair, a most unpleasant sense of dejavu overwhelming his thoughts as the Danwaith rallied to their champion's cause.

"Tirno did no wrong here!"

"Aye, the claim is false!"

"The promise is violated!"

"Charge Talagan! Or Aiwendil if you dare!"

These cries burst from among the throng and a chaotic wave of movement surged through the mass as though they might engulf the dais and everyone before it. The Councillors grew concerned, and the apprentices ceased their note taking on the testimony rapidly pouring from so many individuals. Erestor edged closer to Mithrandir, tugging Aragorn along with him, judging that the safest place to be should the situation devolve into catastrophe. Aiwendil banged his staff repeatedly on the floor to quiet things down without result.

"Peace! There is no fault here on anyone's part!" Legolas spoke with the compellingly quiet demeanour that brought the whole of Greenwood to a standstill, and the grumbling ceased immediately for the Wood Elves wished to hear his words.

"Talagan sought to aid the King and his only error was being over-eager to defend our home and our prince. Aiwendil reacted for he thought Fearfaron and I were in danger, but it was not so. Were I fending off an attack by this warrior, there would be more to show than a meagre scratch."

In the silence that followed the Councillors conferred briefly and then Iarwain gave their verdict.

"We concur and strike the third accusation null. Inasmuch as Tirno will not lay blame upon the captain, no censure will be given."

The gathered folk greeted the decision with a unified acclaim of approval and a jovial exchange of relief. They knew it must be false! Their Tirno would not strike down the captain unprovoked! Had they not but recently come from battling Orcs together? How came any to believe such a ridiculous claim?

Talagan blinked, not certain what had just happened, and glanced at Legolas, who returned his blank look with a half-smile and a nod.

Thranduil remained unmoving, watching the players with hooded eyes, hearing the approbation of the people, feeling the furtive looks of mistrust cast upon him from among the Sylvan folk, and his anger grew hotter. Great was the struggle within the King's troubled mind to remain calm in the searing blaze of his rising wrath when the third charge was invalidated.

At the same time, reason cautioned and instinct warned that perhaps none of the events of the previous eve were as they appeared upon the surface. As easily as the clean, shallow waters of the garden brook revealed the darting silver slivers of minnows flashing by, Thranduil beheld the improbability of the supposed altercation between the former heir and the captain of the guards. Talagan would never have been subdued so easily by a direct attack.

And it hardly seemed logical that the fallen archer would try to assassinate the infant prince while surrounded by the host of the King's warriors. But never was reason a motivator for spiteful hate, and the disgraced elf no doubt believes he has much cause to despise me. Thranduil could imagine this list of grievances. Ningloriel's child was cursed, born in shame that had only increased over the dismal and loveless years of his childhood, unwanted and fatherless, his life marked with the stigma of his mother's infidelity.

He does not appear to feel this burden now! Thranduil let his inner eye assess the wild elf as a whole and the feeling of uneasiness returned. This was not the same elf he had cast out of his Kingdom and Thranduil was confounded by the chameleon shift from denigration to distinction, from unassuming archer to dangerous rival for the lordship of the Greenwood. The way the entire community stilled to hear him speak had not gone unremarked by the King. Even Talagan had become caught in the mood. So clever, refusing to assign blame to my captain! How noble their champion appears!

And though he was infuriated to admit it to himself, the Sinda Lord had been impressed as well, just as he had been affected upon hearing the recount of the lone warrior's heroic struggle to win through to the stronghold and safeguard his friends against impossible odds. Those were acts worthy of respect and, barring the depravity revealed by the Lord of Imladris, Thranduil would be proud to claim such an elf as a war-brother.

Or a son.

Yet, what purpose had the outcast to see the prince if not for malicious ends? No benevolent cause could Thranduil conjure for the disgraced elf to enter the nursery of his replacement. The memory of the Tawarwaith's song for the newborn heir nudged against the King's soul. None of it made any sense in his mind, the ideas clashed. Why would he care about my son other than as a means to exact vengeance upon me? The noble Tawarwaith blessing the newborn could not also be the bitter remnant of his first wife's hatred bent on revenge.

It is a ruse; like Sauron in the Second Age, he dons this fair demeanour to hide the assassin's blade from innocent and gullible eyes!

This was the only conclusion he could accept, for Thranduil knew his Beloved had felt real fear, both for herself and her children, and Meril had spoken words holding the resonance of truth within their syllables; cried tears of salty sorrow for the troubles within her household. And it was this that he could not ignore, for Thranduil had felt the same stab of terror within his own heart. Just as she had imagined a bleak and woe-stricken fate for Taurant and Gwilwileth, so the King could see their dreadful destiny unfolding should the outcast escape the Judgement.

And this he would fain prevent. Thranduil stood again.

"Yet my son's nursery was violated and his well-being threatened by this Hecilo!" he thundered and once more pointed at his cast-off child. "Lindalcon was there and will attest that this is true. I care not for these lesser charges, let us have an answer for that, and then finish with this disgrace among elf-kind. Did Sylvan Law and Custom allow it, I would send this nascent Orc to the Void!"

Legolas flinched to hear this insult and the Wood Elves were shocked into silence as they stared at the outraged father, but Valtamar's son was ready to answer and moved away from Iarwain to stand beside his brother.

"Aye, I was there, and none of that is true! This was no coercion or forced entry, for I agreed to let Legolas in to meet Taurant. Neither was there any danger, unless you count the reading of books harmful. The prince and heir slept in sweet repose the whole time his brother held him, safe and protected next to his heart." The younger elf made sure to emphasise the relationship of the former to the current heir, and wrapped his arm around Legolas' waist as the warrior squeezed him back.

The choice of words was not lost on Thranduil and he inhaled and blew back out a slow breath to contain his ire, covering the pair under his frigidly expressionless regard. Despite the firm tone of the youth's speech, the King could practically smell the fear oozing from Lindalcon's pores. And what might he fear should his testimony fail to please the outcast? Thranduil's disgust for the fallen elf manifested as an incoherently eloquent grunt of dissatisfaction and nostrils crinkled as if in protest of some detestable stench.

"You speak so out of despair for your father's feä" the King addressed Lindalcon. "I have already heard from your Naneth how that elf you shield verily holds your Adar within a cloud of confusion, unable to see any clear way beyond the bounds of this world."

"Nay!" both the younger elves denied together as the assembly gasped at the King's statement.

Thranduil gave a dry chuckle with no mirth in it.

"Indeed? Lindalcon, you need not do this. Only that one's death can free your Adar, do you not see how he has deceived you?" the Sinda Lord's words were filled with soft compassion; a wiser outlook offering the perspective of greater maturity and experience to the too trusting naivety of youth.

The crowd's whisperings hissed with anxious distress.

"In this you speak falsely, Lord!" this pronouncement issued from Fearfaron and everyone's attention bounced to him where he stood glaring, arms crossed before him, calmly assessing his King. "Although your interpretation of the Judgement's conditions is correct.

"My son was freed by the actions of the Tawarwaith, not by his death. This in itself speaks of the invalidity of the Judgement, for were it right then Legolas must relinquish his own feä to satisfy the losses of those wronged.

"Have you all forgotten the strange way his life was twice spared, once on the battle plain and again in the Men's town? And these many years Legolas has been under the shadow of death more times than even a veteran warrior of the First Age. Still, he survives and continues to harass the Wraiths and the Orcs that plague us. How is it he has been salvaged if it is his doom to die for his comrades?"

"Well that is no great mystery," snarled Thranduil. "It is not difficult for a coward to remain among the living!"

"This elf may be under our severest punishment, but craven he is not," said Talagan.

The Sinda warrior found that he could not stand by and merely let this insult be put forth. His conscience regaled him over his actions at Erebor, and even if the Judgement was right, he did not believe Legolas would slay an innocent babe with his own hand. And he had seen the elf fight; foolishly fearless more accurately described his battle tactics. 

"Aye! I have seen him charge a troop of Orcs with but a dagger." Hearing their captain speak up, a good number of the warriors reinforced his remark.

"He put his body between his friends and death, more than once."

"He taunted the foul things, lured them away when his comrades were in peril."

"Taunts death, more like!"

"And bears the scars to prove it! No spineless knave would ever be so marred," called Gladhadithen from her place amid the ranks of the soldiers.

"Indeed," said the Spirit Hunter sadly as his eyes fell upon his adopted son. "Dares fate and begs death, yet lives! It is because the Judgement cannot justly fall on him. Our beliefs are clear; a true kinslayer cannot escape the righteous exercise of Eru's will. Thus has it ever been according to our history."

"That is so," acknowledged the Councillor of Record, as though only at this moment had he noted this idea.

A rumble of agitated concurrence from the audience underscored the point.

"We have no proof of your son's fate," countered Thranduil with empty audacity, his features a most unpleasant mask of livid embarrassment, for even he could hear the hollowness of this claim. The defection of Talagan and the warriors was a serious blow to his authority. The King needed a way to shift support back in his favour, to make these elves see the corruption the outcast inflicted upon them, upon him. Thranduil clenched his fists in frustration for the loss of the letter from Elrond.

"Why would I pretend such?" demanded Fearfaron incredulous, and the people seconded his rejection of the challenge. Like autumn leaves blown by Manwë's breath the rustling scatter of jumbled phrases swirled round in the noisy timbre of avowal.

"Assuredly, the craftsman has no motive to attest his son's Release if it were not done," added Iarwain.

"Unless the relationship between the outcast and the kind-hearted carpenter is not as platonic as they pretend. Perhaps Fearfaron's infatuation has allowed him to be misled regarding Annaldír's salvation."

"That is an outrageous lie!" hollered the Spirit Hunter, more enraged than he had felt since the night of the Twelfth Year Anniversary. He advanced to the very step of the dais.

"You dare speak such foul thoughts?" Legolas seethed through bared teeth and Lindalcon had to hold him tight to forestall an assault on the King. "He is my father in all ways but blood!"

Thranduil ignored the carpenter and turned his infuriated countenance upon the Tawarwaith.

"Nearness in kinship has not stopped you from bedding others that might be your sire by blood and seed; why should you have scruples for this fabricated link that binds you to Fearfaron?" He spat these hateful words directly to the former heir, his first since the Day of the Judgement.

Legolas released every molecule of air in his lungs and all the colour drained from his face as he stared in open-mouthed horror of this pronouncement, anchored to the spot, eyes locked with the Sinda's triumphantly gloating green gaze. He had thought the King would not present this derogation so soon or in this context and was unprepared to counter it. Fearfaron and the wizards had asserted that the Council could be convinced these indiscretions were a purely personal matter with no bearing on the charges. Legolas had needed to believe them.

Five heartbeats later his eyes slid shut and down dropped his head in ignominy. His whispered "I did not know," was heard by none but Lindalcon, whose soul bled to behold his brother so shamed in public.

The son of Valtamar knew no remedy for such a thing and could merely hold onto Legolas tighter, lest they both succumb to the desire to bolt from the room. It cannot be true, can it? Relieved that Legolas' face was turned away, Lindalcon could not find a way to look at his friend just yet; for he was uncertain anymore what he would see. The image of the world he accepted shattered once again revealing something wholly unseemly and twisted between the cracks. Lindalcon's eyes jumped to scan the Noldo Lord and found his answer there in the pained and remorseful expression in the elf's features. True, then. Lindalcon's gaze turned pleadingly upon the carpenter.

"That is a vile slander," growled Fearfaron.

"It is the truth," countered Thranduil smugly and bent his unfeeling eyes upon the distraught foster-father.

The Wood Elves were frozen in breathless anticipation for the details of this illicit union to be divulged, silently regarding the outcast with a foul mixture of hunger and disgust. They all knew who the suspected father was, and the presence of the Noldo elf suddenly became more interesting. If one was here, might not another succeed in infiltrating their forest world, especially with help from the wild archer? A hundred sets of eyes scanned the outcast's body noting now the length and shape of the tapered tips of his delicate ears, the suppleness of strong shoulders in contrast with slender hips and narrow feet, the fair features and his natural grace as he clasped so close to the younger elf.

"Then it is worse for being heartlessly cruel!" Mithrandir's furious umbrage threatened to erupt as he pointed his staff at the King and was only prevented from spilling elven blood when Radagast intervened, pushing aside the sorcerer's weapon with cautious pressure and a compelling frown.

"It is false, though therein may be a speck of truth," the Brown wizard said firmly.

"Aye, and now who speaks without proofs? Your words serve only to deceive!" added Erestor with heated indignation, for he knew the King was hoping to divert notice from Lindalcon's testimony.

Thranduil turned to grin at his unexpected guest, giving a chilling replication of a serpent's cold disdain, then laughed as an eyebrow raised in mocking salute.

"Do you require proof, Lord Erestor?" The question hung unanswered as Thranduil turned to include his subjects in the conversation, addressing the crowd directly. "The kin-slayer dares not deny it for our esteemed visitor shall confirm my words!" the King's out-flung arm directed everyone's eyes to Elrond's advisor.

The seneschal shifted uneasily under the weight of this scrutiny and chanced a glimpse at the fallen prince. A flare of fury ignited through his soul to see Pen-rhovan so discredited and bowed under this opprobrium and he sought to join Lindalcon at Legolas' side.

Aragorn held him firm, shaking his head with a silent warning clear in his wise brown eyes, for he knew they were outlanders and Thranduil would gladly turn their words of support into more fuel for his vindictive vendetta against the wild elf.

The previous night they had convened their own war-council in the room next door to Legolas', planning a strategy for the day's events. A visit from Aiwendil had made plain that both Mithrandir and Fearfaron thought it better for Erestor not to press Legolas for an audience just yet, thus the two had no chance to confer with their friend. The Brown wizard informed them of Legolas' visit to Taurant and its result, and of Lindalcon's news.

Without a means to prevent the King from demanding Erestor's statement, the seneschal had decided that in comparison to other wrongs he had committed lying was rather inconsequential and he would deny everything. Aragorn had cautioned that Legolas was unlikely to do the same, and this contradiction would only make the situation more confused. After hours of circuitous argument and no resolution, the Imladrians had determined the best way to help Legolas would be to refrain from volunteering any information, and to support whatever tactic he undertook.

It was with stinging self-reproach that Erestor realised he had played into the King's plotting and once more wounded Pen-rhovan with his wayward tongue. He feared to speak out again.

"Hah! How deafening is the chorus of rebuttal!" Thranduil stood facing the crowd and spread wide his arms in a gesture enveloping all who would offer defence of the outcast. "Look, good folk, how the Shadow perverts the wise and worthy to Its purpose." Now his voice lost its fiery fury and took on the august magnanimity of a learned tutor instructing his pupils.

"There is Mithrandir, high among his order, yet enthralled and tied, soul-bound to the outcast. Here stands Fearfaron, an upright citizen, ready to excuse the kinslayer responsible for his child's demise. And look upon Erestor, a noble warrior, veteran of Gondolin, who has left his own lands to come to seek out Hecilo

"If this is not evidence of the evil at work in our Realm, then what may be? How is that one misbegotten elf suddenly so renowned and deserving of such attentions, especially under the Judgement and exile imposed upon him by our Laws? What exactly has he given in return for such regard?

"Should not these astute and faithful individuals instead be reviled by the very idea of such an elf? Some Dark power invests him with this appeal he holds!

"Who else here would like to be formally counted an associate of this criminal? Please come forward, let everyone be acknowledged!"

Now this speech was dripping with gallingly unctuous tones so that even the most bland of these statements seemed a description of some lascivious act about to be performed in their very midst. Thranduil relished the openly repulsed and furtively fearful expressions covering the faces of most of his people as they cast their eyes upon the group in the centre of the Chamber.

What manner of power could bind a wizard's soul? Have any heard of such a thing? Mithrandir never took much notice of our woods before.

Has the carpenter been deceived, overcome with whatever powers of allure this wayward warrior possesses? Does Annaldír still wander?

He is too attractive, more so even than his mother! It seems unnatural for so many to be drawn to this one elf.

What is this Noldor Lord doing in the Greenwood?

Look how he bows his head in shame; he has bedded the Noldo that bred him! Mayhap he has lain with the others as well!

He has enthralled the young one, too, and holds the souls of the dead at bay. This is of the Dark Lord's doing!

The low murmurs hummed and bubbled like a foul brew of some noxious swill about to over boil, rippling away through the arches, across the courtyard and among the trees. The tide of opinion receded from the accused as rapidly as it had eddied round him just moments ago.

Lindalcon could not believe how fickle was this assembly of elves, for he could easily comprehend that the King was generating this crude diversion to turn their thoughts from the false claims of threatening the prince. None but he had heard the fallen archer's admission and explanation to the ugly defamation of his morals. They could not see the tremors running through Legolas each time a new slur reached his perception. Abruptly Lindalcon moved his hands and covered both his brother's ears to muffle the callous comments, tilting the humiliated elf's face up, forcing Legolas to meet his eyes.

The younger elf's heart suddenly lurched; when had he grown taller than Legolas? It hurt, for some reason, to realise this, as though Legolas was somehow frozen at some earlier point in time while Lindalcon had gone forward and surpassed him.

"Do not hear them! I do not care about Thranduil's sordid innuendo! I do not care if it is true!" he said, sombre brown eyes boring far into the wounded soul behind the bright blue ones, and with firm assurance he shook Legolas a little in his grasp to underscore this fervent declaration. Then he released his brother and encircled Legolas' shoulders anew and faced the people.

"You should not listen to these confused notions that conflict one against the other!" he called out. "This is all meant to distract the Council from nullifying the charge of conspiring to harm Taurant. I will swear that my baby brother was never in any danger from the Tawarwaith. If my word is suspect, then ask my sister for she was there as well and knows not the concept of a lie."

"Nay!" this appalled cry came simultaneously from both the enraged father and the child's protective oldest brother, and both those elves startled upon realising this inexplicable fact, eyes joining in a fleeting glance of blistering bewilderment.

Aragorn had observed these proceedings as Erestor fairly fought against his hold like an ungentled stallion tethered on a lead. With Lindalcon's courageous words the Man's heart was moved and he no longer wanted to stand apart, an outsider. Thranduil had thrown down a dare and Isildur's heir was eager to take it up. The mortal met Erestor's equally clear-eyed countenance, gave a brief nod, and both moved to stand with Legolas, each placing a hand on his shoulder firmly.

"I am glad to be counted here as a friend of Legolas of the Greenwood," said the human. "Without his safeguard through the forest, I would long ago have perished in battle against the Glamhoth. It is not I who have pledged myself to your Tawarwaith, but the other way round. This eternal protection Legolas gifted to me in return for some small bit of healing I was able to grant him in the wilds, nothing more. Let the malice of the King's insinuations be revealed, for in those harsh slanders can be found the workings of the Shadow!"

"As for me, I owe your champion my life at least three times over," said Erestor. "Though a stranger with no cause to be within his woods, Legolas protected me from the Wraiths of Dol Guldur and led me and my colleague to safety among the woodsmen's villages. As to our purpose in your lands, I shall speak to it in regards to the first charge in due time.

"Beyond that, I am here to set to right a grievous hurt I have caused, if by any means I may," the seneschal from Imladris asserted, compressing the Tawarwaith's arm warmly as he spoke. "If there is Darkness in the Greenwood, then Legolas is Its bane not its source! Could the Light of the Silmarils be reborn in living flesh, his would be the form of that incarnation!"

These words brought Legolas' head up quickly to gape for the second time that morn at the speaker; this time stunned by such high praise and he searched the face of the Noldo Lord for any indication of dissembling or exaggeration. He found only the gentle roguish grin of Berenaur, dampened by the tearful gleam of the sorrow and remorse his dark eyes sought to convey. Legolas let a tenuous smile hover round his soul.

"Pretty words for your precious paramour!" scoffed the King and enjoyed the scarlet flush that suffused the outcast's face.

"Let them speak! You invited the testimony of those who would call themselves Tirno's associates; therefore, allow everyone so inclined to state their minds," snapped Iarwain irritably.

"So noted!" added the Councillor of Record with a complacent smile.

"Well said!" agreed Aiwendil. "I am Legolas' friend and have been since he began his assault upon Dol Guldur. Of all the eldar I have met, this one I most admire, and that includes those sundered from you long ago that dwell in the Farthest West. My regard has naught to do with how he looks, what name he bears, or whom he beds. Legolas has earned my respect and won my friendship because he cares to make right the marring of his world."

The elves shared their buzzing wonder. How could the might and knowledge of the Istari be beguiled? Should they not trust the judgement of all these diverse people that bore goodwill for their champion? Had not good come of Tirno's works rather than ill? How could he be an agent of the Dark One while so fearlessly warring against the cohorts and creations of evil?

"Like Fearfaron and Lindalcon, I am more than a friend to the Tawarwaith," Mithrandir added, moving up to take his place next to the carpenter. "We are his family, and by the bonds of such a relationship do we conduct ourselves; aiding and supporting one another as needed, trusting and depending upon the constancy of this 'fabricated link' forged by necessity, fired in the heat of battle, and tempered by the icy grip of despair. And thus united, it is ill-advised to oppose us! 

"And let me be very blunt, Thranduil," Gandalf concluded in coldly clipped words edged in restrained resentment. "I am not bound to Legolas' soul, nor he to mine. I have aided his survival and I will neither apologise nor explain myself to you. Perhaps we could get back to the actual charges now, if this smoke has been cleared out."

"Indeed!" Iarwain jumped in as Thranduil opened his mouth to retort. "The day we decide an elf's guilt based on mistaken choices in bed partners, then we shall all have sentences to fulfil."

This blatant reference to the King's own erroneous first selection for a mate was not missed by the forest folk, and a scatter of smirky guffaws escaped containment as Thranduil sealed his lips into a thin dark line.

"So noted!" sang the Record Maker, not even trying to hide his widening smile of amusement at the Sinda's expense.

"Enough of this!" Thranduil shouted and turned to glare at Legolas anew. The Council was behaving as if the whole purpose of this meeting was a joke, and he would not permit it. "You were in my son's room and you did tell Meril that all of her children would suffer unless I halted the investigation of Erebor! Do you still deny it?"

Instantly the lighter mood fled and silence filled in around the diminishing echoes of the King's ringing challenge.

"I was there, but never to do Taurant harm. And one may warn of danger without being the source of it," Legolas responded clearly and calmly, determined to convince the King, or at least the Council.

"It was a threat not a warning! Taurant's birth makes it impossible for you to regain your former place, even if you escape the death promised by your Judgement. Admit your guilt as you owned your faults at Erebor! You went to end his life and you used his brother and sister to gain the opportunity. But for Meril's sudden appearance you would have achieved your goal." Thranduil strode to the edge of the dais looking down on the outcast, scarcely able to contain his desire to attack the one that dared attempt so fiendish a plot.

"It is a lie! Never would I hurt him, nothing could make me bring even the slightest disharmony into the lives of my siblings!" Legolas tried unsuccessfully to shake free of his friends' tightening hold on his arms and shoulders.

"They are not your siblings!"

"They are! I claim them; I love them! You are the one pushing them towards heartache and misery! I tell you now I will not allow it!"

"You dare such a low subterfuge, accusing a father of wishing to hurt his own? By Eru, the dungeons shall have use before this day is through!" The King was shaking from his rage and indeed his restraint was noteworthy for truly he believed his children had been a hair's breadth from their doom at the hands of his first wife's child.

Legolas shuddered at this pronouncement, for the anger Thranduil displayed left no doubt as to the likelihood of that outcome, and he was very grateful for the strength of his friends' supportive presence around him.

"Nay! Nay, you must not do that!" shouted Lindalcon, desperately seeking the eyes of the Councillors. "I tell you I was there and no greater gentleness could be shown that babe unless it was Naneth herself holding him!"

"Tell us exactly what transpired, Lindalcon; how did all this come about?" said one of the other Councillors quietly.

"You cannot listen to his testimony! He practically worships the fallen prince and would say anything to defend him!" yelled Thranduil in fury.

"Lindalcon is neither stupid nor a child nor known for a liar. Thusfar you have not accused him of wishing harm to Taurant. Therefore I do not believe he would knowingly welcome a murderer into the infant's nursery," countered the Elder.

"Aye, not knowingly," Thranduil repeated. "Yet I say again, he is blinded by his esteem for the outcast."

"What is that you say?" asked Mithrandir, puzzled.

"What?" demanded the King, irritated.

"I thought you just announced that Lindalcon offers this testimony out of fear, forced to back the outcast because his father's feä is at stake. Yet now you say he reveres the Tawarwaith. I wish to understand how both these scenarios may be possible," the wizard said testily.

Thranduil coldly assessed the wily Istar, furious to have fallen into a trap of his own making once more. Already the buzzing displeasure of the peoples' agreement hinted it would be difficult to repair the damage attending this disclosure.

"I think Mithrandir's question is wise," said Iarwain, nodding as he regarded the Maia with thoughtful eyes. "It is clear to me that the second statement is correct; Lindalcon does hold the Tawarwaith in high regard, mayhap even love."

"Aye, he is my brother!" declared the youth and smiled to say so.

"Oh, truly? Well that is a coupling I would not have guessed!" sneered Thranduil cruelly.

"Ai! Do not dare speak of her whom you drove from our lands!" Legolas shouted.

"My father's honour you cannot impugn! He was true to my Naneth and died in sacrifice to his comrades!" Lindalcon shrieked in fury and now both the elves had to be restrained by Radagast and the Imladrians.

"Too much of these scurrilous outbursts have we been forced to attend!" thundered Mithrandir. "Two questions are before the Council now: is it possible for a convicted kinslayer to hinder the souls of the dead, and would Lindalcon lie to protect his sworn brother? Surely there has been enough said to decide on these issues."

"I concur," said Iarwain.

"So noted," the Councillor of Record formalised the closing of testimony and the six Elders drew together to quietly confer. There seemed to be some amount of dissension among them, but which question roused the discourse none could tell.

With a huge sigh the Sinda Lord paced away to the end of the platform and back before practically throwing his body down upon the chair in his agitated displeasure. He could sense the Elders wished to dismiss the second charge and was over come with incredulous and smouldering wrath. How can my people choose that kinslayer instead of their unblemished prince and heir?

"We are decided," announced Iarwain and everyone strained to see and hear the verdict. Thranduil rose and advanced again to the rim of the step and Legolas' friends clustered closely around him.

"We do not believe any elf can hold an unhoused feä bound unless that soul in life owed some debt to such an individual. Now, Valtamar was not under any obligation of honour to the Tawarwaith at the time of his demise, thus it is not possible for his spirit to be hindered."

A hushed wave of relief passed through the people, for among them matters dealing with unhoused spirits were fraught with fear and much superstition. Over the Ages, great was the accumulation of the Sylvans' feär still loose upon Arda. Some believed as Thranduil, that such spirits could be caught and forced to dark purposes. Indeed, some thought the spark of life found in Orcs was stolen from such houseless souls.

"Further, we find no reason to name Lindalcon a liar. Why would he choose to support his sworn brother against the best interests of his blood-kin? His actions may be termed ill-advised, yet such is the impetuous nature of youth. We find no cause to disallow his testimony of the events."

"So noted!" intoned the Elder of the Records as the Sylvan folk relaxed into pleased murmuring of approval. To them also Lindalcon's words had held the note of honesty.

The small group of elves, the Man and the wizards in the centre of the room offered joyful congratulatory hugs and nudges and shoulder squeezes to the Tawarwaith as he and Lindalcon embraced. Those two pulled back to make eye contact and Legolas leaned his forehead upon his young friend's.

"I thank you and I swear your father will be Released if any action of mine can do it," Legolas said quietly, yet no elven ears would miss the words.

"This I know," answered Lindalcon. "Yet it is not your Task to accomplish. Ada would have the real cause of his sacrifice understood."

"If I may continue?" interrupted the eldest Elder, and both younger elves sheepishly fell silent.

"Inasmuch as Lindalcon is the only witness to the events within the nursery, the Council finds that Tirno is not at fault. Admittedly his actions were unwise, for he should have sought the permission of the mother before entering, yet we find the sharing of picture books benign. Thus, the second charge is null and no censure do we pronounce."

Again the Sylvan elves ratified the Council's decision with a resonating refrain of glad expression, all eyes smiling to see the ecstatic relief shared between the small group ringing their Tawarwaith.

Passed from friend to friend for more well-wishing, Legolas even allowed a brief hug from Erestor before settling in the comfortable encirclement of Fearfaron's arms, just happy to lean his head upon the strong shoulders of the tall, willowy Spirit Hunter.

And for the second time that day Thranduil tasted the bitter bile of his people's betrayal and felt the terrifying sensation of his power disintegrating as fast as rain evaporating from sun warmed stone.

There now remained but one of the King's charges and Iarwain sighed with a smile of secret satisfaction as he contemplated the results thus far. His people were happy, their Tawarwaith was proved true, and Thranduil was in a most diminished position at the moment. He planned to keep matters in that status if at all possible, and the only one that might be able to prevent this was Legolas himself. If the wild elf did some foolishly noble thing, publicly forgiving Thranduil as he had Talagan, then popular opinion was likely to sway once more to favour the irate ruler.

The ancient eldar surveyed the son of Oropher and the forest champion.

How different they are! Oropher would have appreciated this Legolas. Stubborn, but loyal. Devoted to a fault, self-sacrificing and sometimes rash. he thought, for he had never doubted Ningloriel's assertions of Legolas' paternity. Iarwain wondered if Thranduil had ever noticed how similar in character the outcast was to the family patriarch. Unlikely. It occurred to the Sylvan elder that it might have been difficult for Thranduil to have such an elf around him, with a spirit so like his father's housed in a form that resplendently mirrored Ningloriel.

Thranduil sat glaring into the knot of elves comprising the Tawarwaith and his cobbled together family, utterly dumbfounded. His denial and disbelief were apparent in the slight glaze of disorientation clouding his murky eyes, the slumping posture of his stately form slouched within the seat's support, the complete stillness of his face and frame.

He had never considered the charge of attempted kin-slaying would be dismissed. With the fact accomplished, however, he found he was not truly surprised, given the undeniable impact of the outcast's vehement declaration of familial love for the infant prince and his sister. The benediction of the Tawarwaith's song echoed Thranduil's imagined rendering of the disgraced archer cradling Taurant in the crook of his arm while the other hand flipped the pages of a picture book.

It is a long road from errors in battle to destroying innocent life wilfully. That the outcast had not traversed that path was obvious and it seemed ridiculous now to have thought otherwise. It astounded him to realise that just moments ago he had been certain of edledhron's [the exile's] guilt. Meril's fear is genuine yet so is this elf's protective concern. 'To warn of danger without being its cause.' Perhaps, given the history, his mate's assumption of harmful intent was understandable. But inaccurate.

Slowly the Sinda's vision sharpened and his sight tracked across the features of the wild elf. The muscles around Thranduil's eyes contracted, drawing lines of concentration around the refined curves of brows and lids.

As Iarwain watched, the outcast stirred, for he must have felt the intensity of that inspection, and bravely met the King's regard with a countenance free of gloating or reprisal. Though wary and defiant, the guarded gaze of the Tawarwaith bore a tinge of compassion, a suggestion that, with even the smallest encouragement from the King, the forest champion would issue one of those soul-stopping proclamations and pardon the Sinda Lord for ever accusing him so basely.

Iarwain moved quickly to forestall just that eventuality while the fallen prince lingered in the euphoric release of tension following the acquittal and before the bewildered King deciphered the Tawarwaith's message.

"It pleases my heart to know this is the truth, for I have come to regard the works of Tirno as valuable to our lands," the ancient Elder said and obtained everyone's attention. "Yet one charge remains and must be addressed!

"Considering the presence of foreigners within our very borders, I am eager to understand the means by which that was accomplished and the purpose for such an incursion. The validity of the first charge none may deny as the evidence is here in our midst today." His eyes drifted to his fellow councillor as these words left his lips.

"Two witnesses have come forth regarding the trespass; are there any others who would be heard?" called out the Councillor of Record, and a shuffling in the crowd commenced.

"Here now, aye!" a muffled voice called from somewhere outside and an uncomfortable shifting and scuffling succeeded the yell as the speaker tried to get past. The Wood Elves grumbled and complained to be so rudely shoved when they had no place to go.

"Who speaks?" commanded Iarwain, craning his neck to see the cause of the disturbance. Indeed, everyone gathered before the dais turned to follow his gaze and learn the identity of the new witness.

"Me!" came the disgruntled reply. A minute more of squeezing and twisting amid indignant and scandalised eldar heralded the advance of a rumpled, red-faced Man dressed in the practical manner of a forester, for it was the messenger from the woodsmen's village.

"What do you want here?" demanded the King. "These proceedings are closed to all but the citizens of the Realm. If there is aught that impacts your folk, our scribes will inform you."

"He is a citizen!" retorted Legolas hotly and again his friends had need to restrain him. While he could find no will to defend his own honour, for those under his patronage he would face down any unjust word.

"I thank you, atheling," smiled the human with a warm glance to his forest prince. The bold mortal then bowed low before the Wood Elves' King. "My Lord, I want to add the names of my village's people, and those of our neighbouring settlements also, to that list of folk who deem it a privilege to be called Tirno's friends."

There were many exclamations of pleased surprise at this gesture and Thranduil really could not find anything with which to counter the goodwill of the Man's sentiments. He glared coldly at the mortal's open devotion to the disgraced prince.

Not so complete has the banishment been! Exiled from elven realms, the outcast makes a duchy among the Followers' settlements.

"Very well, human, your choice for your people shall be marked. And now if we may proceed to the charge…" Iarwain replied and was peremptorily cut off by Legolas' advance to the mortal, a huge smile gracing his fair features, his hand out thrust in the customary greeting among Men.

"I am so glad you are here," spoke Legolas.

The worthy woodsman grasped and pumped the elf's slender fingers twice before pulling hard and grappling the Tawarwaith in a suffocating bear hug, laughing heartily. They separated and the Man's face split into a delighted grin as he appraised the wild elf critically.

"Well then, Tirno, you look a mite better than when last I set sights on you! Our lasses would be well pleased, I warrant that," he said, and his mild tease was enjoyed by the elves as their champion could not hide the embarrassment the comment wrought.

"I thank you for bringing my letter to Fearfaron," the Tawarwaith continued, deciding not to encourage the human's humour. "How fares Cemendur? How much have Chloe and Amethyst grown? Is the Elder well? And what news of Llanadh and Sarah? I must beg forgiveness for leaving as I did, it was wrong of me!"

He would have continued in this vein for some time but the mortal overwhelmed his exuberant babbling with jovial laughter as he shook his head.

"Nay, atheling, none of that talk! The Elder understood I am certain, and Fearfaron explained the situation when I got here. Be at peace over Cemendur; he was bawling to have his belly filled when I left and keeps his aunt up nights with his stomach's demands rather than his hurts, I reckon.

"Now how can the wee ones be grown when you've not been gone but a two-month? We're humans, not weeds, young tree lord! When you return, the gals will still be too little to fight over who gets to be your bride."

More soft laughter filled the room at this gentle joking and the Tawarwaith's pink response. Not a single countenance was bereft of a cheery grin.

Save Thranduil, who watched with cautiously curious interest. Despite his displeasure at having forgotten about this mortal in the excitement over his son's birth, he wanted to understand the depth of this Man's dedication to the outcast. At the disastrous Council of the Thrashing Trees, the King had been regaled with tales of the forest champion's deeds on behalf of the mortal squatters within his borders, and he pondered whether the disgraced archer was equipping these woodsmen with weapons and training them in warrior's ways.

It was not that he felt such forces could ever pose a threat to his rule, but that such troops might prove as useful to him as they would be to the Tawarwaith.

A single outcast elf against hundreds of Orcs must fall eventually either to death or a fate far worse. One First Born directing an army of mortals, doomed to die anyway, might just crack the impervious walls of Dol Guldur. Thranduil decided it was time to remind the woodsman who was the ruler in the Greenwood, and rose to his feet.

"These are formal proceedings, human, but we would be grateful to hear your words if they bear upon the truth. We must learn the source and extent of the plot against our lands."

"Aye, aye, that we must! And if one so humble may speak up here I was also a witness to the foreign elves' actions," he said, eyeing Erestor with distaste. "These two Noldor dwelt in our village a time and though they helped in some ways, I have since found out there was treachery afoot."

"Is that so?" queried Thranduil silkily. "Please enlighten us to all that transpired. Tell us, how came those elves among your people? Is it not true that this elf here, the accused, brought them into your settlement?" demanded Thranduil.

As simply as that the relaxed mood returned to its sombre, serious disposition.

"Accused? Our Tirno? Our atheling?" the human feigned shocked disbelief though of course he had heard of the impending charges the same as everyone else within the city. He shook his head gravely and reached out to wrap an arm over the archer's shoulders and draw him close.

"Nay, Lord, that is a gross error," he said earnestly and met the Woodland King's eye with his honest, steady stare.

"Well said!" seconded Aragorn vehemently and sent a smile filled with approbation to the simple forester. As the only two mortals present, he could not help feeling a sense of kinship with the Man, though in truth the woodsman was more distant in kind from Isildur's heir than ever Aragorn was from the eldar.

The messenger acknowledged this with a respectful nod.

"These are our ways, Man, and you should not be so bold in challenging customs among the First Born!" countered Thranduil, ignoring Aragorn. "Do you fear to offer your testimony now? Is what you know so injurious to your disgraced benefactor? And if you would claim citizenship among these borders, then your 'atheling' as you term him, sleeps above in his mother's arms. Our Realm does have an heir, but this elf is not he."

"It is not the same thing, citizenship within the Woodland Realm and citizenship within Tawar!" snapped Legolas.

Fearfaron could not suppress a satisfied smile to see the frustrated look upon Thranduil's features. The King was about to receive an education on the duality of the Greenwood's culture, a dip into the spiritual substructure to their society he found so unsavoury. And his tutor was not one the mighty Sinda noble was likely to appreciate.

Lindalcon shared the joke with the carpenter; the two trading amused gazes as the younger elf moved to stand with his brother at the human's side. Indeed, it was safe to say few in the room's centre misunderstood Legolas' views of the forest's governing except Thranduil. Iarwain looked positively delighted while the wizards watched with glittering eyes. Murmuring amid the population told their instinctive comprehension of what their champion meant, and agreement for his place among them.

The Imladrians only felt concern for their friend should he raise the King's ire farther, however, for both knew what must be divulged soon. 

"Nay, I do not worry to explain it to you, Lord," the Man said with benevolent kindness, diverting the King's hostile eyes from the outcast. "It is as Tirno declares. Here within the borders of the Northern Forest is the Kingdom of the Wood Elves and this mountain is the fortress and symbol of the great strength of the One gifted to His Eldest Children.

"Yon babe, your prince, is heir to this Realm! We may be simple mortals, yet we understand this well enough and will pay due respect to him, when he comes into his own, even as we regard you now and bowed to Oropher before."

"Aye, but on the opposite side of the Central Mountains, there the strength of our warriors' arms no longer reaches." Legolas took up the lesson. "Yet beyond that boundary the forest still exists, and there is the Lordship of Tawar besieged. Once we were allies and defended Tawar. Now we can scarcely keep this small corner of Greenwood free of the Darkness!" The wild elf's impassioned words tugged upon the hearts of the Sylvan's for many remembered well the days of which their champion spoke.

Aragorn and Erestor, however, were completely confused and looked to Mithrandir and Aiwendil, then to Legolas, and last at Thranduil. Who were these confederates? Was he referring to Lothlorien or the Men of Dale? At least they had the satisfaction of observing similar bewilderment upon the King's countenance.

"Hold, of what alliance do you speak, Tirno?" he said, and the intake of breaths throughout the assembly upon hearing this use of the familiar term for the wild elf was almost but not quite undetectable. Thranduil frowned at his mistake and was about to correct himself when he sensed a definite upwelling of approval from among the throng. He hesitated.

"I do not speak of any treaty or union among armies, as you must be thinking," Legolas took advantage of the momentary lapse and continued patiently. "Tawar is…" he found this a difficult concept to put in words, so much was it a part of his soul. He could no more explain how his heart kept beating, yet knew well that it did so.

"The Greenwood, its trees, its creatures, its elves and its Men, all of this is Tawar. The air of it, that is Manwë's suspiration, and the water flowing across the lands like the lifeblood pounding throughout my body, Ulmo's gift, all are Tawar.

"And long were the days when none of these elements could be seen to conflict or work at cross purposes. It has not been so for numerous years, even prior to my birth. The Wood Elves have ceased to be Tawar's voice, though still we dwell here, abiding in Greenwood.

"Without a voice, how can the strength of the forest's feä be made known to Arda? When the trees are silenced, the Valar hear not Tawar's song, whether it be of hope and joy or sorrow and pleading! Thus does the Darkness enter in and force strange and terrible anthems from the harmony of the Music." Legolas himself became quiet, for he could see by the confused and somewhat incredulous expression on the King's features that he was not making this clear at all.

"Are you saying the Wood Elves are responsible for the Shadow's advance over the Greenwood?" demanded Thranduil angrily. "If so you are wrong to suggest that! Nay, more than erroneous, such words are verily treasonous. Without my warriors, the Wraiths would be residing here in this mountain fortress and not hiding in their pestilential tower."

"Nay, that is no betrayal," corrected Mithrandir. "Legolas does not speak against you but against the circumstances of our times. You wish to know the truth concerning what is happening in your Realm, then listen, Thranduil, and mayhap we will learn what motivates the forest champion's activities."

"In some ways, I do assign responsibility to elf-kind," Legolas continued carefully. "We did not bring the Darkness here, but neither have we been able to eradicate it! When first the eldar came under the eaves, was not a sort of pact made then between the Children of the Stars and the Greenwood? The forest protects us and gives us life, were we not agreeing to do the same in turn? The Sylvan people have broken this covenant and abandoned the rest of Tawar!

"We are sundered from the bulk of the woods, no longer sending our soldiers to aid the woodsmen. We do not patrol the Dwarven Road and the Orcs multiply in the Central Mountains, while the spiders' venom grows more virulent and resists our healer's remedies!

"How long has it been since any travelled here from among Beorn's folk or from Rohan? Less and less do merchants from Lake Town brave the pathways we created through the trees to reach our city. Of journeys to Lorien, these grow ever rarer and even messengers seldom reach their destination intact.

"Indeed, are you aware that the elf-made byways are being twisted and rearranged to lead the unsuspecting directly into the lairs of the foul Orcs? You could not know, for no longer do the warriors safeguard the way!"

"Yet what would you have me do?" shouted the King. "We are fewer in numbers than before the Last Alliance and cannot allow the might of our warriors to be stretched out too thinly. Our first responsibility must be to safeguard our own, our families and our homes."

"Are these others not our own, also? Thus is accomplished the work of the Shadow, when the First Born forget their stewardship over these lands and withdraw the protection we alone can give!" Legolas shouted back.

"Here now, Tirno, that is a bit too harsh," it was the woodsman, interrupting the elves to smother the growing heat of their interchange. "None of that was where I was heading with my little explanation to the King. I only wanted him to see that he rules here while within the wider reaches of Tawar another may shepherd. I but wished to make plain that whatever elf may be heir to this Realm, you will always be our atheling."

In soundless wonder Legolas stared at the Man, for he had not foreseen this at all, nor did he consider himself their leader.

"Oh," he said awkwardly and chanced a rather befuddled glance at Fearfaron, who was grinning hugely at his son's discomfort over this avowal of confidence and trust.

"So, the outcast would still claim his former title after all," seethed Thranduil. "That I do name treason!"

"If that is traitorous then so is this very Council," fumed Iarwain. "May I remind you, Lord Thranduil, that it is Kingship which is new here. When Oropher came among us with his army, he might have tried to subdue our people with force, yet he did not even though confrontations did arise and blood was shed."

"This history lesson I need not!" barked Thranduil, red of face and so tense his furled fists looked as though the very bones of his hands must split through the skin. In these woods and among its foolish people, Thranduil had spilled some of that blood himself.

"It was agreed the Council would remain in authority over the issues of the spirit, and these include our part in the song of our forest," the Elder continued as though he did not notice the affect his remarks produced, "while your father would grant us the benefit of his military might and diplomatic acumen. We knew even in those days the Tawarwaith would arise among us, and instead of posing a threat to your dominion he would strengthen it, whatever title he might bear, even if it were an opprobrious one. If you have lamed your own charger, blame not the worthy stallion."

"Aye, he is our Tawarwaith," the Man summed up with a nod of his head and the Sylvan elves murmured their concurrence.

The King paced back and forth on the dais before the assembly, visibly disturbed and beyond anger, for the mention of the early days amid the Greenwood wrenched unpleasant memories to the fore of his thoughts.

The events played out before his eyes as though it was but yesterday that the trek from Beleriand was completed. His party had been stopped as they came under the trees for their group was separated from the main body of the Sinda host. An elf had given birth on the journey and had need of a slower pace. The youngest son of Oropher and a small contingent of warriors provided the family's escort and protection. The Wood Elves were armed and requested Thranduil give answer for their trespass.

It had just been a misunderstanding. He had spoken too hastily, too harshly, and ordered the archers to put down their weapons, believing his father had already encountered these Sylvans and arranged safe passage. Thranduil had become angry when they refused, insisting his party halt until they could get news to their elders. As he urged his horse to continue forward in defiance of their demands, one of the archers released a warning shot. It embedded in the trunk of a tree behind his head, but to his warriors it must have seemed he was doomed. One of his spearmen loosed his long lance into the leaves and brought down the Wood Elf, dead.

Of course this spawned retaliatory arrow fire and the Sinda soldier fell instantly. The whole situation spun out of control. The Sindar learned the skill of the Sylvan archers and the advantage of the branches, for in seconds Thranduil had lost three worthy fighters, including a cousin by blood. The son of Oropher took an arrow through his shoulder and skewered the leg of the elf that dared wound him, using the spear yanked from the body of the first casualty to do it.

He had never thought to see an elf kill another elf. He had never imagined he would try to do so himself and the event sickened him, emotionally and physically.

The same effect could be seen to take hold of the Sylvan eldar, for they also ceased warring and simply disappeared among the leaves, not even taking the body of their dead comrade away, an unholy keening dirge flowing from their souls as they left.

Thranduil did not know then that the surviving Sylvan warriors had taken their own lives. It was long centuries before this information was learned, and by that time his hatred for the Wood Elves had solidified in his embittered soul. They were kin-slayers, that which he most despised. Even worse, they had shown him that this capability lay dormant within himself.

And buried deep in a shielded fortress in his inner heart was the knowledge that the Sindar had made the first kill, and that he had caused this.

"Then, it will please you to understand that our King has pledged his assistance to the Tawarwaith in his undertakings to rid the Greenwood of the Shadow's grasp," Iarwain filled in the growing void in order to prevent Thranduil from exploding, for the restless Sinda certainly looked on the verge of some terrible outburst.

Hearing this, Thranduil turned his chilling disgust upon the eldest councillor. Plainly enough he could see this elf was attempting to goad him into losing control and further disgracing himself. He seeks to make me appear incompetent. Is he trying to capture his old place as the forest's leader? I should have thought to find the conspiracy involved Iarwain the friend of Oromë!

He could comprehend that the Elder had no need to seek the help of Elrond in this scheme. So blinded was Thranduil by his wrath towards the half-elf that any action against the Realm would rapidly be tied to the Elf Lord in some way. The King began to perceive how easy to predict his actions were, how simple it was to manipulate his thoughts. Unbidden, an image of Meril flooded his brain, but he swept it away impatiently.

What then of Elrond, for he is mixed in some how.

Still Iarwain would not be able to engineer the events at Erebor singly. Affairs of state were handled exclusively by the Sindar. There were no Sylvan captains, only warriors, archers, spear bearers and swordsmen. The Council did not even have a say in whether or no their Realm would go to war.

Iarwain is an opportunist! This rift is his chance to weaken the throne and wrest control of the Woodlands from Oropher's line.

While this reasoning did not help explain the Peredhel's activities or the connection to Erebor, it did underscore Thranduil's initial impression of his discarded heir. The outcast was merely a tool in skilful hands, a chisel employed by a devious artist to sculpt a new fate for the Woodland elves.

Nay, not a tool but a weapon designed for one target alone. In my disgust for Ningloriel's progeny I am even more predictable and easily riled to rage. Recognising this fuelled the King to indignant wrath and he decided that a weapon could be wielded by whatever hand took it up.

"So I did pronounce!" he stated loudly and abruptly stepped down from the dais. During his silent brooding the room had begun humming with excited, subdued arguing over the mood of the King, and his sudden action made everyone hush as all eyes riveted upon the Sinda Lord.

In two long strides he was standing right in front of Legolas, staring hard into the surprised and edgy countenance of the wild elf. Thranduil stood a head taller and his more substantial frame obscured the accused from the rest of the gathered elves, wizards, and Men in the centre of the chamber. He was so close he could see the flecks of gold within the blue irises, which shrank away to narrow rims of navy blue as the pupils dilated in response to this threat.

His actions had been too swift for any to intervene. As he had moved forward the nervous woodsman had retreated to Aragorn's side and only Lindalcon remained by Legolas to lend support. The younger elf was nearly trembling as he gripped tightly to the wild elf's arm and Thranduil watched the outcast attempt to calm his sworn brother with an answering squeeze to his hand.

"How can I fulfil that oath when you place yourself with outlanders and give them aid? What happened, Tawarwaith? How came you under the influence of those Noldor? What made you trust them?" The King's quietly uttered questions were such a startling contrast to the menace presented by his physical proximity that it was far more effective than shouted threats would have been.

Legolas opened his mouth and shut it; stunned and unable at first to make any thoughts come forward in a coherent pattern that could actually be expressed. He swallowed and blinked under the stern and searching gaze upon him, exasperated that Thranduil could still reduce him to internal quaking like some callow elfling. He shifted his head to try and find Fearfaron's eyes.

"Speak," demanded the King, but his voice was calm, for he had noted that the fallen archer sought out the carpenter and not Iarwain.

"I will answer!" replied Erestor, very afraid that Thranduil was prepared to do some physical harm to Legolas. He stepped up and reached for the wild prince, pulling him back from under the Sinda Lord's very breath while his hand found its place on the hilt of his sword.

At the same time, Legolas pushed Lindalcon away towards Fearfaron, and Valtamar's son did not need more encouragement to remove himself from the confrontation. He found a spot next to Aiwendil, and the two exchanged their worry for their friend in grim glances.

"Lies and deceit, these are the methods we used to gain his trust. But understand this, Legolas was never an accomplice to our plots."

"Erestor of Imladris, why should I hear you or believe any words you say?" answered Thranduil, but he had not removed his eyes from Legolas and willed the fallen archer to meet his stare. "If he is not your cohort, what have you made this journey to salvage?" Thranduil could hear Legolas' disturbed breathing in the soundless pause that followed these words. Does he fear the Noldo will reply with a lover's declaration?

"Friendship," responded Erestor with sombre remorse and sorrow in his tones.

Then the Tawarwaith's gaze did flicker away in pained dismay to dart over the Noldo's face before finding the floor and then returning to bravely stare back at the Woodland ruler. With the briefest lift of his left brow Thranduil acknowledged both the strength that required and the distress the wild elf tried, but failed, to disguise as anger.

"I do not think you have shown such regard to any citizen of these lands," remarked the King sardonically. "Nor have you explained why you are here, why you practised this deceit."

"I know something of it!" called out the woodsman.

"So you have said," interjected Iarwain. "Please tell us what occurred." He did not like this change in Thranduil's behaviour. The Council was his domain.

"Yes, human, give us your evidence!" commanded the King loudly but never turned from the forest champion.

"Our village was attacked by the Dark Lord in a curse of heaving ground and falling trees!" the woodsman's words tumbled out in fluid rush of anxious syllables. "Many were injured and Tirno brought the Noldor in, for one was a healer. And the healer went about by the name Erestor, which I heard you call this one here, while he was known to us as Berenaur. So Tirno called them and Radagast too, and we thought nothing about it.

"We were grateful for the help, until it was made clear those two had harmed our atheling somehow," added the woodsman with another disparaging look at the advisor. "Aiwendil and the Elder had everyone running round keeping sure Tirno was not ever alone with either of them."

"Indeed!" Thranduil at last relinquished Legolas from his compelling glare and turned a most unpleasant scowl upon the Brown wizard. "You certainly were aware of who they were yet you did nothing. You kept their secret! Why did you not send word to me of this invasive element in my Realm?"

"I am not your subject," warned the Istar. "Even so, had your lands been under any threat from the Imladrians, I would have done. My concern was for Legolas and the suffering humans. Admittedly, I failed my friend. Long will I regret it! Yet despite their subterfuge and his own reduced state, Elrond could not make Legolas speak against his own.

"Many were the charges the Noldo Lord laid upon your name, Thranduil, yet Tirno would not allow a single one to pass unchallenged. They assumed those identities, realising he would have acted differently were it clear he beheld the Lord of Imladris and his right hand. Their efforts were for nought; no ally did they win."

"Used!" said Thranduil to Legolas, the single word packed with scornful pity. "By this I take it to mean you would not have bedded them had you comprehended that one was, according to your understanding, your own father."

A spasm ran over the wild elf's frame and involuntarily he shook his head as if to displace the ugly image from its well-seated niche in his reality.

"Enough!" thundered Mithrandir, advancing to confront the King. Thranduil ignored him and held the Tawarwaith's gaze.

"You aided them; they exploited you. Would you have been more ready to become Elrond's spy had he approached you honestly? If he had not sought to possess your body, might he have been able to gain your heart?"

He could see that those words hurt, for the fallen warrior physically winced and grew as pale as the mist rising over the river at dawn.

But as Thranduil watched Legolas shed the clinging calumny of his defilement and the dynamic force of the Forest Spirit gained dominance in his soul. His countenance took on an expression the King found unsettling in its familiarity. With a jaw tightening surge of obstinate temerity the Tawarwaith drew his lips into a firmly compressed line and directed a fiery glance upon the wizard that halted him in mid-step. Simultaneously everything in the whole forest stopped. Thranduil found that even he was holding his breath. The blue rage returned to the wild elf's eyes and they refocused on the Wood Elves' Lord.

"I would never betray Tawar regardless of who holds my heart, and no enemy of my Greenwood could ever do so!" his statement was clear and none hearing it would doubt the verity of those words.

A small smile upended the corners of Thranduil's lips as he regained his respiration and nodded slightly. Likewise, the assembly relaxed and a low murmur rippled through the room.

"Nasan [It is so]," he said quietly and returned to his place upon the dais.

"I withdraw the charge of treason from the Tawarwaith. Let our history show that even under severe duress the outcast held true. The fault lies elsewhere," with these words Thranduil let his icy glare travel from the face of Erestor to that of the eldest Elder, there to remain.

"So noted!" intoned the Councillor of Record, and thus was the final charge voided.

Tbc


	54. Chapter 54

Prestad Dhaer vi Eregion Dithen [Big Trouble in Little Eregion (aka Imladris)]

The flaring highlights of crimson and gold streaking across the cloud coated sky had given way to deep rich maroon and smoky purple as Anor travelled ever farther from Arda's view. The air attained that strange property of near-substance only found at the changing of night and day, whether the transition followed the ending hours of Arien's tour or prefaced the initial minutes of Tilion's watch. Too bright yet for any star but Eärendil to be seen yet also more dim than necessary for accurate perception, all the outlines and details softened and merged just slightly under the gauzy character of the encroaching darkness.

The colours of nature turned murkier and even the water pouring over the rim of the canyon appeared as if composed of molten lead rather than the more familiar liquid mithril hue seen by day. Soon, Bruinen would turn black struck through with wild and jagged cracks of sheen once Ithil stood fully revealed and Varda's gifts glinted in chilly reserve behind him. Upon the half-lit height amid the misted wind the Lord of Imladris and the Hero of Gondolin faced one another. 

At dusk on the day before the convening of the Council of Erebor, the pair remained motionless in silent opposition upon the path before the clamorous turbulence of the plunging stream, the Balrog slayer not budging while the glowering countenance of his Lord wordlessly demanded he do so at once.

Elrond was not about to make any reference to the solitary sexual interlude his Master-at-Arms had witnessed, and was fairly certain Glorfindel would never do so either.

"Stand aside, Glorfindel! I have business to attend," the Elf Lord finally growled tersely when their stalemate was several minutes old.

"It is true, yet I believe it would be best to deal with it here first, before others learn of this."

"By all means, let Gildor and Lindir manage this problem, unless you have more exploding livestock to report. That might be worthy of my attention! Clear the path and see me in the study if you have something to say."

"I will speak now!" the Vanya warrior argued and took a step toward the Lord of Imladris. "Two documents have arrived from Mirkwood, of such importance the messenger would not turn back even when wounded unto death. She has perished to bring these tidings hence. Will you view these documents in privacy before I present them to the elves of Imladris?" For added emphasis the inveterate soldier held up the parchment scrolls the Elf Lord had failed to notice in his hands before.

Upon hearing such words, Elrond's mouth went dry and his heart rate thudded, spurred to an irregular tattoo by the fist of dread that slammed his gut. He did not want anyone to gain insight into his deeds and the confusion of emotions these had caused within his soul. He held his tongue and met his old friend's eyes reluctantly, unable to summon up a fitting rejoinder.

"In light of the name you shouted just moments ago and its connection to your unexplained disappearance, I suggest you read these," reiterated Glorfindel and thrust the letters against his Lord's chest with sufficient vehemence in the gesture to cause Elrond to falter. The loremaster had to grab Glorfindel's wrist to steady himself.

Elrond should not have been surprised to learn that his comrade had surmised where he had been, but the open announcement of this fact was nonetheless a bit unnerving. He accepted the parchments and Glorfindel pulled away his hand but not his gaze, compelling the Elf Lord to open the missives and reveal the contents.

With a sour scowl the Keeper of Vilya did so, breaking the warrior's stare to sunder the seal of the King of the Woodland Realm. In silence he read and his brows quirked up in surprise as a lopsided smirk bent his mouth into an unappealing expression of contempt.

"It is a birth announcement!" he said with scorn. "Apparently, Lord Thranduil has got himself a legitimate heir." He handed the paper over to his companion with a sniff of disgust. "Though that is debatable since he is not bonded to the female by any rites we would recognise here."

Glorfindel took and scanned the document, and his smile was not bitter or rancorous but genuine in his goodwill for the little prince. He was of the opinion that this nativity would provide a steadying influence on the Sinda Lord, long tormented by the shadow cast upon his first heir by Ningloriel's adulterous behaviour. Indeed, the announcement was written in Thranduil's own hand and while the words were formal some sense of his exuberance managed to show forth in the very shape and flare of the script itself.

In his appreciation of these glad tidings, Glorfindel missed the look of horror that swept over Elrond's features upon learning the subject of the second message. An inarticulate cry of wrath yanked the warrior's attention back to the legendary loremaster, who was now pacing to and fro upon the ledge in furious agitation, clenching the parchment tightly in his fist.

"What is it?" demanded Glorfindel.

"Read for yourself!" shouted Elrond and flung the paper away from him. It spun on the air a moment before settling into the damp dirt and curling up at the Noldo's feet. "I will not be so accused, like some common spy. How dare they make this declaration official, without even trying to ascertain the validity of such a claim?"

Now Glorfindel was alarmed and hastily retrieved this scroll from the mud. In trepidation he began reading and a sharp gasp escaped him ere he had finished half the words. His eyes darted to Elrond, still striding the measure of the stony shelf, before returning to complete his scrutiny of the letter's contents. Though not recorded in Thranduil's hand, the manuscript was officially from the King of the Woodland Realm, his signature and seal affixed upon it. Penned by some scribe under the direction of the Head Councillor for the Sylvan folk, one Iarwain the Elder, it was attested by an additional dignitary. The content could not have been more serious had it been a proclamation of war.

"To the people of Imladris, Realm of the remnant Noldor from Beleriand, Lindon, and Eregion, to the residing Council of Government among this population, and to the Lord of these lands:

"Long have the Sylvan people of the Teleri resided among the boughs and bolls of the Greenwood north of Anduin, free of subjugation by any Dark power, content to serve Tawar. Since the Great Journey have we dwelt here according to our own ways and beliefs, centuries before Doriath arose, millennia before the foundation of Nargothrond, Ages prior to the settlement of Eregion and the subsequent retreat of the Noldor to Imladris.

"Ever have we respected the sovereignty of these younger nations, be they short lived or long, and expected the same in return from the inhabitants of those lands. Yeah, at tremendous cost in precious life, the Wood Elves agreed to add our numbers to the might of the eldar in the Last Alliance. Our losses then never precipitated any reaction from this Realm, for such is war and none could lay blame upon any one country or people.

"Yet now the just wrath of the Greenwood must be acknowledged, for we have been trespassed, invaded in secret without cause, as though we were a colony of Mordor, from among the First Born of Imladris.

"We formally charge Elrond, Lord of Imladris, and Erestor of Gondolin, seneschal to Imladris, with subversive activity within our borders. Without the consent of King or Council, these elves journeyed to the southern regions of Greenwood, there to seek the abetting aid of an outcast under Judgement from our Laws. The purpose of said alliance, while unclear, by its character must be injurious to our Realm.

"Let it be revealed to the Noldor of the Hidden Vale that an answer must be made and redress exacted for this gross affront. A response is demanded forthwith in the form of the accused conspirators' appearance before the King of the Woodland Realm and the Council of the Greenwood, along with any witnesses pertinent to the events. Given the nature of the rising population of Orcs within the Misty Mountains, the indicted may be accompanied by a contingent of armed warriors from a Realm other than Imladris as protection and safeguard.

"A formal reply is required within one cycle of Ithil, counted from the first Gwain Ithil [New Moon] following this document's arrival.

"So Charged,  
"Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm

"So Witnessed,  
"Iarwain Oromëndil [Eldest, Friend of Oromë], Principal Councillor of the Greenwood

"So Noted,  
"Fêrlass [Beech-tree Leaf], Councillor of Record."

The statement was brief and took less time to read than that required for consuming an apple to its core, yet the worthy re-born elda gazed for several minutes in numb denial at what he held in his hands. He must have reread the words a dozen times before the shock wore off, shoved from his mind by a searing surge of anger.

This was no empty ploy at revenge by a cuckolded husband! This was a serious accusation and only grief could come of it, whether it was proved or disproved, for now a deeper chasm must yawn between the elven realms on either side of the Misty Mountains. He turned to Elrond, who had stopped pacing and was staring out over the valley beyond the falls.

"What is this!" shouted Glorfindel. "What exactly does this mean, Elrond?"

"Betrayal!" raged the Elf Lord, rounding on his old friend in a frenzy of seething fury, fingers fisted and visage twisted into such an expression of wrathful indignation that the Balrog Slayer fell back a step. "You wished to know where Erestor is?" Elrond continued. "Here is your answer! He has betrayed Imladris, all for the pleasures of bedding a low-born, bastard, Wood Elf trollop!" 

"You cannot expect me to accept such an explanation! I have been Erestor's friend longer than I have been yours. No elf is truer to Imladris save only yourself!" he bellowed, for he had fought beside and died to ensure that Erestor and their remaining warriors brought to safety the progenitor of the elf before him.

"Ah! Then what would you believe Glorfindel? Tell me to my face what you suspect instead of speculating secretly and spying on me in private." Elrond advanced to within less than a foot of the noble warrior and glared defiantly into the cobalt blue eyes of the Vanya elda.

With admirable restraint Glorfindel kept his ire under control as his chest heaved with the effort to vent the excessive heat gathering in his heart upon receiving such a challenge. As though I am at fault!

"So be it!" he snarled. "I think it is you who has become enamoured of this outcast elf. Do you deny it? Empty your pockets of those trinkets! Cast them over the falls and prove me wrong!"

The Lord of Imladris glared in livid outrage upon this utterance, lips agape and eyes narrowed, yet without his conscious knowledge one fist opened and dived down into the silken velvet robe to protectively encase the tokens of his obsession in a concealing clasp.

"You dare speak such words to me, whom you are sworn to serve until I depart for Aman?" his incredulously mocking tone rang out over the thundering rush of the Bruinen's voice and he shook his head, loosing a scathing lash of laughter upon his trusted friend.

"Aye, I dare it!" retorted Glorfindel, hiding the wound forming in his soul to hear his noble colleague belittle his concerns and ridicule his loyalty. "It is because of that oath that I do so, even if you fail to see this. Look to your hand, Elrond, for there the truth is shown," and he pointed to the hidden appendage. Observing Elrond's startled jerk as he comprehended what his body was doing, quite on its own, Glorfindel was moved to pity for his friend's plight. "Shed this obscene desire; throw away those keepsakes! By Namo, that is your lover's child, probably your own!" 

"That spawn is no seed of mine," hissed Elrond. "Whatever you may think, I am not so base as to bed a child of my loins."

Now it was Glorfindel's turn to stand with mouth hanging and eyes glazed in denial. For Elrond to have harboured feelings of lascivious cupidity toward his former mistress' child, mooning and masturbating over stolen mementoes, was horrendous enough. The Balrog Slayer had not allowed himself to imagine what the Elf Lord's words suggested. He held up his hands in front of him as if to fend off some crowding miasma and violently shook his head, eyes pleading with his comrade. "Tell me you did not take him in your lust and grief for Ningloriel?"

The dark, empty eyes of Eärendíl's son revealed the futility of such a hope and at last Elrond admitted his deception and possession of the wild elf, telling the tale in a voice devoid of emotion, flat and unadorned with any kind of remorseful overtones.

"Ai! Valar!" The Balrog Slayer was overcome with revulsion for what Elrond had done and grabbed the Elf Lord's arms, shaking him roughly in the futility of his anger and the widening rift between them. "What manner of elf are you to conceive and then enact such a hideous crime? What of Legolas? Does he survive it?"

And at that Elrond's eyes blazed back to life and he pulled free of the warrior's grasp, shoving his Master-at-Arms back from him with wild ferocity.

"You need not fear! He was quite healthy when last I saw him, fucking Erestor for all he was worth. For that bit of Nandorin arse our esteemed colleague has abandoned his lands and people, his bond mates and his friends. Erestor remains in the Greenwood to succour his lover."

"How so? What are you talking about?"

"Apparently, the wanton profligate has been in a long-term affair with Maltahondo, also his mother's lover and the most likely candidate for fathering the bastard. It seems he was unaware of that little titbit of information and Erestor inadvertently revealed it. He fled into the wilds, overcome with despair, according to our seneschal."

"Nay! Nay, that is horrible! How can any of this be happening? Valar! Consumed by a fit of jealousy, you left them both to their dooms. Elrond! You must wake from this black dream!" Glorfindel knew not what to do; were this any other save his Lord he would have expelled him from Rivendell at once, so unthinkable was the behaviour described.

But this was the Loremaster of Imladris. He was bound to serve this elf and up until now had been proud to do so. That made the revelations so much more foul and the desire to find some reasonable explanation stronger. Is it grief, centuries of it, layer added to layer, with the Woodland Queen's abandonment the crushing lamination? With a sinking soul the warrior perceived it did not matter, the cause of such behaviour, for the impact this news would have upon the younger generation of the Mariner's line would be no less devastating if some excuse could be named. All at once his body refused to stay upright and Glorfindel slumped upon the rocks, holding his head in his hands as though to stop the whirling thoughts within it.

"Mayhap it is time to put away Vilya from your person, for you are much changed in nature of late, and I am beyond understanding it," he mumbled half to himself.

"This has nothing to do with Vilya. There is no power of evil within the elven rings, Glorfindel, and well do you know it."

"Do I? Whence, then, comes the strength of those singular adornments? From Celebrimbror, their maker or perhaps from the wearers?"

"Nay, that is not the way of it. Only the Dark One's ring is imbued with his living essence. The elven rings draw upon the Music of Arda herself and of the Valar."

"I am not convinced that is so," Glorfindel sounded defeated, "for something has altered your normal behaviour. I only comprehend that you did not consider anyone else in all of this plotting. How will you face your children? What words will you speak to Erestor's bond-mates? Can you explain this to our people? Is there no sorrow within you for the torment you have inflicted on the unsuspecting Wood Elf?" With this series of queries Glorfindel drew a long sigh and looked at his friend, finding instead an elf he knew not at all. 

The warrior's questions at last broke through the Noldo's veneer of wounded pride and self-centred indignation over his own suffering as he envisioned his family torn apart. If word of his actions reached his children, the shame and humiliation they must endure due to his selfishness would be a punishment unto itself and a torment upon his soul. How would he bear to look his son's in the eyes? What would he behold upon Arwen's features when she learned of this?

They will despise me, and rightly so. Their own reputations will be tainted by my deeds. Their hearts will break, for I abandoned them to chase after that immoral slut.

"Eru forgive me! They must not suffer because of my weakness," he howled in impotent fury. "We must find a way to stop this public trial. Would that I had never seen Ningloriel! May that accursed hecilo harvest the fruition of his grief. I hope he ends up in Dol Guldur!"

At this pronouncement Glorfindel leaped to his feet again, not truly believing his ears as he approached Elrond with speed and power usually reserved for beheading Orcs, landing a solid blow upon the Elf Lord's face that sent him sprawling into the dirt. Elrond gaped at him in stunned disbelief.

"I do not know this Legolas, but even so I have heard from your own lips that you manipulated and took advantage of him, for he did not recognise who you were. How then does the fault lie there? He deserves not the greater cruelty found in those dread dungeons. Look to yourself for blame in this endeavour! No Wood Elf has crossed our borders and seduced you."

Now it was Glorfindel who paced across the ledge, muttering to himself and twisting his hands together as though he needed to give them something to do other than strangling his Lord.

Elrond spat blood upon the ground. With a sharp groan and a flick of his tongue he dislodged a molar from his mouth to land in his lap. Gingerly he felt along his jaw, searching for any break, and was glad to note only a very large contusion forming. He watched his Master-at-Arms silently, and rubbed his cheek as he reflected on the morning's events. In a strange way, the blow jarred his reason and he was able to perceive the results of his little game more clearly. He winced, not from the bruising of his flesh so much as from abhorrence for the view of himself through Glorfindel's perspective. He drew a heavy breath and exhaled it filled with the tangy stench of the iron rich fluid still pooling from the tooth's empty socket.

"I am disgraced, and you are correct; the cause is my own folly. Eru help me, I am in love with that elf," he admitted quietly and dared not look up to see what new punishment this would bring forth from his loyal retainer.

"Love?" came the incredulous retort. "Elrond, whatever is in your heart it is not anything akin to that! If you care about Legolas, you must drive out this unhealthy fantasy of ever owning him. Given the charges from the Woodland Realm, he must understand by now who has used him, that is if he is yet alive." The Balrog Slayer advanced to stand before his Lord and held out his hand to help him back up to his feet. Somehow he must salvage his Lord; too many depended on him to just let him fall.

Elrond accepted the assistance wordlessly.

"If you wish truly to make amends for your actions, you will have to face them openly. We cannot finagle a secret settlement with the Woodland King, for we both appreciate he will not be appeased until he has brought you down. He would only reveal such manoeuvring in order to cast further shame upon you. Any hope for reclaiming the esteem you have thus far enjoyed depends solely on your true contrition.

"And you must find the strength to redeem yourself. You have a responsibility to your family and to our people. Start by relinquishing those objects you have kept, the fetishes of your unclean lust. You must ask forgiveness, not from Eru but from those you do love, and most of all from the one you have wronged. You must plead for pardon from Thranduil and his Council, also. You will have to go to Mirkwood."

In wordless dread Elrond stared at Glorfindel, for only in the hearing of those words did he at last come to comprehension of the inevitability of his disgrace. The power to halt this lay not in his hands, but in those of the one elf he most despised. The Lord of Imladris had the unpleasant realisation that he had given over control of the situation of his own free will the moment he had composed that expose of his brief affair with Legolas. In blossoming panic he rejected this knowledge.

"I will not go to the Woodland Realm and stand before their Sinda Lord for punishment! I am Thranduil's better in both lineage and character. We must have the charges redressed in Lorien."

"That may not be possible," Glorfindel shook his head firmly. "At any rate, it matters little in what location this remediation occurs. It must be done and your remorse must be genuine."

"And if I endure this public humiliation and submit to whatever concession Thranduil requires, this will remedy my sullied character?"

"I believe so, given time, if it is honestly desired and you accept gracefully and contritely whatever penalties arise," encouraged Glorfindel, not quite certain if he did believe it, desperately hoping Elrond would not ask forgiveness from him, for he knew he could not grant it. Not yet. "Can you face these things in yourself and unburden your spirit from this affliction? You must make the decision now; either withdraw your hand and dispose of those tokens or seek a remedy for this ill news without my counsel." 

Slowly Elrond withdrew his hand from the hidden pocket and held it between them as he forced his fingers to relinquish their steely grip, opening his palm to the darkening sky. There resting upon the smooth, unlined skin of the healer's hand was the evidence that condemned him, reduced him to a gross caricature of the reputed honour and revered wisdom he had spent so many centuries acquiring.

Such small things to bear witness to so monumental a failure. How did it come to this?

Yet he could not make himself toss the bits of stuff away, and shook with the effort not to curl his fingers back over the humble objects. A strangled sob escaped him as Glorfindel snatched up the arrowhead and the lock of hair and with a shout of virulent fervour flung them into the foaming fury of the falls.

It took all his legendary strength of will and cool-headed resolve to prevent himself from sending the Lord of Imladris after them. With a rough shove the Balrog Slayer directed Elrond to the pathway and they descended to meet with their councillors.

Half way down Glorfindel groaned aloud and came to a stand still as a most unpleasant idea formed in his brain. Elrond turned a questioning expression upon him and waited.

"Elrond, has Galadriel attempted to reach you through Ósanwë-cento [mind-speak]?" he demanded.

"Nay. Why? I contacted her as soon as you told me about Elladan and Elrohir's journey; she will tell them I am here and safe when they arrive in Lorien even as she reassures me that they are unharmed." He paused. "She knows nothing of these events; I merely indicated I was detained and have at last returned."

"I see," You lied, in other words. "I am pleased she will ease the twins' worry but I am wondering now if she might have other news to share also."

Tbc


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you missed the chapter "Pondering Difficulties…" that is where we learn about Elrond's family abode in Lorien, in case you were wondering. Due to error on my part, that chapter was missing from the initial list on some sites! It is an important chapter, as it sets the stage for Elrond and Erestor's plotting and gives us the background on Erestor's personal situation.
> 
> Also, it is important for me to stress that the jump in time at this middle of this chapter is intentional. As soon as you read Galadriel's reply, "I will look, if that will grant you ease.", know that reality becomes suspended and we see what the Mirror reveals to the Lady of Light. As to whether her vision is a true prediction of future events or not, even she does not know. I do, but am not about to reveal that!

Tiriathach? [Will You Look?]

Namië and Nirmë cantered under the boughs of the first scattered clusters of Mellyrn trees, crossing the unmarked borders of the Golden Wood just as Anor passed her zenith on the day of the convening of the Council of Erebor. Splashing noisily through the shallow ford of the Nimrodel and into the shelter of the elysian weald, the stallions carried themselves with intrepid daring, necks arched imperiously, manes adorned in tri-toned streamers undulating with the rhythm of their waltzing gait. Bright in the subdued gilded glimmer of the woods shone the white stars upon their brows, for their forelocks were trimmed short between pertly pointed ears trained first ahead, then behind, then side to side, and back again.

The lyrical jingle of the rings of mithril mail upon their legs sang an understated and soothing melody fair to discern by all save Orcs, for whom the sound was a precursor to death, and upon the faintest tinkling of the silvery links the demons fled in terror. If today the ringling song had the air of a jaunty jig hidden in its bell-toned resonance that was to be expected. Any hint of fatigue the long journey may have given the horses was forgotten; they were at home on familiar paths and their spirits rose in anticipation of green hay and a thorough rubdown.

Into the Naith of Lorien, single-file, rode Elladan and Elrohir, youngest leading, oldest guarding the rear, unchallenged and unchecked as only Lords of the land would do, black hair lifting and tumbling behind them in the play of the gentle breeze, long cloaks flowing down their backs to drape upon the chargers' flanks. The song of a lark preceded them, clear notes flying ahead up high in the branches, proclaiming their approach. The twins smiled for no bird's calls were these, they knew, but rather the clever signals of the Galadhrim heralding the return of their Lady's kin.

The brothers steadied their eager mounts as the war-steeds headed with graceful purpose straight to the opulent talan of Elrond of Imladris. There Elladan drew abreast of Elrohir as the stallions slowed to a trot and then halted next the winding white stair at the mighty tree's base. In synchrony the pair dismounted, slipping to the ground on opposite sides of the horses, and each gave a playful tousle to the up-pricked ears of their respective chargers, murmuring thanks and dismissing the equines to partake of much earned oats and grooming. A single glance conveyed between the twins how much they envied their four-footed friends, longing for the chance to be refreshed as well. They moved in accord to the stairway and raised their heads to gaze in loving welcome upon the elf awaiting there.

Descending down to meet them, long, delicate fingers of one hand trailing along the vine covered banister as the other held up the skirts of her gossamer gown, came Arwen their sister. Fair she was and legendary was the rumour of her beauty throughout the lands and while for many she was Úndomiel the Evenstar, remarkable for her resemblance to Tinuviel, her brothers knew better.

Dark were her long locks but not as black as the endless ebony the twins bore, for the golden light of Valinor danced among the gleaming strands worn loose and trailing far below her waist, for never had she cut it. Milky was the complexion of her skin and her cheeks were kissed with a perpetual bloom of rose. Full and coloured like a fine vintage wine, her lips were ever prepared to bless the world with smiles and sweet song, kind counsel and lively conversation. Eyes of hazelled brown might glitter in cautious appraisal or softly caress a careworn soul, yet sorrow veiled them always and a look of burdened weariness often flickered there beneath the perfection of her arched brows.

The same expression filled the twins' moonless midnight orbs now, for while those who knew only legends gazed at their sister and beheld Luthien reborn, to Elrohir and Elladan the likeness brought to mind was much dearer and closer to their hearts. For them, to look upon Arwen was to see the remembrance of Celebrian as she had been before the tragedy amid the snowy peaks of the High Pass, and it hurt.

In silence the trio stood still, attuned only to each other, to acknowledge it all. So perpetual was this anguish they endured, the sting of recognition and recollection within the brothers' hearts and betrayed within their eyes, the guilty apology for feeling that upon seeing her, the sorrow she harboured for instigating their less frequent visits to Lothlorien, their equal dismay for compelling her to remove to the Golden Wood thus to spare them the false image of their mother. Such a convoluted morass of emotions to confront upon what should have been a joyous reunion after a separation of over a hundred years.

Arwen's gaze, wet with dewy brilliance, darted to and fro between her brothers' and then in the same instant all three reached out and clasped one another, arms encircling, foreheads softly touching, lips bestowing kisses to six assorted cheeks blushed with high emotion. They broke apart with slender smiles and Arwen moved to ascend to the veranda but Elladan's finger touch upon her arm halted her and she knew there would be fresh woe to weather.

"Telim farol Adar," Elrohir said. [We come seeking Adar.]

"Úsí ho," answered Arwen. [He is not here.]

"Istam," Elladan spoke. [We know.]

"Man od Erestor?" asked the younger twin. [What of Erestor?]

"Gwann gochain," added Elladan, "aladtoll hain." [They left together but neither returned.]

"Údhartha ho vi Lorien," their sister calmly replied. "An altîw tollen o ti." [Nor is he in Lorien. And no letters from them have come.]

A minute meeting of eyes between the brothers was sufficient and they embraced her again, for she might be capable of hiding her fears from others but to them her terror was as a screaming gale whipping through their souls.

"Aderthatham na chain!" [We will be reunited with them] Elrohir whispered with dark and gritty vehemence and strode off to seek Orophin and Dambethnîn, hoping for some knowledge from the pair, confident he would meet his siblings later at their grandparents' talan, and thus they parted.

Arwen and Elladan briskly paced across the leaf lined pathway in agitated haste to reach the Lord and Lady's abode. They had no need to voice the grim truth of their history. Celebrian had been found and returned to the bosom of her family, but they had lost her nonetheless.

"We saw a messenger from Mirkwood; what word from the Sinda Lord?"

"I know not, the letters were not addressed to me. No doubt Miny'adar [First-father, grandfather (Quenya)] will tell us later if there is anything important. Miny'ammë [First-mom, grandma] just sent for me to bring you!"

"Perhaps she has news of our father?"

"The summons did not mention him."

They fell silent and soon the sound of racing feet could be heard approaching from behind. They stopped to allow their brother and Erestor's bond-mates to reach them. The two Galadhrim were plainly distraught, Orophin looking as though he had just returned from battle while Dambethnîn seemed prepared to start one. The cause of the disappearances they could not supply.

The five elves did not pause to discuss what none of them could answer and instead hastened to the Lord and Lady, hoping for some comforting reassurance that all was well, trying to strengthen their souls for the opposite report.

Galadriel was waiting for them on the stairway, anxiety and distress working her features into a pensive arrangement of tight lines, and Celeborn was no where to be seen. Without speaking, the noble Lady of Light turned and led the way up the long winding stair to the interior of her lofty rooms.

The dwelling was palatial and opulently but sparsely furnished. Unlike Imladris, Lorien had seen war and the ravaging tumult of Durin's Bane. Much had been lost, and in the face of grief over those First-born destroyed in that unholy massacre, Galadriel found personal possessions rather a poor compensation. She held, instead, to what memory provided, for this was a far richer background upon which to conduct her life than the accoutrements of pomp and power could ever be.

She welcomed them to her private suite, a wide and broad platform ringing the great tree, divided into discrete chambers by the placement of silk screens painted in her own hand with the scenes and landscapes of Aman and her life there. One of these smaller sections she had furnished as a comfortable study and within this the six collected.

The room was centred around a large wrought iron brazier that stood upon squat and sturdy legs, undoubtedly made by dwarven craftsmen, designed in the shape of an opening flower bud. Within the grate no fire burned, for it was yet too warm at summer's end to need one while the sun was high. Above the firetrap amid the overhanging branches an exquisitely worked circular mesh of mithril allowed smoke to pass from the enclosed space while preventing any stray cinder or spark from venturing up into the boughs.

The metallic gauze was as fine as spider silk, meticulously crafted beyond the skill of any dwarven smith, filled with a romantic splendour surpassing anything elven hands could create. It was said that the artefact was indeed taken from the loom of Vairë, a gift unto Galadriel when she departed with the host of the Noldor. Within the pattern of the woven metal the Vala had worked an intriguing spiral of integrated symbols, emblems, likenesses and words. Yet gazing upon it but once and returning later, one would not see the same design, for the elements within the utilitarian object realigned as some things faded while others moved to greater prominence. The few privileged to view this object were awed to comprehend that this work of art was in truth Galadriel's own life foretold within the subtly shifting, shimmery strands.

Beneath the iron fire berth the smooth sanded wooden floor was carefully protected from the drying heat and scorching embers. A wide round hearth of kiln-cooked tiles, a metre's diameter, graced the planks. Just beneath and out to the perimeter of the grate the tiles were unfinished and unadorned, serving their function without additional ornamentation, revealing the beauty of the deep blue clay from which they were created. Beyond this distance each of the ceramic squares was glazed pure white and in letters of gold the genealogy of the Noldo queen was recorded, worked out from her earliest kin near the centre and reaching almost to the edges of the circle. At this outermost rim were blank white tiles, waiting to be taken up and inscribed when the next generation of the bloodline would be born.

Grouped around the brazier was a ring of low, footed divans, luxuriously upholstered in damasked satin dyed a shade of blue seen only in the unending ice of Helcaraxë. These seats were sumptuously ample and two could easily sit with comfort while one could lounge in relaxed delight. Between these benches and the grate were three arcuate tables constructed of the salvaged wood of fallen Mellyrn. Of a height to accommodate the graceful couches, the legs of these stands were carved into openwork filigree such that the supports seemed more like an interlocking puzzle of river reeds than solid lumber.

With a graceful gesture of her long fingers Galadriel bade them be seated as she walked to a cabinet near the tree's trunk and began preparing refreshment. She returned to them bearing a silver tray, and upon it was a sapphire coloured long-necked decanter filled with dark lilac liquid, cups, and two rolled parchment scrolls. She set this down and surveyed her guests carefully, hands clasped lightly at waist level before her.

Elladan and Elrohir were seated side by side, palm against palm with fingers entwined to form a single tight fist that rested on Elladan's left knee. Orophin and Dambethnîn occupied another seat, arms wrapped all around each other as Dambethnîn rested her forehead upon her beloved's shoulder. Arwen sat alone, straight-backed and deadly pale, while restless fingers fidgeted in her lap worrying the fabric of her skirt. Galadriel went to sit beside her and encircled her granddaughter with a comforting arm as she smoothed her hair back behind her ears.

"There is little need to tell you the news is not of joy for our family, our people," she began and Dambethnîn sobbed. "Peace, they are both alive and relatively unharmed!" she added hastily and everyone's shoulders lifted and fell in relieved exhalations.

"That is well, yet much sorrow covers your reassurance, Miny'ammë!" coaxed Elrohir. "Please, it is best not to drag it out."

"I hear you, Inyo," [grandson] Galadriel smiled sadly and bowed her head in assent. Yet she reached out and poured everyone a portion of the violet wine before she would continue. When all held a cup, she lifted hers and met each set of eyes firmly. "Valar Valuvar!" [The will of the Valar be done!] she said and drank. The others murmured the prayer automatically and likewise sipped, except for Elladan who quietly set his cup back on the table, stubborn defiance written upon his tense features.

Galadriel sighed and reached for the papers.

"Here are two messages carried to us from Mirkwood. The first does not affect us overly much yet it is still worthy of notice. Eru has blessed the Woodland King with a new heir to replace the disgraced prince."

Instantly Elrohir snatched at the paper she was holding up and opened it out, a look of dismay on his fine features.

"Though that defeats any hope of re-instating the first-born child, perhaps it is not so unkind a fate. From the portents I have seen, the archer was never destined to rule the Greenwood as its King. He was meant for something else, and I cannot tell if his fall has taken that future from him or no. It is the other document which must concern us here."

So saying she read aloud the contents of the letter, a duplicate of that sent to Imladris. In silence her words hung over them as each tried to make themselves believe the sentences she had just spoken.

"That is…that is simply not possible! Adar would not be so foolish," blustered Elladan finally, his face growing dark in his rising wrath. "That Sinda has ever sought to find blame for the failings of his House by pointing to ours."

"Nay, brother, it is true," countered Elrohir calmly. "Ada had to go, do you not see? Ningloriel left. She abandoned Legolas to that dread Judgement! Ada went to ensure his well-being and to bring him out of there if he might."

"Enough of that, Elrohir! The archer is no kin of ours nor of any importance to Adar," Arwen's words were scathingly sharp and brittle.

Her brother stiffened at her hostility and Elladan squeezed his shoulder in soothing consolation as they shared their silent sorrow for the stubbornness of her spirit.

"What of Erestor? How was he involved in this? Where is he, my Lady?" pleaded Orophin.

"I know not the details of this undertaking, but can deduce that he was acting as Elrond's accomplice and second. However, I believe they are now parted. Elrond has contacted me and is back in Imladris but made no mention of his seneschal. Erestor is not with him."

Orophin groaned. He and Dambethnîn folded in upon each other in their distress.

"Have you spoken to Adar again since receiving these?" asked Arwen. "What does he say of Erestor? Does he know of the accusation yet?"

"I have informed him of Elladan and Elrohir's safe arrival, for he requested such some days ago without mentioning why they would be searching for him. Other than acknowledge my communication, he has ignored all my questions and locked me from his thoughts."

Elladan got up with a small exclamation of frustrated disgust and walked out to the edge of the balcony beyond the silk enclosure. Elrohir joined him and the two communed exclusively for a time.

"I do not like this," said Dambethnîn between her quiet sniffles. "If Erestor is not at Imladris, where is he? That document does not indicate he is in custody, does it? Is he in Thranduil's dungeons?"

"Valar! They would not put one of the First-born in those cells, surely." Orophin stated, but his tone revealed his lack of certainty for the claim. He knew not what to expect of a King who would condemn his own son based on battlefield errors made upon the chances of war.

"Nay, he will be fine," Galadriel assured him warmly. "I believe the real target of this charge is Elrond, and if Erestor is in Mirkwood he will be accorded proper respect. Thranduil does not use the dungeons these days, though for a time he tried tormenting captured Orcs there, hoping to learn of the plans of the Necromancer."

"What if he is not in the stronghold? What if he is lost in that dreadful Mirkwood amid the spiders and the wargs? He could end up in Dol Guldur!" wailed Dambethnîn and fresh tears flowed from her reddened eyes.

"Nay, by Eru, that will not be!" swore Orophin. "My Lady, we must go and find Erestor." Both he and his bond-mate stood, arms linked about each other's waists and eyes urgent in their pleading for Galadriel's blessing.

"We will accompany you," said Elrohir as he and Elladan returned to the group.

"Peace, this rash decision I will not allow," Galadriel cautioned and rose from her place next to Arwen. "Already Celeborn is arranging for emissaries to journey to the Woodland Realm and investigate the situation. We have conferred and decided the least volatile region in which to effect a solution to the dilemma is here in Lorien. Convincing Thranduil and his Council to come here is a delicate matter best left to diplomacy."

The less than pleased expressions on everyone's features attested to the lack of confidence felt for the success of such an endeavour.

At this lull in the conversation Celeborn entered the room and moved to his wife's side, reaching around her to lay a comforting hand upon his granddaughter's head, a soft smile in his wise hazel gaze for Úndomiel. It pained him not to behold this replication of his beloved Celebrian and he encouraged Arwen to remain amid the Mellyn. Her presence eased the empty ache in the ancient Lord's heart left behind by his daughter's departure. He turned next to his vigilant wardens.

"We would ask that you and your brothers lead a small contingent of warriors to escort Elrond here," he addressed the Galadhrim couple kindly. "Dambethnîn, I understand your need to be beside your bond-mate at this time and bid you accompany this guard. Nothing more can be done until I return from Mirkwood with news."

Upon this pronouncement Arwen jumped to her feet in surprise.

"Miny'adar, you cannot be serious," she scolded. "You must not lower yourself to go to that place and treat with those barbaric elves. We should not even be considering these claims, for there can be no truth in them. My father would not be found skulking about the borders of that accursed realm with his seneschal. For what purpose would he plot such a course? There is no valid explanation anyone has advanced to me thus far that would account for such actions."

"Then where was he, Arwen, and why did he lie to us about his true destination?" demanded Elladan. "As much as I dislike the thought, I feel that Elrohir is right. Ada went to Mirkwood because of Ningloriel's desertion of her son."

"I have told you before that elf is not a subject I will even consider discussing!"

The brothers simultaneously flinched in response to her strident expression of bitter resentment.

Galadriel went to them, noting the digits interlocked once more, Elladan's left hand to Elrohir's right. She took up their melded clasp between her slender white fingers. The sight twinged her heart, for there was suddenly an overlay of fragility upon the battle hardened hands in hers. She merged her thoughts with theirs to share her love and concern. 

"You will have to admit the possibility exists for this explanation to be true," cautioned Celeborn, laying his hand on Arwen's shoulder to calm her unreasoning anger. "Understanding that your Adar has flaws need not mean you love him less, child."

"Do you believe he begot that elf?" demanded Arwen crudely; eyes brightly lit in staunch defence of her sire's character as she gazed upon her grandfather. "If so, you are wrong and do not understand Elrond at all!"

"Thêl dithen [Little sister]," breathed Elrohir sadly, "it is you who refuses to confront the reality of our father's life! Ningloriel was long an important part of it, many years more than was Naneth!"

The look she turned upon him was stronger than any words she could have uttered, colder than the bitterest blast of Caradhras, packed with the centuries of injured betrayal her heart had so long denied.

"You would denigrate our mother thus? How dare you speak of her and the Wood Elf Queen in the same breath, giving over to that troublemaking inu greater stature than Celebrian of the Golden Wood?"

"Nay, that is not what I meant," Elrohir whispered and dropped his eyes, turning to his brother in anguish. Elladan reached for him immediately.

"It is not Elrohir's fault, Arwen," he spat, angry for his brother's pain.

"Indeed, that is unacceptable, Arwen!" warned Galadriel.

"You need not wound your brother in order to shield your parents or yourself," corrected Celeborn. "Do you doubt that I love my daughter? Yet, I understand well enough what her union to Elrond was, as did she. Her refusal to recognise Ningloriel does not mean she did not know of Elrond's mistress. It was something she was able to endure, and so must you.

"Ningloriel bore but one child: Legolas. I did ask Elrond, if you must know, and he denied paternity. Still, he was strongly attached to the Woodland Queen, and I suspect she may have wrung some promise from him to watch over her son after her departure. That would be reason enough for your father to go to Mirkwood."

Arwen's visage bloomed with two dark streaks of crimson across her pallid cheeks as she received these rebukes. Then her features just crumpled up and her body followed suit, leaving her slumped face down upon the divan as shuddering sobs broke from her and the long restrained emotions tore free in a squall of noisy tears. Galadriel was at her side in seconds, crouched on the floor gently rubbing her back, softly shushing compassionate endearments against her granddaughter's ear.

Her sorrow triggered an uncomfortable silence in which the twins consoled one another, minds and souls fused. Orophin and Dambethnîn sank back onto their divan in fresh tears of their own. Celeborn sighed and retrieved one of the cups of wine and drained it, feeling the need for something restorative to bolster his spirit. Gradually Arwen's crying abated and she sat up again, letting her grandmother tenderly wipe away the salty smear from cheeks and nose as if she were an elfling needing care for a bump or a bruise.

"Goheno nin, saes, Elrohir," [Please forgive me, Elrohir], she spoke and inhaled a deep breath to steady herself.

"Gerin úrîn o ten," [It is forgotten], her brother smiled and opened his arms to her. Arwen quickly joined him and the three siblings clutched tightly to one another a few moments to heal the rift completely.

"That is as it should be," intoned Galadriel. "To weather this calamity we must remain united, whatever has occurred."

"Please, I do not mean to be selfish," Dambethnîn said quietly to her Lord. "Yet I would beg a favour. If I must turn my feet away from my beloved's path, then at least grant me some reassurance of his well being. Will you not look into the Mirror, my Lady?" She turned her solemn golden gaze upon her queen and waited in hope for this boon.

"Worry not, we will go with Miny'adar to find Erestor for you," stated Elladan.

"Nay, you will not attend me on this journey."

"You surely cannot expect us to sit idly by while this is happening," added Elrohir.

"If you need actions to sustain your impatience, return to Imladris with the Galadhrim to be part of your father's escort. It will do him good to have you by his side at this time."

The twins turned identical frowns of annoyed resistance upon their grandfather at this pronouncement, but knew better than to argue with the venerable Lord. Their eyes joined in wordless communication and then Elrohir spoke again.

"As you wish, Miny'adar. But in that case I have also a request. Miny'ammë, will you look and learn the fate of the exiled prince?" he beseeched earnestly. "Our family is strong and whatever comes we know we have one another to depend upon. Legolas is alone and his need must be great for Ada to go to such lengths to aid him. We must assume he is not safe in Imladris, for surely Adar would have revealed this to you already were it so."

The Lady of Light removed herself from her family's circle to consider these petitions. She stood apart on the balcony, overlooking the fair city she protected and the people she guided. Long were the centuries behind her and far away was the land of her birth, yet it seemed to her soul that here had her heart always dwelt, only waiting for her body to join it to abide between the Anduin and the Celebrant. This was her place, her centre.

Galadriel's gaze dropped to her hands, clasped together in her customary manner, and the gleaming spark of Nenya bound about the forefinger of her right hand. The dubious responsibility had fallen to her to guard this treasure as one of the last of Finwë's line in Middle-earth. The ring more than any other trait of appearance or personality marked her as Noldorin, set apart from the Galadhrim though she was their Lady.

She had told herself it was for them she had taken it up, to keep them safe and preserve upon Arda some small piece of what the eldar were meant to represent. Yet Nenya had not saved them from the ravages of the Balrog nor did it prevent the servants of the Dark One from trying their borders or assailing travellers ere they reached Lorien's protection.

She knew it was a purely selfish thing, this ring. Like the Sylvans of the Greenwood, the Galadhrim would have found a means to survive without it, without her. Perhaps they would have been better served had I returned with my people to the Undying Lands! No loss of culture would have been suffered, for she did not hold illusions of the place among the First-born her faithful elves of the trees would own in Aman. Lothlorien's citizens were not renowned for advanced learning or artistry as were the Eldar in Valimar [City of the Valar in the Undying Lands].

The Mellyrn Taur would not perish either, though surely it would darken even as the forest east of the Anduin had slowly altered into the forbidding danger that was Mirkwood. This she would not allow, and here she was honest enough to admit her pride drove her desire to keep Lorien just as it had always been. As long as nothing changed, this small piece of the Music was hers to watch over and keep. Without her, without Nenya, none of this beauty would last out the Age.

And Celeborn will never leave nor am I ready to go without him.

Of course she would look. The Mirror was irresistible. Not for her grandson's peace of mind or the reassurance of her stalwart wardens would she concede. The Mirror was for her alone.

Through it she gleaned a sense of the shifting patterns of power playing through the song of Arda, and thus she managed to direct the energy of Nenya to ward away such changes from reaching her world. In a strange symbiosis of cause and effect, she understood that the effort to divert these phrases of the song she wished not to hear altered the Music as a whole. The sense of control this lent to her psyche was shocking to her; she feared it and the undeniable excitement produced in response. Thus far she had managed not to be consumed by the sensation, and truly she felt herself impervious to any outside influence that might coerce her use of this gift.

But for how long? Galadriel sighed and shook her head slightly. Such morbidity did not become her and she strove against it. She would do whatever was required to prevent corruption from overtaking her and by association Lorien. For as long as need be! she answered herself confidently and returned to the room with a smile.

"I will look, if that will grant you ease."

The late afternoon sunlight dappled the faces of the two running elves as they sped with pumping legs and gasping lungs under the first wide-reaching boughs of the trees. One behind the other they raced, determination and dread spurring them forward into the welcome cover of the unknown forest. Unknown from personal experience yet renowned throughout all the elven realms: Lothlorien, the Golden Wood, Dwimordeen, Laurelindorien, Mellyrn Taur, known by all these names and more, the haven of the Galadhrim received them.

A strange pair they were and indeed, so small a company rarely braved the unguarded lands between the scattered safety of elven enclaves in the darkening days since the demise of the Watchful Peace. The leader of the two slowed, raising his hand to signal his companion likewise, and they halted just inside the tree line. The second bent over, hands upon knees, and huffed noisily to recapture enough breath to replace the expended energy of the forced flight across the open plains.

He was young, more than adolescent yet mature only according to the counting of years, with lithe and slender limbs and a crown of bark-brown curling hair and eyes to match. His features and height proclaimed him Nandorin in ancestry and his garments, rich and well tailored, declared a high rank in the Woodland Realm of Thranduil. He turned his eyes, questioning and trusting, to his guide and protector.

That elf was strange to behold and his appearance verily defied definition or assignment as kin to any of the known clans of elven races. He looked a throwback to some primitive time before the reckoning of days, before the Vala Oromë came first upon the Quendi in the twilight of Cuiviénen.

Golden was his thick mane of twisted locks hanging down below his waist, ornamented with a single bold feather shed from the wings of a great eagle. The tendrils framed a face with features fair, wise eyes of clear and shining heaven's blue, and mouth set firm and resolute. He stood a mite shorter than the younger elf while of similarly slight and wiry-muscled build.

His dress was crude and brief, with leggings of leather and scarcely more save a vest-like covering of some animal hide tied shut with a leather lace. He was well armed. A small but sturdy bow he held within his fist and upon his back a quiver was secured, now only half filled with arrows brightly fletched in startling red feathers and marked with elven runes of power. A long hunting knife fell from a belt woven of thin plaits of leather to lie flat against his right thigh, proclaiming his preferred hand.

His feet were unadorned with shoes or boots and upon the left a pale discoloration showed where a fine band of some sort once had been, winding like a loop around his middle toe, criss-crossing over his arch, and doubling around the ankle. Feral and dangerous, he stood waiting for his charge to regain his strength before continuing into the perilous wood.

"What now?" the younger asked when at last he could draw air for more than laboured breathing. "Are we safe? Will they follow us even into Lorien?"

The other smiled reassuringly at the worried countenance before him.

"Nay, we lost them as soon as we crossed the river, but I wanted to be sure not to give them any chance to catch us even if they had picked up our trail again. I think they decided we were not worth the trouble of further chase.

"There will be a guard upon the borders here; we shall not need to go much further before we are met. I spotted a scout as we came under the trees; within the hour they will find us," he paused and considered the young elf carefully.

The youth had held up admirably considering they had been chased from the fringes of Dol Guldur all the way to the Anduin by a persistent band of Orcs. "How long has it been since last you had news of your father's brother, Lindalcon?" he asked, attempting to divert the younger elf's mind from the harrowing pursuit.

"At the commemoration, he was there," he frowned and thought back, "so, only twenty years ago. I am sure he will welcome me!" came the reply. "And you as well, of course!" was belatedly added, causing the other to smile wryly.

"I think not!" was all the wild one said and began to move forward again, looking up into the magnificent trees as he did.

Never had he been in the Golden Wood, although tales and songs proclaiming its glory and majesty were known to him. The sight of the holy trees gave him a sense of awe, and he wondered if he dared leap up into the branches that stretched down so invitingly. He listened, gauging the response of the woods, and deemed it familiar, friendly and welcoming.

"Come!" he beckoned with no attempt to conceal his excitement as he slipped his bow over his shoulder and pulled himself up into the nearest Mallorn. Lindalcon followed less easily and he had to wait for the young one to reach his level. "I will race you to the canopy!" the wild elf sang out gleefully and took off, leaping with joyous abandon from branch to branch as his companion struggled to keep up.

"That is truly unfair, Legolas; you are hardly ever out of the trees and I am never hardly in them!" he fussed, trying in vain to meet the challenge.

Legolas was peering down at him with amusement from a very slender top-reaching stem, smiling as only trees could make him smile. Then he straightened up and stood looking out over the surrounding wood, leaning forward with a rapt expression of wonder upon his features, sunlight bathing him in the warm orange tinted streaks of the setting rays.

Lindalcon stopped and stared, catching his breath at the sight as his skin rippled in a shivering tingle of admiration and trepidation both. Seen like this, Legolas was beautiful but fey, a Tawarwaith true.

"You must see how the light dances across the treetops!" he exclaimed to Lindalcon, without looking back, thus missing the expression of proud appreciation the younger elf's eyes revealed. Lindalcon at last made it up to the canopy and peered in the direction of the fading light, to the West, and thought of his father.

He wanted so much for his father to be with him. Would that the horrible Battle had never begun, that the King had not learned of the demise of Smaug. He even wished for his father to never have joined the guard at all. Had Valtamar only chosen to become a metalworker or a scribe, or even a life of politics, then he would not have met Andamaitë. He would not have perished at the hands of a despicable goblin attempting to spare her life. And Lindalcon would not be alone, fleeing his home to beg a place in his uncle's household in Lorien, guided by the very elf judged the cause of his father's death. He looked over to find Legolas studying him.

"The elves here will welcome you, Lindalcon; do not worry," he said quietly and Lindalcon nodded, trying to smile. "However, they will not welcome me. When they arrive, I will face the guard and explain your presence. You must stay silent until it is clear you have rights of kinship to be here."

"Why? Surely this is a place of refuge and no harm will come from within the woods. The elves here would not accost you, Legolas, would they?" the younger elf stared with worried eyes at his brother, for every word Legolas spoke was veneered in wary caution rather than optimism.

"Nay, the Galadhrim are reputed to be fair-minded and noble. Yet I am not allowed to enter Lothlorien while the Judgement stands," the wild elf reassured, though he was not quite so convinced of this in his own mind. He had the idea that the Galadhrim would promptly eject him from Lorien with no uncertainty regarding their desire that he not return.

"What I say you should be prepared to support, but do not attempt to defend me," he continued. "You may wish to refuse the title and position your loss has gifted you, but this will not be the time to do so. As a prince of the Greenwood you will be treated with courtesy and respect, regardless of the nature of your escort here," he paused until Lindalcon acknowledged this advice with a short nod.

"They will guide you to an outpost while word is passed to your people to vouchsafe your entrance into Caras Galadon. Once that is done, you will most likely be met by your kinfolk. If you are granted to meet with the Lord and Lady of the Wood, they may hear your petitions. However, they have no true authority over the Greenwood or Thranduil." He hesitated again.

"Are you truly prepared to stay here and be parted from your mother, your brother and sister? For Meril's position is much elevated and she would never remove Taurant in any case. They will not follow you here," he finally finished.

Lindalcon thought on these words carefully relieved that Legolas wanted only to ensure the strength of his convictions rather than cast aspersions on his abandonment of their younger siblings. It was not an easy or lightly made decision, and he did have much regret. He did not know when or if he would ever see his younger brother and sister again.

Or Legolas!

His mother had been overcome with rage at his choice and he felt the same regarding hers. It still made him burn to think of her blatant betrayal of his father and their marriage bond. Equally virulent was his disgust over the reason she chose to name for her perfidy and the low manner in which she had attempted to turn him against Legolas. Their parting had been bitter and hasty on Lindalcon's part.

"I am not certain that my place is to be found in the Greenwood," Lindalcon finally replied. "My Adar's kin will be good enough folk for me. I am not interested in the kind of advancement my mother sought to give me, as it came to be upon the loss of my own father.

"I have no wish to be a prince any longer. It was a false title and though I am glad not to be 'Lindalcon the Usurper', I pity my little brother to have to grow up under the tutelage of Thranduil!" he stated with vehemence and then, catching sight of Legolas' disconcerted expression, coloured slightly.

"Lindalcon, I understand your feelings about this, yet Thranduil dotes on Taurant and Gwilith. Our brother will not grow up in the discordant household known to me," he corrected softly. "Even so, I do feel sorrow for those little ones; they will miss you terribly, as will I!"

Lindalcon sighed and had to remove his gaze from Legolas, for he could see that this was true. He could discern clearly the unspoken plea in the archer's eyes and his heart became burdened with guilt. He knew his decision was selfish, yet he could not bear to be near the royal family, not now.

"Perhaps I will not remain always here in the Golden Wood," he murmured low as his head drooped to match the words' pitch. The pressure of a firm hand gripping his forearm drew his eyes back to the glinting shine in the Tawarwaith's.

"I will hold you to that, 'perhaps' notwithstanding! Send word and I will come guard you home again, gwador dithen [little brother]!"

"Man canel 'tithen', Limlas? Im dond nef le! [Whom are you calling 'little', Fish-Leaf? I am tall next to you!]"

But the smiles these words raised to both their countenances were slow and hesitant, forced over the real expressions of sad and reluctant parting.

The sun had set leaving behind only a soft velvety pink going to dusky grey and Legolas started back down the tree. Lindalcon followed more slowly and was surprised to find his guide already on the ground before he was half way there. He saw a number of elves emerge from the trees to the right and left. Soon, silent and sombre grey-clad archers, their bows drawn and trained upon Legolas, surrounded them.

"Sîdh! Men mellyn!" [Peace! We are friends!] Legolas called, spreading out his hands palms upward before him.

The elves gave no indication that these words were acceptable as they gazed in cautious curiosity at the two strangers. At last one of the elves came forward and reached out to Legolas, quickly pulling the bow from his back and the knife from his belt. Legolas made no move to prevent this and Lindalcon watched with concern. They were at these archers' mercy.

With the interlopers disarmed, the guards relaxed their stance and lowered their bows, but the arrows remained knocked. The elf that had confiscated Legolas' weapons spoke, facing him and ignoring Lindalcon.

"What is your business here in Lorien? Where have you come from and why has no message of your approach preceded you? Indeed, are you not hecilo, banned from this realm?" he demanded formally. Legolas remained in his non-threatening posture but stood firm.

"My business here is completed, for I am merely the guide and protection for Lindalcon, Prince of the Greenwood, Thranduil's realm to the North. He has come to seek asylum and citizenship in Lorien, to abide with his father's people in Caras Galadon. There was not time for messages to be sent to warn of his arrival, for events prevented it. I am, as you have said, forbidden to shelter here and seek no entry," he answered calmly.

At these words the elves turned their eyes upon Lindalcon and scrutinised him carefully, seeing the fine make of his garments and the distinctive style common to the Greenwood folk. He stood proudly and returned their stares but remained silent, until he caught Legolas' eye and remembered their earlier conversation.

"Yes, I have come to see my father's brother who resides here with his family. I wish to stay with my kin in Lorien," he confirmed. "I did not know I needed permission to come before setting out on my journey, and Legolas agreed to safeguard me here seeing that I lacked another escort. We were attacked by orcs and scarcely did I survive!"

Lindalcon was deliberately misleading the Lorien elves. While he and Legolas had indeed encountered orcs, and he himself had previously been wounded in a skirmish with orcs, he hoped his story implied more. If they assumed he had been travelling with his personal guard, had been waylaid and forced to enlist the aid of the outcast elf to continue his journey, then his hopes would be met. The Lorien elf seemed to accept his explanation without question.

"Forgive us our inhospitable welcome, Prince Lindalcon," he said as he bowed. "I am Haldir, March-warden of Lorien. Mae govannen! Your unusual companion worried me: I thought perhaps you were in some peril for your wellbeing in that one's presence," he continued, placing a hand on the youth's shoulder and guiding him away from Legolas and outside the circle of archers. These immediately raised their bows and trained them on the outcast again.

Lindalcon looked over his shoulder to see what was happening, but Legolas gave a slight shake of his head and Lindalcon returned his attention to Haldir.

"Will you be able to take a message to my uncle so that he may come for me?" he asked. Haldir nodded.

"My brother Orophin and I will escort you to the nearest outpost. Others will carry word of your arrival to your people." He motioned to some of the elves and four approached. After inquiring the name of the youth's kin, Haldir sent them forth with brief instructions and they melted into the forest.

"The accommodations among the outposts may not be luxurious according to your usual comforts, but it is safe and there you may await your kinsman's response. Have you no belongings with you, young Prince?" he was saying.

"Oh! In my haste to escape I was forced to leave everything behind. I was fortunate to get away at all," Lindalcon said.

"And how did you run into that unfortunate soul?" The Lorien elf made a motion with his head towards the captive.

"He is the one who aided me during the orc attack. If not for his assistance, I would have died. He further agreed to guide me here when I refused to return to Thranduil's stronghold. What will you do with him?" Lindalcon could not help but ask though Legolas had told him to stay out of it.

It was a strange situation between them. Legolas owed Lindalcon for his father's life, and now Lindalcon was indebted to Legolas for his own. For his part, Lindalcon felt the deeds balanced one another and did not want the fallen archer to suffer for helping him reach Lorien safely.

"No need to be concerned; I have left orders for him to be taken back to the river and his weapons returned to him there," Haldir answered as his brother Orophin joined him. Together they ushered the youth down the path and away from the circle of archers.

Lindalcon looked back once more, but the broad shoulders of the Galadhrim blocked Legolas from his view.

An elf tall, imposing, solid of frame and muscle, easily out weighing the Wood Elf before him by at least two stones, stepped closer to inspect Legolas. He knew the impact of his presence and sought to intimidate his captive a bit as punishment for daring to pollute the beauty of the Golden Wood with his tainted person. He walked around Legolas, gazing up and down at his rugged appearance with disdain and distaste in his posture and his eyes.

"You are overly bold, Edledhron [exiled one], to attempt trespass here! This is a place of peace and harmony and such as you have no right even to contemplate its existence much less try crossing its borders!" he said. 

"I am not yet within the Naith of Lorien and so have made no trespass." Legolas returned his stare coldly. "Return my weapons and allow me to go, since my presence is so offensive to you."

"Your presence is offensive to all elves, Hecilo!"

This retort came from within the ranks of archers and Legolas involuntarily startled, for this was a voice he knew from other circumstances, equally dangerous. His eyes searched the faces and pinpointed the source when a deriding laugh shot back towards him, for his instinctive reaction had not gone unnoticed.

Among the guards of Lothlorien were mixed five of the ten Greenwood warriors from his days in the storeroom under Ailinyéro's torments. After their discharge from Thranduil's guard, these perverted soldiers had drifted away from the stronghold, yet none knew what had become of them. Now here they were, armed and standing shoulder to shoulder alongside the respectable and honourable wardens of the Golden Wood!

Legolas did not like the turn this excursion was taking.

"There has been no kinslaying for millennia until your deeds! You disgrace all elf-kind!" one of them added.

"How is it you are free to inflict your existence on the rest of us? Why do you not take yourself to Mordor, where such as you belong?" another taunted.

"Orc!" the fourth spat.

Legolas remained silent. If these elves thought that such insults could be hurtful, after the torments and humiliations he had already endured from them, they were short of memory.

Here is where they have been hiding their shameful past! I wonder what lies they told to the Galadhrim to gain the privilege of service to the Lady?

He almost expected to see Ailinyéro emerge from the trees, to hear the metallic chime of heavy chains.

So be it, the Dagger is still in my quiver.

Yet, how to retrieve it? He did not generally use the knife as a weapon, but carried it as a tool for his arrow-craft, loose and deep at the bottom of one the compartments. He could not easily reach over his shoulder to draw it forth, certainly not without rousing the suspicions of these wary archers.

As slowly as he could, Legolas raised his hand to unbuckle the harness, making sure they could all see his movements and his empty hands. Everyone stiffened and riveted their eyes upon his actions; bows creaking as strings dragged further back in anticipation of some trick.

With a snake-ish slithering sound the container slipped from his back and landed in the leaves behind his heels and almost as one the gathered guards exhaled and eased back. He kept his features impassive; no need to alert them to the fact that he had just placed his last weapon where he could more readily get to it, should the situation deteriorate.

The tall elf noted his stoic demeanour and was disappointed. This was not the response he desired. He wanted to make the outcast cower in humiliation before the righteousness of Lorien. He frowned and bent to snatch up the leather strap of the quiver's binding, hefting the necessary implement to test its weight, for he could not fathom why the disgraced elf had chosen to remove it. As he peered inside and spied the various objects stuffed among the compartments his ears caught the curse of rage from the wild elf.

"You have no right!" came the Tawarwaith's low growl.

The tall guard felt the nape of his neck tingle as all the hairs back there crawled forward and he raised his gaze to see the anger his snooping had provoked. Yet he sneered in satisfied triumph, his eyes had caught the glint of metal within the quiver and he fished the dagger out. He held it up for all to see, grinning hugely at the look of impotent outrage upon their captive's face. It was almost as good as mortified debasement would have been.

"I think perhaps you are too foul for the Galadhrim to handle. Your own should see to your disposal from our lands," he said with loathing and motioned for the five Woodland refugees to step forward as he cast the quiver aside, enjoying the strained sigh that escaped the wild elf at this pronouncement.

"Wait! Haldir's instructions were specific. We are to escort him to the river and leave him there. I will not let my brother's words be changed!" This directive came from one among the Lorien elves and everyone halted as the speaker disengaged from the group.

He was not much taller than the Tawarwaith and as lightly built, with the bearing of an archer who spent his days in the Mellyrn's limbs. His locks shown like finely burnished mithril and his eyes were grey yet clear as the waters of a mountain spring and held no malice in them. He trained his steady gaze upon Legolas and regarded him with candid curiosity.

The Lorien warden could not help but be amazed, for he at once felt kinship with this banished outlaw, seeing in Legolas' eyes the imprint of Yavanna's blessings. He took in the rugged clothes and strangely twisted locks. Reaching out, he meant only to take some of the strands between his fingers.

While Legolas felt no threat from this warrior, he was not about to allow such a liberty, for he was yet under the pall of the remembered chastisement. They could say what they might, but they had no right to lay hands on him; his fate was not for them to judge.

As the hand swept up towards his face, Legolas caught it in an iron tight grip around the wrist. Surprised, the Lady's guardsman exclaimed and tried to yank his hand free even as Legolas flung it away. The combined forces caused the Lorien archer to stumble and fall back.

That was enough of an excuse for the five renegades from Thranduil's guard. Two of them immediately dropped their bows and launched themselves at Legolas, engulfing naught but air and the leafy ground as he leaped aside. The other three shouted angrily as they pounced in turn. One Legolas tripped and sent staggering headlong into the boll of a Mallorn with a dull thunk, but the other two waited until his attention was thus engaged. Together they dived for him, their combined weight knocking the wild elf easily to the ground, and inflicted a rain of punches and knee-jabs.

By that time the other three had recovered and joined the melee, effectively burying the outcast in a writhing mound of fists and feet, teeth and elbows. Legolas fought back and landed several solid hits of his own until one pinned his arms and another secured his ankles. Shouts in the background to stop were muffled and disregarded in the sickening noise of knuckles pounding flesh and the cries and grunts of the outnumbered elf.

The Mirkwood elves soon had Legolas subdued and called for rope to bind him but the Lorien elves were shocked by their behaviour and roughly hauled the immigrants off the battered exile and restrained them. As rapidly as it had begun the beating ended.

Legolas lay in a heap where he had collapsed, struggling to draw breath against the stabbing pain in his ribs where one boot too many had found an easy target. The jagged blossom of agony every inhalation triggered cautioned that some were probably broken.

"What should we do with him?" asked one of the Lorien elves.

"I say just leave him there, perhaps some orcs will sniff him out and dispose of him for us," replied one of the Mirkwood renegades, and he spat but was too far away to land this further insult on the fallen archer.

"Silence! You are not one of us!" this from the tall and haughty elf.

"Oh, truly? Have we not drawn arms with you and defended these borders by your sides? There is the cause of this dissent!" countered another Wood Elf, sporting a darkly purple bruise around his right eye, as he pointed to Legolas.

"Mayhap that is right; never have we fought among ourselves before this day," commented one of the Galadhrim.

"Aye, his presence is an abomination!" encouraged another of Thranduil's former guards. "He is the perfect orc bait! We can drag him a little further under the trees and take positions above. It will be easy picking them off while they are distracted with him."

At this comment the elf that had sought to touch the wild elf's locks stepped forward with a disgusted sound and addressed them.

"Enough! This is not right! You have set upon an unarmed elf who has done no harm to any of us, or to the Golden Wood. He never struck anyone until you launched your attack. The Shadow reaches far when the elves of Lorien do injury to a traveller that came hither on an errand of mercy to one of our kin," the elf stood boldly before them, arms crossed against his chest. "I will carry out Haldir's orders, let those who would oppose me answer to him!" he challenged and waited.

"You are too soft-hearted, Rumil," one of the miscreants interjected, but the remainder of the archers paid him no attention as they considered Rumil's words. One by one they sided with him, revolted to recall the brutality they had witnessed, and none supported the immigrant's admonishment. At last the tall, hefty one advanced to address Rumil.

"You speak with reason when mine has all but vanished. I believe you are right; this kinslayer has brought the taint of the Shadow here to make us forget ourselves so easily," he said. A few murmured affirmations rose from among the group.

Rumil sighed.

"Then it is best for me to see him safely out of Lorien, so that none of you fall back into unreasonable behaviour," he snapped. He disliked it that his comrade could not simply admit his wrong. Rumil felt it cowardly to assign blame for one's own failings to the growing threat from the east. To his mind, this was the most telling testimony to the long reach of the evil of Mordor.

"So be it!" spoke the tall one. "I will tell your brothers of your decision. Do you require anything?" Rumil shook his head.

"Just leave his weapons; I will not turn him out to face the Orcs unarmed," he said and the others complied, placing the bow, quiver, dagger, and long knife against the boll of a tree. This done, they retreated back into the woods to resume their patrols hustling the Mirkwood elves along with them, glad to leave the responsibility for the captive's doom to Rumil.

Legolas watched warily as the Lorien elf slowly approached him. Rumil knelt and removed his flask of water from its place at his side and offered it to the injured elf, carefully lifting the tangled mane out of the Tawarwaith's eyes as he did so.

"Thank you, but I do not thirst," Legolas managed to say as he tried to curl over the aching ribs and wrapped an arm protectively around himself.

Rumil nodded and sat down next to him. He cautiously reached out to smooth his fingers over the golden tresses again.

"You are Legolas," he said and a note of regret touched his words, for he understood that in other circumstances they could become good friends. "I am called Rumil, brother of Haldir. Forgive me, I should have asked first and none of this would have transpired."

"Nay, they would have found some other reason. I am grateful your people stopped them, for they are known to me and I wish not to imagine what they might have attempted next!"

"Ai! I have never felt at ease among them, and Haldir does not let them serve together, keeping them separated in different watches."

"Then why does he permit their service at all, if he trusts them not?"

"We are fewer now than in days of old," a listless shrug accompanied this apology, "yet evil multiplies and the Shadow grows. Their bows have proved true, even if their characters be false!"

A companionable silence fell between them as Legolas rested and Rumil continued to run his hand soothingly through the wild elf's hair. At last the Tawarwaith sighed and moved as though to right himself, but it was a mistake and he hissed as the pain that had diminished flared sharply. He returned to the relative comfort of stillness. 

"You must let me have a look; you could have a broken or cracked rib," gently Rumil took hold of the Wood Elf's arm and drew it away. The garment was simple and it opened easily, having been torn somewhat during the scuffle, and he pulled it back to expose the injuries. With careful fingers he pressed the purpling skin over the ribs and Legolas sucked in his breath, wincing sharply as the fractured edges scraped each other.

"Sorry," said Rumil. "That must be bound up, but I have nothing with me. And this must hurt a bit," he said with concern, gingerly drifting his touch over a knot swollen atop the scalp as the archer flinched. Rumil did not dare attempt to inspect the bleeding wound where teeth had bitten through the very tip of Legolas' left ear. Without waiting for a reply, Rumil stood and reached down to help Legolas stand also.

The feral elf could not suppress a strangled cry as he tried to straighten and fiery jabs of agony needled through his chest. He found his right ankle reluctant to bear him and gripped tightly onto Rumil's shoulder, gratified by the support.

Pausing only to gather up the outcast's belongings, Rumil escorted him slowly through the trees around the outskirts of the woods, heading for a sentry post he knew would be unmanned.

Legolas did not question where he was being taken for he trusted the Lorien elf, having heard truth and compassion in his voice when he spoke. At last they stopped at the foot of a mighty Mallorn and Legolas gazed at his benefactor questioningly.

"I have no wish to send you away injured and vulnerable," he explained. "Here you may stay until you heal; you will not be disturbed. I will tend the injuries and find you something to eat and drink. Wait," he said and climbed swiftly up to a high flet where a rope lay coiled neatly on the platform. He cast it down and then returned to the forest floor as well. With deft fingers he formed a loop and knotted it securely thus creating a foothold for Legolas, and helped him step into it.

"Hold on tightly and I will pull you up. Can you use your injured foot to help manoeuvre against the tree should the rope start to sway?" he asked and Legolas nodded, grasping the smooth cord in his hands. Rumil returned to the platform and easily hoisted the lighter elf up to join him.

Once there he again lent his support to his guest and guided him to the simple bed at the far end of the small talan. Legolas gratefully allowed himself to be laid down and sighed, protectively covering his middle again as he closed his eyes. He could hear the Lorien archer moving around and the sound of water splashing into a basin.

Rumil came back to the bedside and set down the supplies he had gathered along with the vessel.

Legolas opened his eyes and watched as Rumil shook the contents of a small, waxy-leafed packet into the water, at once filling the room with a rich and wholesome aroma that seemed reminiscent of a cool breeze after a spring rainstorm. He looked up and Rumil smiled encouragingly.

"Close your eyes again," he spoke mildly and his touch against the wild elf's bruised face was cautious yet soothing, and the infused water eased the throbbing everywhere it touched his body.

Legolas relaxed and found his breathing was falling into synchrony with the Lorien elf's. Distantly he seemed to hear Rumil speaking but in a strange way the words and voice were like music and matched the tempo of his steady heart. Legolas let himself slip into reverie.

In a shimmering imitation of waves shoaling upon the shores of Eldamar, the water fanned in ripples from edge to edge within the basin and the image dissolved into nothing more than starlight's reflections magnified in the gleam of the polished mithril bowl.

Forming an intractable frown upon her finely molded features, Galadriel turned from the Mirror and sat down heavily upon the stone bench in the quiet glade beside the banks of the silver stream, resting her elbows on her knees and cupping her chin within her elegant fingers. Thus Celeborn found her long past dawn.

No news of comfort had the Mirror granted, and she was unwilling to carry this information to Elrohir, patiently waiting for her return. As sometimes occurred, the gift of Seeing was incomplete, and she had no way of understanding if this event would actually come to pass, or what it could mean if it did. Her uneasiness she could not explain nor comprehend the significance of the dread the vision had imposed upon her soul.

If Rumil had taken the care of the wild elf in hand, then why did every ounce of experience, instinct, and foresight warn of impending peril should Legolas come to Lorien too soon?

Tbc


	56. Chapter 56

Amarth o Maltahondo [Fate of Maltahondo]

At the King's retraction of the charge of treason a relieved shout of joy escaped from Erestor and he spun around, instinctively grabbing for Legolas, wrapping both arms around the slender shoulders and squeezing tight as he buried his nose against the Tawarwaith's mane of golden tresses. But the archer stiffened in reaction, his body a rigidly unyielding mass of rejection, and the seneschal quickly let go, muttering an apology as he turned away to spare himself the look of betrayal he imagined the wild elf's eyes must hold for him.

Yet it was not so, for Legolas was only stunned at the impromptu embrace. The Tawarwaith fully appreciated the fact that Erestor had placed himself bodily between the King's intimidation and the Sylvan warrior. By this selfless act the seneschal accomplished much toward mending their damaged friendship. 

The Noldo expected Fearfaron to claim his foster child but it was Mithrandir who surged forward and caught up the fallen prince, lifting him bodily off the ground and crushing him against his chest in a breath stealing embrace as his booming laugh of delight echoed from the walls. The rest of Legolas' family was soon crowding around the wizard, each attempting to get a chance to share their pleased congratulations.

Erestor returned to Aragorn's side, sharing a wan smile as they watched the display of affectionately gentle jealousy over who could stand closest to Legolas. Aiwendil's features were transformed with a tremendous grin and he thumped the equally ecstatic woodsman upon the back so soundly the worthy human stumbled and had to grab Aragorn's sleeve to regain his balance.

"Ai! Mithrandir I cannot breathe!" the wild elf's muffled complaint, uttered in liltingly happy tones, reached the crowd and soft chuckles erupted at this.

"Wizard, give me my son!" demanded the carpenter, with only partially feigned annoyance, through his smiling lips.

"Aye, you will stifle him with that thick beard of yours!" added Lindalcon and this elicited more grinning laughter from the crowd.

Mithrandir complied, setting Legolas back on his feet and loosening his grip somewhat. He was extremely pleased when the forest champion did not immediately pull away, hugging him back warmly instead and resting his full weight against the Istar's lean and lanky frame as their thoughts merged.

I am glad you are here; what I need to do now I could not face without my friends beside me.

It must be done, Legolas, this burden is not yours to bear and never was.

They broke apart and Legolas nearly flung himself into Fearfaron's clasp, sighing in contentment as he wriggled about to free an arm with which to ensnare Lindalcon within their circle. They remained this way for several minutes as the spirit hunter swayed, rocking both of the younger elves, as much for his own comfort as theirs. He did not like to think what the consequences may have been had these charges held. Too often was he forced to endure the dread of having his second son forcibly removed from his care forever.

"Ada!" whispered Legolas, engaged with similar thoughts, and pressed his face against the tall elf's shoulder as tears threatened to spill. He had never felt this much love before and it was thoroughly staggering, following so swiftly upon the tension and dread of the King's threats. The carpenter's hand began softly rubbing his back and that was beyond Legolas' limit to contain. The strong emotions overflowed and soon Legolas was weeping unashamedly, clutching onto Fearfaron's tunic with one hand as the other gripped Lindalcon's so tightly the younger elf winced.

"Pan vaer, ion edwen, pan vaer," [All is well, second son, all is well] Fearfaron whispered back, his voice quavering slightly with swallowed tears of his own.

Lindalcon did not even make an attempt to prevent the gush of liquid relief and merely leaned his head against his brother's, adding his fingers' caressing comfort to soothe the archer's shuddering shoulders.

"My Lord King," Aiwendil approached the dais, "esteemed councillors," he turned and nodded to Iarwain, "if it might be permitted, perhaps a short break in the proceedings would be in order?"

"Of course, that is certainly allowable. Let us dismiss for two hours to give Tirno time to adjust before the next phase of the trial," spoke the eldest Elder.

Thranduil's eyes had returned to their scrutiny of the disgraced prince and could not hide the disdain he felt to observe such an open display of weakness. The last time the Sinda had cried had been at his mother's passing; he had attained less than half his majority. The Woodland King rose and walked from the platform, heading for the archway that lead into the throne room, passing so close to the three enmeshed elves that his sword's scabbard scraped against Legolas' calf.

"Indeed? I see no need to drag this out longer than necessary, Iarwain. My wife and newborn son require my presence in these early days of Taurant's infancy. We shall resume in one hour. Carpenter, get your fosterling tree-lord under control by then," he flung the scornful remarks behind him as he left the chamber.

At this declaration the assembly murmured low, a quarrelsome grousing of discontent for the unkind comments and short period of respite the newly acquitted was granted. All within the Chamber of Starlight could see the three elves needed more than this.

"So noted!" called Fêrlass in sullen censure. "The Council will reconvene one hour past Anor's zenith. Let all seek refreshment and thus return equipped to attend the rehearing of the Judgement of Erebor!"

Fearfaron sighed and patted Legolas' shoulder encouragingly. He planned not to waste a moment of the short span and with Lindalcon's help steered the distraught elf toward the hallway where there was an exit into Ningloriel's garden. The wizards, the humans, and Erestor followed, desiring to do whatever they might to show support for their friends. The group emerged into the bright glory of midday and made their way to the little brook, seating themselves on the lush green blades of the thick lawn beside the twinkling stream. They remained silent as Fearfaron coaxed Legolas into stretching out, cradled the wild elf's head in his lap and tenderly wiped away the remaining teardrops that pooled and fled from his lower lashes.

"Are you hungry, Legolas? I will go find us something to eat, if you like," offered Aragorn quietly.

"Nay, I thank you but do not think I could keep anything in my stomach just now," said the archer, presenting the Man a shaky smile.

"Nonetheless, there are several hours yet in the day and much to endure," cautioned Mithrandir. "I suggest some of that delectable concoction sweetened with honey."

"I agree and lembas with it. Erestor, go with Aragorn. I will need more substantial nourishment and a light wine to accompany it," Radagast ordered and the seneschal did not hesitate to get up, still acutely aware of the Maia's displeasure with his actions. Aragorn joined him and the two strode off toward the rear of the terraced grounds where the kitchen gardens led to the entrance to the pantries.

Erestor could not help a backward glance as they left the group, for he was anxious over Legolas' state of mind and wanted very much to make amends for his misdeeds. When he turned back to the Man he found Aragorn's vexed grimace evaluating him with rigorous intensity.

"I know what you are thinking, Aragorn, and you are right! I have never done anything so low before!"

"Aye, that is near enough to it. What explanation can you give? I have not asked you prior to now because of the doom looming over the Wood Elf, but that is passed. An accounting, Erestor!" Aragorn demanded in tightly clipped tempo as they walked.

"I do not know exactly how it started," the seneschal began in bewilderment. "I recall discussing this plan with Elrond, and it all seemed perfectly harmless then. We did not really think about Legolas, to be honest."

"What sort of answer is that?" the Man's voice conveyed his complete disgust. "Tell me then what you did think! I need to understand what prompted my father to indulge in this escapade."

"I rather imagined he would be like his mother," Erestor swallowed down the clammy mucus accumulating in his paradoxically dry mouth. "She was well prepared to handle this kind of game."

"Sauron's shite!" hissed Aragorn as he came to a sudden halt.

At first Erestor quailed, thinking Elrond's foster son would turn and strike him for his words, but a quick glance found the human gazing out over the small rear gate of the walled garden into the barracks' grounds beyond. Following the path of his vision, the seneschal discerned a tall auburn haired warrior walking rapidly across the yard toward the stables: Maltahondo. Erestor had noted the soldier's intense concentration upon Legolas during the trial and had hardly been able to contain his wrath for this ogling. The seneschal had intended to seek him out and challenge the heartless elda once it was all over.

"Valar! Do you know the full history of that filth?" he asked, curious over the amount of venom in the mortal's curse. 

"Aye, even before Ada's letter. Lindalcon told himself and me at the same time; a most unsettling experience I assure you. There is a creature more foul than even your recent exploits depict you to be, Erestor! Too young to know better, Legolas gave away his heart to that wretch, who cared for it not a whit. For this reason Legolas suffers grief sufficient to chase lesser elves into the Halls of Waiting."

Erestor tried not to flinch at the verbal jab and failed. "What do you suppose he is up to?"

"I think the warrior is trying to escape his just punishment and I will not let that happen," growled the mortal and he hurried to the narrow picket portal and fussed with the latch, stuck from long centuries of non-use. "Do you wish to redeem yourself in my esteem?" he shot back over his shoulder. "Then follow me!" In his angry frustration Aragorn kicked the wood viciously and the gate gave way, breaking the rusted hasps as the door burst open. He marched purposefully in the warrior's wake.

Erestor hastened to rejoin his side, still unclear if Aragorn understood the connection between the archer, the guardsman, and Ningloriel. The seneschal did not wish to unwittingly reveal the Tawarwaith's darkest secret if it could be helped.

Under the eaves of the barn they followed the wild elf's former guardsman and protector and came upon him as he led a fine grey-dappled charger out from its box. Maltahondo came to a stop as he discovered his way barred and he gazed upon the strangers with surprise.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn queried sharply, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword.

"That is little enough concern of yours, human," the warrior smirked at the Man's attempt at menace. No mortal was a match for any of Thranduil's guard, no matter what elven realm had fostered him.

"You are Maltahondo, one of the elves that fought at Erebor," countered Aragorn. "I am a friend of Legolas and so it is my concern. Were you not the one with him on the ridge? All involved in the Battle will be required to offer testimony; you cannot flee."

"I will not be hindered by you, Man. My reasons for leaving are known to those important enough to be informed; stand aside!"

Barely had he said these words before Erestor sprang upon the warrior and had him on the ground.

The stallion shied back and returned to its stall to observe from a position of safety.

"Erdë faica urquion! Yeltanyel!" [Despicable spawn of Orcs! I despise you!] Erestor screamed as he buried his fists into the corpsman's abdomen.

Malthen was breathless and could barely move as he tried to regain his wind, his hands forming an ineffective shield against the onslaught of the Noldo's blows. He attempted to roll out from under his attacker but Erestor solidly kneed him in the groin and followed that up with a double fisted pounding upon the warrior's face.

"Úmëa hastanéro hínion! Feuyanyel!" Elyë nar cotumonya oialë!" [Evil defiler of children! I feel disgust for you! You are my enemy forever!] Erestor hurled these epithets loudly, in Quenya no less, to punctuate each impact of his fists and knees against the warrior's writhing body.

Aragorn looked on in gleeful astonishment as his old tutor, his foster father's trusted advisor and partner in crime, proceeded to give the guardsman a proper drubbing.

So unexpected was the assault that Maltahondo had no chance to fend off the onslaught as the Noldo barrelled into his midsection, knocking him off balance and forcing the air from his lungs. By the time he could breathe again he had sustained an appreciable number of deep bruises to his kidneys and liver, his left eye was swollen shut and bleeding, and his lower lip was split in two places. The Woodland warrior finally managed to wedge his knee between himself and Erestor and shoved the seneschal off him. Malthen rose unsteadily to his feet only to be plowed into again and pushed back against the wall of the nearest stall.

Erestor pressed his forearm under the guardsman's chin and leaned all his weight and force upon the warrior's neck. Maltahondo's gaze turned desperate as he tried and failed to dislodge the throttling pressure from his trachea, clawing and squirming. He landed a couple of ineffectual blows to the seneschal's side; his nemesis seemed not to feel them. Malthen attempted to kick the Noldo's feet from under him, but was unsuccessful as the lack of oxygen sapped his strength and diminished his reflexes.

Erestor was unmoved. His right hand delved into the pocket of his breeches as he held Malthen's darkening eyes with his glare of smouldering hatred. He withdrew his rigid fist tightly clenched around some hidden object.

"You took the love of Legolas' heart and the virginity of his body, breaking both ere he had even reached his Coming of Age!" With this sentence Erestor held his hand in front of the guardsman's face and opened his fingers. There on his palm was the severed lock of Malthen's hair that had adorned the wild elf's ankle for so many years. "And he knows what you have done, Maltahondo, and with whom you have done it! But for Mithrandir, that would have killed him!"

As his lungs struggled to find air and his mind screamed alarms amid the blossoming black blotches of encroaching oblivion, Maltahondo stared at the loosely coiled braid. Bound upon the archer, as its remembered curves proclaimed it must have been, it served as proof of the wild elf's unfailing devotion to the corpsman throughout the long years of his exile. Curled in the palm of the Noldo's hand, bereft of the soul that had cherished it, the lock testified to the ultimate betrayal the archer had discovered.

The fight's commotion and Erestor's yelling attracted several elves, but none intervened in the struggle, seeing Aragorn poised in the doorway with sword drawn. As the beating proceeded and Erestor's insults became more and more specific, the warriors openly expressed their shock and dismay. Now this Aragorn found both enlightening, for it was clear these elves understood every word of the High Tongue the seneschal was shouting, and alarming for Legolas' sake. The Man sheathed his weapon and moved quickly to stop the brawl only to discover it was over.

Maltahondo had lost consciousness and Erestor stepped away letting the tall warrior's form slide down into a limp tangle of limbs and tresses in the dirt of the barn. Breathing heavily from his exertion and the strain of emotion, he threw the discarded token atop the stilled body at his feet. He turned his gaze to Aragorn and found amused appreciation shining in the mortal's grey eyes.

"Consider yourself redeemed," said the Man.

Erestor bestowed a lopsided grin upon his former pupil and gave a brisk nod of acknowledgement for the pardon. Before he could draw enough breath to respond, Talagan and the healer entered onto the scene at a run and the crowd of silent warriors, by now grown quite large, parted to let them approach. Halting a few steps away, their sight documented the senseless elf on the ground and the dusty, dishevelled noble-born elda of Gondolin attempting to straighten his clothing and brush away the dirt.

"What is happening here?" demanded the captain, staring between the Man and the seneschal as Gladhadithen hastened to the fallen warrior's side. She made a swift evaluation and nodded to Talagan.

"He lives, merely rendered momentarily without breath. His heart is beating and he draws air, though shallowly," her report given she motioned for help from two of the guards and they heaved the warrior up and bore him away. Gladhadithen remained, for her curiosity was too great to ignore and the corpsman needed no urgent tending.

"He attacked Maltahondo," said one of the soldiers as his glance implicated Erestor. His speech was quiet and the tones lacked the heat of anger one might expect such a charge to hold.

"Aye, but the Noldo was provoked," another warrior added solemnly.

"Indeed, the corpsman deserves worse if the claims spoken be true!" a third vehemently intoned.

Aragorn registered Erestor's look of pure astonishment at these statements and shrugged. "They all know Quenya quite well, it seems."

Now Erestor was horrified for once more his loose tongue had betrayed Pen-rhovan's trust. He had never intended to divulge Legolas' secret to the population.

"And what say you, Erestor of Gondolin, in defence of your actions?" asked the captain, suspicious at his troops' reactions of support for the outlanders. "What are these claims?"

"Maltahondo is not what he appears to be. He has deeply wounded one that is dear to me, and I will not have his crimes go unnoticed and unpunished," said Erestor boldly.

"It is not your place to mete out justice in our lands! We shall see to the enforcement of our own Laws and need not the aid of the Noldor of Imladris to show us our duty," the Sinda hissed.

"It is our Tirno," one of Danwaith warriors softly spoke. "And these are not crimes to be voiced in the open council, Talagan. The Noldo is his lover; there are certain rights beyond the Law."

Erestor, Aragorn and Talagan all startled to hear this declaration but for very different reasons. The veteran warrior was amazed at the ease with which the Danwaith accepted the disgraced prince's unorthodox choice for mates, a foreign male of a race despised among the Sindar and a wizard not even of like kind. The Wood Elves seemed to find no fault with their champion requiring sex and soul bonding from separate individuals. Talagan shook his head, perplexed.

Aragorn and Erestor were surprised to hear the seneschal given the intimate designation. To any elf the bond of union was clear in his eyes. Based on the combination of the day's testimony and Erestor's actions on Legolas' behalf the warriors assumed this bond was with their Tirno. The Imladrians felt it best under the circumstances not to reveal that the Noldo would not be staying with the Tawarwaith. The Sylvan folk's opinion had readily strayed from Legolas more than once, what the warriors would make of the less than formal liaison they could not guess.

"Aye, he seeks redress for despoiling the purity of a child," yet another said, his words fulsome with anguish and loathing to even have to voice such a thought.

"Sadly, I must confirm these accusations are true. I have known of this since the Release of Annaldír, but for Legolas' sake remained silent," said the healer. She turned with apologetic eyes to Erestor. "He had no one then; it seemed a greater burden for this to become open gossip, considering the weight of the Judgement he bears already. Fearfaron and Mithrandir also heard Maltahondo's complete admission to these despicable acts and the three of us determined he was never to go near our Tawarwaith again or face disgrace before the Council."

The seneschal shared her pained expression; he had no doubt that she understood the corpsman's doubled deceit.

"By Namo!" breathed out Talagan barely above a whisper. His perusal of Elrond's letter had gone far enough to reveal Maltahondo as part of the fallen elf's past, but he would never have imagined these events taking place while Legolas was but an elfling under the guardian's care. The fact that Legolas had survived the ordeal spoke volumes as to the truth of the claims, for everyone understood how deeply he loved the guardsman. Malthen had been his brother, his father and his mentor, all at once.

How easy it must have been to manipulate such adoration! This explains the wizard's bond; only that salvaged the archer. And even with all of this running through his thoughts, still the depth of the injury was hidden from Talagan, for he knew nothing of Maltahondo's affair with the Queen.

The implications this news held in regard to the events at Erebor were blatantly unignorable, and the captain could see many of the warriors shared his feelings. Maltahondo had ample motivation to seek the archer's silence forever, for the rape of a child was the one crime the Wood Elves deemed worthy of immediate execution, preferably by the hand of the innocent's parents. No decree of Council or King was required, for the evidence of such a heinous corruption was apparent in the victim's defiled and lifeless body. An elf had never committed such a sin that was recorded in the histories; these horrendous desecrations were the result of Orc raids on families travelling to or from the Woodland Realm.

"What is to be done, captain?" asked one warrior.

"He must die!" exclaimed another in exasperation for so obvious a remedy.

"Wait, you do not understand," cautioned Erestor in alarm. "Legolas still loves him! If Malthen dies because of this, I know not if the archer can endure."

This admission made the assembled elves very uncomfortable for a time as they tried to find a logical way to add this into their understanding of their champion. It was the healer who wisely found the correct explanation.

"Of course he loves Malthen! Has he not always done so? It is the natural development of a child's mind and heart to think this way. The guardsman's time and companionship filled the gaps left by his parents' neglect. Handled properly, this infatuation would have faded. This makes the crime more abhorrent, for Maltahondo twisted that emotion all around and added into the mix the pleasures of the body. Nay, Legolas is not strong enough to survive the guilt such an execution would bring him."

"Many die on patrol," commented Talagan dryly. "But I would hear his account of Erebor first, to judge if any remorse resides in the corpsman's heart. If he condemns Tirno further, then his crimes against his former charge can be revealed. Maltahondo will discover his fate drastically altered. I am thinking he is fit bait for the pitfalls."

"Nay, captain, if he speaks thus then the King will only have cause to withdraw his pledge of support for our Tawarwaith even before we have had opportunity to give it!" complained one of the soldiers. "And I would not see Tirno humiliated by the revelation of this evil abuse before the Council and Lord Thranduil. Hard enough it was to face down the derogation of his character for consorting with Noldor spies!"

Erestor frowned at this but for the time being the soldiers seemed rather to have chosen to overlook that he was one of those spies.

"He handled it well enough, even the King was impressed with his fortitude," spoke another.

"Thranduil knows of it anyway," murmured Talagan, suddenly wondering if the King was fully cognisant of the extent to which the guardsman had used Ningloriel's son. Did he realise it prior to the letter? Could he have been aware of this and still left the elfling to such a cursed fate? He wished to believe his old friend incapable of such cold-hearted apathy, but he understood more than anyone how deeply Thranduil resented the child, truly believing him to be the illegitimate offspring of Elrond of Imladris.

"Eru's arse!" seethed Erestor in rage. "How could he permit such a thing to happen to an innocent?"

A chorus of similar comments arose among the increasingly large number of warriors in the stableyard and the Danwaith questioned openly the validity of such a callous elf to lead them. It was for them all the same, doing the act and allowing it to be done, and Thranduil was in their minds as guilty as the corpsman.

"He wanted Legolas to die," whispered Gladhadithen and covered her face in her hands, as she wept for the pain the elfling had suffered, alone and unaided by anyone. "Legolas' death would have forced Ningloriel to provide him a new heir. Why did I not see it?"

"Do not blame yourself," Erestor consoled her kindly. "His own mother had no inkling this was happening either."

"Oh? You sound very sure of that," the healer mumbled through her choking sobs. "Did you know Ningloriel well? Did she speak of her son to you?"

Erestor found himself at a loss and shared a look with Aragorn communicating that the answer to both questions was negative. He could not bring himself to reply; once again his well-intentioned remarks had instead added to the calamity in progress.

The Man placed a comforting hand on his old tutor's shoulder and squeezed. "Such speculation is pointless and does not help Legolas," he reminded everyone.

"Aye, this is not about whether anyone could have prevented the despoilment; it is done. Neither need we wonder if he is able to withstand exposure of his broken soul. Instead I ask, would we wish it required of him?" posited one of the Sylvans.

"I do not think you need worry over Maltahondo's testimony, for there is other evidence that casts doubt upon Legolas' responsibility," Aragorn added. "Indeed, whatever the guardian may say can do no further harm. Therefore, let not this other matter come before the Council and the hearing of the entire congregation of Legolas' people."

"That all here can agree upon; we will prevent it if possible," stated Talagan conclusively and the combined assent of the gathered elves flowed in soothingly protective tones across the grounds.

Before they could continue the nearly noiseless pressure of elven feet racing over the grass captured the crowds' attention and the warriors stood aside once more to admit Lindalcon within the inner circle of the impromptu hearing. The young elf looked at this assembly in bewilderment, resting his sight last on Aragorn and Erestor. He gawked at the seneschal's ruined attire and mussed hair.

"What is this?" he demanded worriedly. "Mithrandir grows concerned and Aiwendil is fuming over your failure to bring that honey-milk! Fearfaron sent me to fetch you back for Legolas feels something amiss. The Council is ready to reconvene and we must make haste or Legolas will have to confront the King's interrogation without you."

Without another word the group dispersed, Talagan leading the warriors and Gladhadithen back through the stableyard to the armoury. Entering the stronghold through the archways there and filing towards the Council Chamber, the guards quickly reclaimed their positions at the back of the room. Aragorn and Erestor turned and hastened into the garden after Lindalcon, dismayed to find the green turfed lawns empty of their friends. As they passed through the doorway and squeezed between the gathered throng, the King shot them a withering glare.

Legolas heaved an audible sigh of relief that turned into a gasp upon observing the Noldo's disarrayed locks and dirty clothes. His eyes questioned his two friends but Aragorn only smiled reassurance as Erestor mouthed that he was fine and not to worry, the meaning decipherable to the wild elf even if the implied words were not. 

"The recent charges have all been dismissed or revoked and Tirno no longer stands accused. Several citizens, however, have come forward and expressed to me and to other members of this Council…" Iarwain was speaking for the record and stopped mid sentence as his vision took in Erestor.

Far from the noble demeanour he had presented earlier, the seneschal was a mess. His carefully groomed hair was askew, the ribbon wrappings unravelled and bits of straw caught within the braiding. His tunic had several small spots of blood staining it and one knee of his breeches had a tear while the other was completely ingrained with grime. He smelled distinctly like the stableyard.

"…strong reservations over the Judgement imposed at the Battle of Erebor," the Elder belatedly completed his thought with a scowl of disapproval for the Imladrians. "It is therefore right to rehear the testimony of the parties involved that day and determine if the Tawarwaith truly deserves the punishment allotted. Let those who deem the Judgement false speak now and identify their reasons for the histories."

"I challenge the Judgement," spoke Mithrandir. He felt, as did Legolas, that rehashing the events would lead to some greater calamity, but with the trial underway he could not withhold his eyewitness account. "I was present that day and can swear that no goblins had over-run the ridge above Legolas. Therefore, he could not have exposed his position to enemy attack from above, yet that is whence the rocks were thrown which defeated his careful aim."

"For my part, I must be the one to claim responsibility for the errors made in perception that day. I was Legolas' commander and left too much of a burden for one archer to bear. Had I positioned more snipers and made better use of the allied ground forces, the goal may have been achieved," Talagan said contritely. The warriors around him grumbled in disagreement; this was not the answer.

"I must protest that on principle, for I am no warrior," strangely enough, it was Fearfaron who spoke for the assembled soldiers. "This was war, and the fate of a warrior is held not within the hands of his captain, his comrades, his enemy or even himself. The chances of life and death upon the battlefield are equal, none can predict who will survive and who will perish before the end of the battle. Neither can one elf prevent the deaths or secure the lives of any of those soldiers engaged in the conflict. Unless he be their King and have the power to prevent the army from marching from our borders in the first place."

At this flagrant challenge to his authority and open dispute of his decision to claim Smaug's horde, Thranduil leaped from his chair, his face red in outrage.

"By Eru, you would dare accuse me?" he cursed and fairly charged from the dais towards the carpenter.

This time he was not quick enough, however, and before he was within arm's length of the spirit hunter the Tawarwaith jumped between them, in the same motion snatching away the curved dagger from the belt at the Sinda's waist. Legolas held the blade poised to dart deep into the immortal body towering over him, the glint in his icy eyes as sharply dangerous, alight with an equal promise of death. 

"Daro! Dartho ad! E aval matho! [Stop! Stay back! You will not touch him,]" came the chilling order.

In spite of himself Thranduil froze on the spot, every nerve in his body tingling in warning of his imperilment. He took one step away from this unexpected transformation of weepy elfling to fearsome protector. Thranduil saw the carpenter's hand contact his foster son's shoulder, pulling ever so slightly. The fey creature eased his stance enough for all to resume respiration again. Legolas lowered the blade.

"None of this is necessary, for I say again and for the record: let the Judgement remain!" Legolas continued in the same tone of command and none dared interrupt the voice of Tawar. "The Battle of Erebor is history and the losses endured are irreversible. Nothing will bring back those killed save the will of Mandos. That is what this is about! Two of our comrades have yet to face the Vala, and until they do their fate cannot be determined; their re-birth delayed indefinitely.

"Fearfaron is wrong; those warriors' deaths could have been prevented and I am the one who held their fates that day! I alone had the advantage of the heights, and could observe the movements on the battle plain with greater acumen than even Talagan with all his years of experience. From my position, I watched the Goblin guards decimate our troops and our allies.

"I had ample access to those despicable fighters and numerous chances to shoot them. I could have killed them all. Had I done so I would have spared the lives of the Lost Warriors as well as several score among the dwarves and Men! With the bodyguard removed, I could then have taken my leisure and slain the Goblin King unopposed.

"Thus, the burden of Erebor is mine alone to bear."

Silence.

Unbearable, excruciating absence of sound filled the vacuum left by the completion of the Tawarwaith's speech. Within the tightly packed chamber a heavy emptiness descended; a smothering, tactile void, a suffocating gauze of pulsing discord wrought by the elevated emotions discharged between the carpenter, the King, and the outcast. In hushed uneasy tension the very air felt stretched, impossible to breathe, transmuted into filaments of spun glass pulled too thin to support the mass of the silica. The merest disturbance must surely shatter the atmosphere beneath the weight of the burden imposed by the conflict.

The Wood Elves waited in dread anticipation for the destruction of their champion, for how would the King abide that open challenge and blatant threat? Juxtaposed with the magnitude of the wild elf's treacherous action, his words failed to overshadow the population's morbid fascination with the blade. 

The dagger had been drawn, held in vengeful ferocity before Thranduil's solid chest shielded under the thick leather jerkin. So easily had the knife found its place in the Wood Elf's hand; it became as a thing alive through connection to the wild warrior's wrath. But the outcast was a tease, hinting that rich elven heart's blood would whet the weapon's long, dry and thirsty surface only to lower the razor fine edge to point at the cold, stone floor. How many millennia had the dirk been cosseted away in silk and velvet-lined leather, shown off only as a prize rather than the deadly device designed to serve Caranthir the Dark, kinslayer of Menegroth, the fiercest son of Fëanáro? Would such a weapon now suffer being put away unslaked?

Held limp and dangling in the Tawarwaith's fingers, its potential for carnage seemed magnified; possessing a power of its own, its slashing strength grew more formidable by the second. Enough, perhaps, to overwhelm the fallen archer's better qualities and induce him to release the rage of centuries upon his tormentor. Legolas had unsheathed the blade, it would be even easier now to simply raise it up and strike.

Yet, not a single one of the Danwaith believed their exiled prince was prepared to destroy Thranduil. What then must become of the Sylvans, dragged into the abomination of kinslaying beyond anything known among them before? Could they stand frozen and behold the King's retaliation? Many had been prepared to accept the sacrifice of the Tawarwaith in payment for the lives of the Lost Warriors, but to forfeit their champion for the pride of the Sinda Lord grated upon the soul. That was not a death worthy of entry within the Halls of Waiting.

Like green blades in a meadow swept by a shifting wind, the Wood Elves billowed under the fluctuating flow of perturbed captivation, yearning both to flee and to stay, to evade eye-witness knowledge of the catastrophe and to watch the fate of the outcast play out.

None found the means to decamp. It was as though invisible strands of hithlain [mist thread, used to make elven rope strong and light] bound the chamber's occupants. Each individual linked to another yet together remained isolated in distinct conglomerates, every group ensnared in the web of strained sensibility. There stood the soldiers on one side, enraged to know the truth of their leader's unfeeling heart. The citizenry filled the room's other half, terrified that the very roots of their society seemed to be afflicted with necrosis, while the diplomats and councillors formed a buffer between them. Each party struggled to separate from the conflicting core containing their Tawarwaith and their King, held mesmerised by the point of the dagger so casually clasped, so ominously poised.

But no retaliation did the soldiers seek. As a unit they retained their aloof demeanour, projecting restrained hostility toward Thranduil. Not one of them had made any move to assist their King, not even Talagan.

The concept of the guards failing to back their Lord was unimaginable; the Wood Elves knew not what to think and determined the warriors were responding to the carpenter's statement. Fearfaron's opinion was not foreign to the folk of the Woodland Realm. Indeed, their shock was due more to the sound of words, heretofore whispered in the quiet confines of flet and talan, reverberating through the halls of the King's own stronghold. Many privately agreed with Fearfaron's assessment of the reason for the Battle of Erebor, finding the waste of life for such a purpose unacceptable. Yet, up to now, none but a few had dared to openly express these thoughts or even to speak privately to the Council.

And soon Thranduil heard the omnipresent silence rather than the thudding of his heart and realised he still faced this threat alone. Of its own accord, his right hand settled upon the hilt of the sword of Dior.

Legolas sighed, venting his soul of regret and irritation. The ire left his eyes, trained steadily on those of the Woodland Lord, and the Tawarwaith comprehended the lack of wisdom in presenting such heated resentment. He expected to be swamped at any moment by a wave of warriors intent on sparing their Lord and decided to lessen the chance of Fearfaron suffering from such a mauling. The forest champion turned the dagger hilt out facing and extended his arm.

Thranduil seized the weapon and swiftly drew it from the almost open palm, cutting a deep incision across the older laceration made by Talagan's sword, a small reprimand in physical form.

With a soft hissing exhalation Legolas yanked his hand back and closed his fingers tight around the wound, but a splatter of blood oozed out to stain the floor as the blade slipped back into its sheath with a soft sigh of satisfaction. It had taken its taste of the First-born's essence and was content. 

A simmering whisper of rising wrath rippled through the warriors at the sight of the crimson droplets going glossy black as they struck the stone but no reprisals arose, for the elves were as uneasy with their discontent as Thranduil was to note it. Could they truly do bodily harm to their King? Could they stand by indifferently as their champion received further abuses?

Fearfaron gripped Legolas tighter.

Nothing happened. No move to apprehend him developed.

In bewilderment Legolas scanned the throng of soldiers and found unexpectedly sympathetic expressions directed towards him. First sharing his astonishment via a quick glance over his shoulder to Fearfaron, Legolas returned his attention to the King.

Thranduil glared into the uncomfortably insistent and perplexed lapis orbs of the wild elf, trying to understand what the outcast could possibly hope to achieve by his words after his incendiary confrontation. No one had ever drawn a weapon on Thranduil without suffering severe reprisal, even unto forfeiture of life, yet the fallen prince stood straight, no longer crouched as if ready to spring, calmly awaiting the Sinda's countermove, staring with that disconcerting expression of earnest contrition and stubborn defiance.

The King focused on the bleeding hand and debated whether to imprison the outcast as would be within his rights under the Law. Yet, Thranduil felt an uneasy squeezing in his gut as his senses registered the intensity of the attention he was receiving from his subjects, little of it holding good will. Realising none of the warriors had moved to protect him was a greater blow than any the Sinda Lord had known since shouldering the monarchy; the loyalty of his soldiers had been a constant in his reign.

It is the Tawarwaith's doing. How he has created this rift in only one hour's time?

Anger flared anew yet Thranduil did not act on it, uncertain for the first time since his father's death whether his orders would be obeyed. He turned and resumed his place upon the dais but remained standing. 

Fearfaron wrapped both arms around his adopted son's chest and pulled him close, bowing his forehead upon Legolas' crown and exhaling a relieved sough as the King retreated. His second son was in enough discomfort owing to the trial and the spirit hunter felt guilty for beckoning further disaster by baiting Thranduil. He had not expected Legolas to act so rashly, and the ease with which the fallen archer had chosen a course of violence concerned him greatly. The carpenter did not know how to help Legolas understand this regrettable habit of chasing after punishment much less prompt him to stop.

Legolas had but this one chance to redirect his life back to a more normal set of circumstances and Fearfaron, while able to appreciate why he refused it, was saddened to know the combined arguments of himself, Aiwendil and Lindalcon had failed to sway the wild elf. Legolas had ceased his impassioned rebuttals in the scant glimmering of pre-dawn after hours of circuitous discussion, and the talan builder had allowed himself to believe his foster son had been won over.

It was perfectly clear now that the Tawarwaith not only rejected the ideas but quite forcefully shoved them from him as though the concept of pardon was an abominable epithet, proudly gathering his shameful status close like a title of prestige and dignity. The wild warrior seemed to be deliberately offering more reasons to find fault with his behaviour on the battle plain.

Legolas' friends might comprehend his motives, but Thranduil certainly could not. Upsetting the Judgement of Erebor was the only way for the outcast to reclaim his citizenship among his people, to return to active participation in defence of his beloved Greenwood, to seek the shores of the Undying Lands in future. Should the stigma of his crimes remain, Legolas would be refused entry to Eldamar where his mother dwelled. If for nothing else than this Thranduil had expected the former prince to actively campaign for overturning the sentence.

Whom is he shielding? Someone he loves.

No sooner had the thought flitted through his mind than the King's eyes flickered away and darted between Fearfaron and Erestor. It made no sense for the carpenter to be involved in his son's death and thus upon the seneschal his scrutiny remained. The Noldo glared back from a countenance drawn into openly hostile lines and creases.

Friendship indeed! First the wizard, now this Noldo Lord; the outcast's promiscuity has garnered some rather unusual supporters for my Realm.

Knowing nothing of the elf's private life, Thranduil had made the same mistake as his soldiers and Erestor's expression reinforced this. And in spite of his dismay over the warriors' betrayal Thranduil felt his face form a grin of immense satisfaction as he imagined Elrond's reaction to the defection of his most trusted associate.

Watching all this transpire, Mithrandir, Aiwendil and Lindalcon remained frozen in dread while Aragorn and Erestor stood poised for action, the hilts of their swords enclosed in their steely grips. The fingers of Mithrandir's right hand held onto the arm of his brother wizard, for Radagast was ready to put his staff to work on the Sinda's head. With his left arm Gandalf embraced Lindalcon both for comfort and to prevent the young elf from dashing into the dangerous centre of altercation. The doughty woodsman had insinuated his bulk amid the councillors and their apprentices and stared with eyes the shape of Ithil bant [full moon]. 

It was Gladhadithen who mitigated the intensity of the high emotions and calmed the assembly. She briskly stepped from among the warriors, sundering the coherence of their scorching glares of strife and enmity convergent on the King. Facing Legolas with a disapproving scowl reminiscent of a mother about to scold an elfling for horseplay in the talan, the healer held out her hand, demanding he reveal the injury. Legolas complied.

"It is not too deep and should be fine in a day. Yet it might have become serious," she said, clearly not referring to the laceration alone. "There is a time and place for weapons, Tirno, and this is neither!" she reprimanded and cleaned the cut with a soft cloth drawn from her pocket. 

"Aye," he answered quietly and Fearfaron rubbed his shoulders, finally loosening his protective hold.

"Please, Legolas, have some consideration for the well-being of your friends! My heart ceased pounding for several seconds, fearing you were about to be struck down," grumbled Aiwendil.

"Indeed, we were all concerned for you, my friend," spoke Aragorn in relieved tones. He had been in Thranduil's place once and recalled vividly the cold shrinking sensation that collected in his gut that night.

Erestor chose to remain silent, for his memories concerning daggers and the wild elf gave him a sick feeling also, and he was gravely worried.

"It was not a wise move, certainly, but I believe we all understand your motives and those are just," added Mithrandir unsuccessfully attempting to make the pitch of his words light and calming. It was impossible, for the rage he had seen in Legolas' eyes too closely resembled the haze of blood lust consuming the wild warrior on the morning after the spider battle.

"Just?" barked Thranduil. "What, then, is your definition of malediction?"

"Your concept of Judgement readily presents itself," retorted the Maia.

Far! [Enough!] The abrupt, unvoiced command from the Tawarwaith jerked the Istar mentally and physically and he refrained from further argument with the King of the Woodland Elves. 

Behind them Iarwain cleared his throat to make sure everyone's attention was properly placed in his direction.

"Aye, your reasons were understandable, Tirno, and who would not respond in like manner to see a loved one threatened?" the eldest elder said, but though his words addressed the archer he was watching the Woodland Lord. "A similar reaction on Talagan's part has only a short time ago been forgiven."

At this Thranduil gave a snort of contempt. "You see it strangely, councillor. Talagan sought to defend his King and prince while the outcast held my own weapon upon me in menace."

"We were both protecting what we honour; it is exactly the same," countered the captain with a voice so cold it was all Thranduil could do to repress a shiver.

The Sinda's puzzlement and irritation grew, for Talagan's demeanour bespoke more than the hurt feelings and cantankerous disgruntlement his earlier mood had projected. What has happened? Thranduil's eyes queried his old friend but received only a glare of raw anger in return.

"Truly, when those we cherish are imperilled it is difficult to think in terms of rational caution. If a father's love might provoke unfounded fears and blinding rage, might not a son react in kind?" added Aragorn and earned a sneer of derision from Thranduil for his insolence.

Yet the response among the crowd was supportive of the Man's statement; Tirno had sought no counter-charges for being falsely accused of the most horrendous of criminal acts upon an innocent.

"Fine!" the King snarled. "It may have seemed I was about to do the carpenter injury yet I would never attack an elf, especially one unarmed. Let it not be said I am unforgiving of Tirno's over-zealous instinct to safeguard his foster father. The blood spilled shall be sufficient penance since the knife was surrendered voluntarily."

"Hurrah! A pardon!" shouted out the woodsman as he threw a hand up high to emphasise his relief. He turned and shoved his way toward the open arches, deeming it his lot to carry the news out to the eldar in the courtyard. Of course he knew the Wood Elves' hearing was sufficiently acute to make his outcry unnecessary, but perhaps the humble human had seen enough of the justice of the Sylvans for a time.

"And wisely granted," Mithrandir nodded his head sagely, "for Legolas has shown the calibre of his character before in salvaging my life and that of Aragorn through the perilous journey among the bespelled trees and during our fight against the Orcs."

"Even before that, he kept me from the clutches of the Wraiths and the tortures of Dol Guldur. That scar on his clavicle was suffered for my benefit," Erestor added, "a poisoned wound."

Shuddering mumbles of empathy filtered across the chamber; poison was a hideous means of death and many had watched helplessly as loved ones succumbed to such treacheries.

"All of this testimony casts doubt upon those strong recriminations pertaining to Erebor, Tirno," said Iarwain. "You must see that your actions then were bound by your duty to obey orders and your inexperience with such conflict."

"Aye," said Talagan sternly. "It is not the place of one warrior to dispute the plans of his captain, or all would be lost before ever an arrow was loosed."

"That is true. Not even a seasoned soldier will ignore his leader's commands for to do so would spread confusion among the rest of the troops and initiate greater loss of life," Aragorn joined in.

"Even if you had killed those bodyguards that would not have insured the lives of the Lost Warriors," Lindalcon declared. For all the long years since the fateful battle, he had seldom entered reverie without enduring a harrowing dream of the gory scenes and his father's end. "Valtamar would have placed his body between death and Andamaitë regardless of your choice in targets."

"Nay, none of you understand!" Legolas snapped. "You were not there on the ridge, Talagan, but had you been you would have surely ordered me to shoot the goblin guards first!"

"You cannot know what I would order, Tirno. Your experience is greater now but your expertise is in a much different style of combat than the warfare between organised armies we faced that day in Erebor.

"It is the lot of a commander to know a good portion of his best soldiers may be lost due to his decisions, and yet these must be made. If I would have changed my orders, as you suggest, then that only speaks to my errors in the initial assessment of the best strategy to use. The fault cannot rest upon the shoulders of the novice to battle, but upon the veteran!"

"The fault rests on Thranduil!" shouted a warrior boldly as querulous muttering followed the captain's words.

"Fearfaron is right! Why did our soldiers pour out their life blood upon the dragon's stash?" another rejoined.

"The warriors willingly sign on for duty!" yelled an opposing voice from the crowd of citizens.

"We need the treasure to furnish your weaponry and supplement the sustenance granted by the forest!" countered a hotly strident Sinda from the very edges of the archway.

"Are the vaults depleted that we must sacrifice our kinfolk to satisfy the greed of the stronghold?" demanded a Sylvan father to three elflings motherless since Erebor.

Soon a loud cacophony of angry arguing filled the chamber and the temperature rose dangerously among the jostling throng. It seemed a small war might erupt within the hall as the polarised elves took sides and harangued each other.

"Calm yourselves!" boomed Mithrandir's voice.

"This is not the way to solve the dilemma!" cautioned Aiwendil.

"Peace! Let not Erebor claim more from among us!" called out Legolas, alarmed to see the mounting dissension. He rounded on Thranduil. "Will you not speak? Here is ample reason to leave the Judgement alone!"

Upon his words all other voices ceased and everyone turned to witness this new challenge to their King.

Thranduil was stunned by the lack of cohesion among the people and realised his base of power sprang not from the respect of the Danwaith but from the strength of his forces. He had managed to convince himself that the simple Sylvan elves regarded their Sindar cousins with something close to awe for the glory of Doriath. By association, Thranduil imagined he and his captains enjoyed the same reverent respect.

Like many in a position of power and prestige, Thranduil assumed he had achieved his status by virtue of his innate superiority. He completely failed to acknowledge that his Lordship existed due to an unspoken contract, a covenant between himself and his subjects. They agreed to let him exercise their individual power as a unified entity and in exchange the King was to honour that trust with protection and safeguard for themselves and their trees.

Without the immigrants from Neldoreth and their well-disciplined troops, the Wood Elves would be at the mercy of the Shadow, yet now that the warriors' allegiance was revoked from Thranduil the citizenry divided into antagonistic factions of discord. They would follow whoever gained the support of the soldiers, and that was obviously not the King.

In fact, the troops, Sindar and Sylvan alike, were overwhelmingly united in their renewed faith in the disgraced prince.

"I will speak," Thranduil stepped down from the platform, moving to stand beside Legolas as he faced the crowd.

"This Realm is under siege and everyone had best comprehend that fact," his bitter words began. "Without the might of our warriors, the forest would fall to the Wraiths and the Danwaith would be forced either to flee for Lothlorien or over the Misty Mountains, chased to the Havens by foul Warg riders. Would you abandon your homeland and the trees that have sheltered the Sylvan folk since before the face of Ithil graced the skies?"

"What would you know of it; this is not your motherland!" a disgruntled Wood Elf demanded.

"Aye, my country fell under the weight of the Darkness threatening you now!" countered Thranduil. "So perhaps I understand something of it after all, whether this is the land of my birth or no!"

"Your father's Sindar troops did not save Neldoreth!" shot back another dissenter.

"Nay, but not due to failure or weakness on the part of the warriors or of Oropher. Doriath fell due to conflict from within Thingol's fortress. Let not the Danwaith be forced to re-enact the panic of the Grey Elves upon the loss of their leader!" cautioned Thranduil.

That prompted a rebellious quietude.

"Erebor was my decision, that is true. My cause for marching had less to do with gaining treasures than with reminding the rest of Arda of the might of the Wood Elves. Not since the Last Alliance have our warriors gone to open conflict, and in such darkening days we appear to be hiding in fear and dread. I desired to instruct the minions of Melkor; the Danwaith are not to be tested without exacting a heavy price in casualties."

"Those are honourable reasons," said Legolas as though these were the most natural sentiments for him to express. "We have indeed been pressed farther and farther into the northern corner of Greenwood. The Shadow grows bold, thinking us too diminished to defend our lands."

He seemed surprised by the utter silence following his words and eventually turned to look meaningfully at Thranduil, prompting him to continue.

"And it will not do for the free peoples of Arda to discount the Wood Elves," added Thranduil hesitantly, sending a bewildered side-glance to the outcast. "Lake Town and Dale have no standing army and could never have defeated the goblins alone."

"Yet that the goblins would attack was not known when first you set forth from beneath the Greenwood's branches," quarrelled Fearfaron and received the most exasperated expression from his foster son he had ever seen.

"Not to those uninvolved in tracking the spread of Melkor's demon hordes," explained the King more confidently. "Yet my captains and I, and even the councillors to some extent, have long been aware that only fear of Smaug repelled the Goblin King. It was his greatest desire to over throw the dwarves of the Iron Mountains and enslave the citizens of Dale. The dwarves he would have slaughtered while the humans would have become so much livestock, imprisoned below ground and bred to provide fodder for the foul beasts!"

"Do you now claim you had the interests of Durin's Children foremost in your plans when you led your warriors out of the forest?" scoffed the brown wizard.

"Nay, Aiwendil!" Legolas interrupted the exchange, vexation transforming his voice as he lifted his arms to emphasise his annoyance, letting them drop again with a shallow slap against his thighs. "The King need not be motivated by altruism for the dwarves, only the interests of Greenwood. How would it be to have the goblins at our back gate while the Wraiths remain squatters within our southern regions?"

These words caused everyone to pause again; for hearing the Tawarwaith defend the King's decision over the Battle of Erebor was certainly not what the citizens expected.

That Thranduil found this equally bewildering was plain by the expression of quizzical doubt expressed by his staring eyes.

"You speak wisely, Tirno," he said cautiously and gauged the elves' reaction before continuing. The Danwaith remained attentively mute and the warriors held their peace as well. "And even were the Wraiths not there and the goblins cared not to remain in Erebor, still would the Greenwood suffer should the dwarves be destroyed.

"Much that we require comes in trade from their talented smiths and armourers. We have not the means here to make such works, nor do the humans in Rohan possess the skill to meet our standards. Lothlorien also depends upon the dwarves of the Iron Mountains for goods and material for the tools of war. We would be forced to journey all the way to Ered Luin without Dain's colony."

Aragorn and Erestor exchanged looks, wordlessly agreeing it would be best not to mention that Thranduil might trade with Imladris for such necessities. Among the Noldor of the protected valley were many gifted metalworkers trained by no less than Celebrimbror himself.

"I can see the practical value of what you say," averred Iarwain, unwilling to be left out of this unexpected concurrence between the wild archer and his estranged father. He could easily see that Legolas intended to salvage the King, though the reasons were wholly inexplicable to the ancient elder. "And it is also true that even the Beornings recognised the threat promised by the demise of the dragon, for unbidden Beorn brought his changelings forth."

"Beorn is not above a bit of treasure either," noted Gandalf with amusement. "Sometimes even the shape-shifters cannot produce all required for their existence and must trade among the other free peoples. It would seem the dragon's horde would draw the desire of every kind, be they good or evil!"

"That being so, why should the Greenwood not claim her share? Most of what Smaug collected was scavenged and stolen from Doriath and the Noldor Realms that fell in the First or Second Ages. Surely one elven race has at least equal claim to elven wealth as lesser folk," Thranduil opined.

"Fair enough. I am convinced the goblins could not have been defeated without the combined efforts of the Four Armies of Light against the Hordes of Darkness," said Radagast. "Whatever the motive for marching, the cause for the fighting was worthy." He sent his friend a cheery smile, recalling the spilling of these words from Legolas' lips just months ago.

"Good!" interjected the Tawarwaith, sending a warm grin back. He was pleased to at last see the chance to draw the peoples' attention away from criticising Thranduil's leadership. "In that case it should be easy to comprehend the necessity for every person in that conflict to pounce upon whatever advantage presented itself. Do you now understand how my lack of initiative brought about so much more needless destruction?"

"What you perceived from the ridge has not been determined," snapped Fearfaron in frustration. Why must he persist in this self-accusation?

"Where is Maltahondo?" demanded Iarwain. "He has yet to utter a word of what his insight revealed that day."

At this point the warriors shifted about uncomfortably and grumbled ominously among themselves. No one spoke openly against the corpsman yet the mood among the soldiers was obviously less than conciliatory toward their comrade.

Perplexed by the absence of this crucial witness, the citizens became agitated again. Everyone craned their heads and peered around one another's shoulders to catch a glimpse of the effect this new wrinkle might produce upon the principals involved in the hearing.

"It does not matter what Lego… Tirno observed nor what Maltahondo discerned," Talagan nearly spoke the outcast's name aloud, something only Fearfaron, Lindalcon, and Mithrandir had publicly dared since the Judgement. "Neither of them had the authority to over-ride my decisions that day. It is not necessary for the corpsman to be here in order to clear our Tawarwaith of unjust condemnation."

"Perhaps not, but I for one would like to know what occurred that day," said Iarwain.

"As would I!" Thranduil stated. 

"It matters not! What transpired has already been told; the Lost Warriors must remain our focus here!" blurted Legolas, alarmed for this to be stirred up once more just when he thought it was all settled. "No solution will come from hearing more talk; my actions alone can release them."

"Nay, Legolas, in this you are wrong," said Lindalcon in anguished and sombre timbre. "Every night for these last seventeen years I have dreamed of the Battle of Erebor. Over and over I must witness my Adar's death! His message to me is clear: no peace shall he enjoy until the truth of Erebor is revealed. Indeed, no peace shall I have either. Not only the warriors need release!"

"Gwador dithen! [Little brother]" exhaled Legolas and moved at once to take Lindalcon into his embrace. "Aliston! Boe anle trenared nin. [I did not know! You should have told me.]" He pressed his forehead against the younger elf's as Valtamar's son shook his head.

"Avaniron le isto. Avaniron echedi anle prestad. [I did not want you to know. I did not want to make trouble for you.]"

Fearfaron sighed and went to comfort them both, one arm around each as he pulled them near his heart, whispering a hasty prayer to the Powers for solace upon his charges. Another heavy breath escaped his lungs and he looked toward Talagan. "Where is the guardsman?"

Uncomfortable silence ensued. Other than the warriors and the healer, only Aragorn and Erestor knew what had befallen the deceitful soldier; none of them wanted to speak up.

And though he was glad not to have to face his former lover or hear the once-beloved voice speak words that would blame him, Legolas was also puzzled and worried over the warrior's absence. The fallen archer had been so uncomfortably aware of Malthen's leering stare all through the morning that he was amazed not to have instantly noted the lack of it when the Council resumed.

Thranduil grew impatient as he stared first at Talagan, then at Legolas, and finally at Erestor's untidy appearance. The King's face contracted into a suspicious scowl as the seneschal squared up his shoulders and smirked back.

"What is going on here?" demanded the King. "Tell me at once what has happened!"

"There is no need for alarm," Gladhadithen once again stepped in to defuse the smouldering atmosphere. "Maltahondo is indisposed. I came upon him in the barn corridor, unconscious. The soldier is currently within the house of healing under supervision."

Now the fact that two solid spearmen were monitoring the corpsman's recovery and simultaneously ensuring he did not attempt to flee again was judiciously withheld by the worthy healer. Even so, many had caught the King's focus upon the Noldo, and a hearty whispering advanced through the crowd as to the nature of the guardsman's sudden illness.

The arched brows and incredulous expression in the Sinda Lord's eyes gave ample evidence that he would insist on a more thorough explanation than this.

Fearfaron, however, saw a promising opportunity, a respite from the Valar, ripe for retrieval and greedily the spirit hunter plucked it from the possible and made it reality.

"This trial cannot proceed without such an important participant's input, Councillor Iarwain," he said with barely repressed jubilation. "I request we adjourn the hearing until such time as Gladhadithen proclaims Maltahondo fit to appear!"

"Indeed, nothing further can be learned until his tale is told," added Mithrandir. "I agree with Fearfaron; we should re-open the trial when the corpsman is able to speak."

"So noted," Fêrlass hastily added before the King could speak the questions obviously forming in his sceptical mind.

Thranduil scowled at his councillors but held his tongue.

The elders conferred together a second or two before Iarwain faced the assembly.

"It is decided. The Council will cease until the healer releases Maltahondo from the house of healing," he said.

"Let all return to their homes until the hearing reopens! Gladhadithen, we leave it to your judgement and discretion as to when that time may be," concluded Fêrlass.

Tbc


	57. Chapter 57

Caro Meleth Enni [Make Love to Me]

Into the air of the autumn afternoon the tall trees of the Greenwood's deciduous population relinquished their collectors of Anor's light in a slow, relentless diminishment of foliage, unveiling their stark twiggy limbs more with each day that passed. Yet this was not like a rending of garments in despair over the demise of the lush beauty of laer [summer] for the Îdhben [Sleepers] mourned not the advent of their time of respite. Doron, lith, fêr, and lalorn, [Oak, ash, beech, elm] all welcomed the well-earned rest of hibernation.

Languidly, as if already drifting into dream, the Îdhben loosed their leafy garb and scattered whatever remained of fruit and mast. Distracted in sleepy disregard the woods flung away handfuls of gold and red confetti as though upon a parade of honour long since passed by beneath them.

The fragile remnants of spring's rebirth, now brittle and cracklely rather than pliantly resilient, drifted betwixt the canopy and the duff. In little twirls and somersaults the leaves twisted about, revelling in one last dance amid the interstices where Anor played before lying down in eternal repose upon the mouldy ground. Sundered from the trees that grew them, they would never again be as they had begun. Another layer added to the rich loamy mulch. In the peculiar cycle of death giving birth to life, the rot of the forest giants' own substantive cover would in a season or two provide the nutrients that strengthened their roots below and made new green curls burst forth from the brown barked buds of winter's dormancy.

Too recent was iavas' [autumn's] commencement for the ground to be concealed beneath the variegated detritus and so the nearly weightless tread of elven feet across the path gave no tell-tale crunching proof of their passage. Two there were, walking at a solemn pace, side by side, close but not touching, one with hair as pale and fair as the first gleam of Arien's smile at minuial, the other's locks inkier than the deeps of Aeron under the faint illumination of Tilion's shy salute upon his retreat.

Erestor and Legolas wandered amid the towering trees.

Legolas was not exactly certain how he had come to be strolling through Greenwood's majestic beauty with the Noldo Lord. The Council had been adjourned and everyone had filtered away from the starlit chamber until only he and his close friends remained in the centre of the room. No exuberant congratulatory hugs and smiles were shared as he noted the worry and concern on everyone's countenances. They were all staring at him as if his actions bespoke complete madness.

He found he did not want to converse with Fearfaron and hear lecturing about what was in his best interest and so avoided his foster father's eyes. Nor did he care to engage Mithrandir on an internal level and soundly shut out the wizard's insistent and silent demand for answers. That brought him an inward smile of gloating that he did share with the Istar; since his brief reverie within the tunnel outside Taurant's nursery, Legolas had been successful in controlling access to his thoughts.

Aiwendil seemed to understand his reluctance to argue anymore, and he supposed the wizard could sense the depths of his exhaustion and the strain imparted by the many threats thus far so marginally evaded. Legolas could imagine, by the determined expressions upon Aragorn and Lindalcon's features, that they were as eager as Fearfaron to spend as many hours as might be granted convincing their friend of his erroneous ideas. The archer simply wanted them to let it go and trust him; why could they not trust him just this once? Was it so impossible to accept that he might know more about the reality of that day's events than anyone else?

With a repressed sigh he turned lastly to Erestor and took in the wayward hair and spoiled clothes again. Legolas had not missed the unspoken communication between the King and the seneschal, and now believed Malthen was somehow responsible for Erestor's unkempt attitude. Worried over what this might mean, the wild elf met the advisor's contrite eyes.

"I would speak with you," he spoke and startled, for Erestor had said the exact same phrase simultaneously. They smiled hesitantly together and as their reunion undertook its tentative beginning Legolas heard an assortment of justifications and apologies while the rest of his friends suddenly found need to excuse themselves from his company.

Now he was here, ambling along the pathway in quietude with the Noldo Lord, neither of them able to utter a single word.

Abruptly the trees opened out into a little glen and they halted on the threshold of the hidden clearing. Legolas smiled sadly to find his heart had brought him here. This was his old sanctuary, the place where he had practised his archery alone, free from the criticism of his tutors and the mockery of the warriors, where he had tried to master the power of Oropher's purloined war-bow. Here he had fled when his loneliness became heightened by the proximity of so many elves within the city. This was the haven he had sought once he had grown too big to hide his sorrows in the arms of the Sentinel, whenever Malthen was in Lorien. Here he had first indulged in sexual fantasies of his guardsman.

Legolas laughed, a softly bitter sound, cleared the face of his first love from his mind, and strode out into the glade past Erestor, determined to rediscover the welcome of the land.

Before the Judgement Legolas had kept it tended and trimmed but the dell was all overgrown and untamed now. Like me. Stringy saplings shot up straight and branchless, topped with a fringe of stems like spiky antlers, surrounded by tangled stalks of grasses and wild flowers sporting the heavy, seeded crowns of fall instead of the luxurious colour of plume and petals. Legolas' fingers gently caressed one of the stripling oaks as he passed and the tree woke enough from only its fifth yearly slumber to acknowledge the honour, leaning into the forest champion's retreat to delay the loss of touch.

Legolas crossed all the way to the farthest edges of the clearing, passing a large stump where the remains of a mighty beech gave testimony to how close the evil of Dol Guldur sometimes came to the Wood Elves' stronghold. A brighter laugh and a smile over his shoulder at last invited the Noldo into the area.

Erestor slowly moved through the dried knee-high vegetation to join him, worried, for the laughter had sounded forced.

"Here is where my skill with the bow was perfected in my youth," Legolas said, indicating a faded and much punctured wooden disc covered over in painted hide, the red centre sun-bleached and the leather cracked and decayed by exposure to the elements.

Erestor reached out and drifted his fingers over the arrow-gouged surface and smiled back. "Many hours you must have spent to reduce the target to such pitiful condition." He observed the slight uplift and decline of shoulders made powerful by those long years of effort.

Legolas stood not two feet away and yet the distance between them was a gulf the seneschal knew not how to bridge so vast was its expanse. The wild elf was protectively withdrawn again, his arms folded tightly against his chest and his face turned away so that their eyes did not meet. Erestor could feel the pain and sorrow emanating from the warrior and desperately wanted to offer some form of comfort. He needed to find the means to open Legolas back up, for he was certain the union they had shared before had helped the heart-sore elf.

How to achieve this was a delicate dilemma, for he did not wish it to seem he merely lusted for the Tawarwaith in the absence of his bond-mates.

"This is far from the normal training grounds, is it not? No doubt you came here to spare the pride of your senior comrades. It must have been unnerving to the more seasoned archers to find themselves bested by one so much younger," he joked.

But Legolas did not smile, lost in the memory of the last time he had been in this glade. Like many of his recollections, it was not joyful. It was here that Malthen had informed him of the end of their affiliation. He could have chosen to tell Legolas in the privacy of his rooms, any place but this one, yet did not.

Malthen and Ningloriel had returned to Greenwood after a long sojourn in Lorien. Legolas had waited patiently in the clearing for his lover to come to him, for this hollow within the woods had become their trysting place, safe from prying eyes and ears within the fortress. Yet, for all the times they had coupled here surrounded by the glorious beauty of Yavanna's creations, the experience never neared the romantically erotic ecstasy that had dominated the young elf's imagination.

It was no different on this occasion. Legolas pleasured the guardsman orally and then Malthen wanted to see how his charge dealt with longing during their separations. And Legolas did not mind. He knew the sight of him masturbating, fingers deep inside massaging his sensitised core, whispering his lover's name, would bring Malthen fully erect again. The instant the archer's hot white seed began spurting Maltahondo took him. Hard. Fast. Dry.

Brutal.

And it was after this, while he was lying in exhausted culmination against the guardsman's chest, that the news was given. Legolas' mind had instantly cleared, realising in alarm they were not alone. The elf he was to be given to had been there, watching from the fringe of the trees, the unfamiliar odour of his ejaculation immediately overwhelming every other sense. The archer had scrambled for his clothes as Malthen chortled in amusement, saying he thought that was a bit premature. The three had spent the rest of the day and half the evening together, and Maltahondo had not left them until he had seen the new pair coupled, enjoying another orgasm during the display.

Legolas had cried when he was gone, finally realising it was all real and not some game designed to heighten the corpsman's pleasure. He would never again indulge in such intimate intercourse with Malthen. He had spent his tears upon the shoulder of an elf he barely knew, who now knew him all too well.

How foolish he had been to ever imagine Malthen returned his feelings! It was so obvious now that he had been nothing more than Ningloriel's substitute. Why could I not see this then? How did I not realise? He could not have her and so he took me. Legolas swallowed to choke back the tears threatening to rise and breathed in and out sharply twice.

And suddenly Erestor did not care about how to best approach his friend and simply reached out and wrapped his arms around the rigid figure, not concerned over being insulted, assaulted or rejected. "You may hit me very hard if you like, Pen-rhovan," he whispered, assuming the reaction was due to more recent memories of abuse. Affectionately he nuzzled his lips against the bound locks at the fallen warrior's temple. "Or perhaps you need a new target for your archery practice? I certainly deserve it. There are no adequate words to express the depth of my remorse for all the injuries you have endured, and my part in them."

"I need to get from this place," Legolas struggled to speak the despairing words, still stiffly unyielding in the seneschal's embrace, determined not to mourn over Maltahondo any longer.

"Of course, whatever you wish; tell me where to go," agreed Erestor.

But Legolas could not manage it and finally turned and slumped against the older elf, hiding his face against the broad chest as he fought the onslaught of the mounting pain. A gasp escaped and he braced himself, digging his fingers into the Noldo's sides.

"Ai, Legolas!" Erestor was alarmed, not realising before the full extent of the wild elf's distress. "I cannot bear for you to suffer so!" Cautiously he slipped one arm round Legolas' waist and with the other loosed the outcast's vise-like clasp from his body, draping the forearm across his shoulders. Erestor supported the weary warrior's halting steps back under the sheltering limbs of the forest.

Their progress was very slow at first but every stride away from the little glen seemed to help Legolas put distance between his heart and his grief. Gradually he found the means to stand up straight and Erestor let him pull his arm free, stopping him from getting too far away by firmly gripping his hand.

The wild elf looked up, bewildered to feel the determined tug, found the seneschal smiling kindly, and removed his scrutiny to their adjacent palms. After a second's resistance Legolas relented and allowed the persistent conjunction created by the encircling fingers. He was surprised to find the contact bestowed a calming effect and squeezed back, holding on tight as they walked.

He had no idea where they were going and did not care to think about it, allowing his attention to dwell on the comfort the Noldo's secure grip granted. The forest champion once more chanced to see where his companion's sight was centred and found the elder elf regarding him, the Imladrian's refined features transformed with the tension of his troubled thoughts.

"Alright?" he asked and Legolas nodded, turning his eyes back out to the trees at his left. Erestor took a short breath to steady his courage. "I should explain, or at least attempt to, about Elrond and…"

"No! Please," the emphatic reply was reinforced by a brisk shake of the Tawarwaith's long locks and a second endeavour to pull free of the confining clasp. He found the Noldo unwilling to relinquish their connection. Again Legolas let him win the tiny struggle and sighed.

Erestor refrained from any comment, fearful of speaking and injuring his friend again, glad in his heart that Pen-rhovan had not yanked away and bolted into the canopy.

They proceeded in silence for some time as the filtered light grew hazy in the long wavelengths of annûn's [sunset's] descent. Legolas became more relaxed as the ugly memory retreated back into the depths of his mind. The Noldo started gently swinging their clasped hands and the wild elf could not suppress a fleeting smile to see how hard the advisor from Imladris was working to just give him a sense of contentment and peace.

Such a simple thing, walking hand in hand. Erestor thought, relieved to notice the momentary expression of happiness that crossed Legolas' visage, gratified that his actions were soothing the tormented soul beside him. In a sudden burst of insight the venerable advisor realised he was the first to ever perform this small act of protective nurturing with Legolas.

A flare of outrage passed through his mind at the lack of gentleness in the archer's experience of love. It was profoundly wrong that Legolas had been denied the innocent pleasure of strolling in the carefree joy of contented companionship with a lover. He shifted his possessive hold and could feel the wild elf start to retreat again, but Erestor only repositioned his fingers so their digits became entwined, and grinned victoriously when the blue eyes found his for a second before darting determinedly back down to the leafy pathway.

It is definitely comforting. Legolas thought, both amazed and pleased to find this true. He did not want to be angry with the veteran of Gondolin, not after his actions before the Council and the King. And though he could not quite bear to enquire about it, Legolas was certain the seneschal had engaged Malthen in a personal battle to avenge his injured heart and sullied virtue.

For my honour! The disgraced warrior mentally sneered at himself over such a concept. Any dignity and noble bearing he may have once possessed had long ago been stripped from him. I have lain in lascivious lust with both my mother's lovers, the first when I was but eight-and-thirty. I should not have even been thinking of such things at so young an age. Yet, it gave him a very warm feeling to know the Noldo Lord would go to such lengths to defend his character. He wanted to thank the Imladrian, but feared to bring it up for then they would have to talk about everything, including Elrond, and those were revelations he could not confront.

And so they continued in unvoiced communion as the last of Anor's light turned to dusky grey.

The walkway took them back into the city where lamplight from talans spilled down upon the pair and before long they were passing others along the path. After more than a few sets of ogling eyes tracked them Legolas could not withhold his merriment and a brash guffaw trumpeting from his lungs.

"What is so funny?" demanded Erestor, certain he knew exactly what it was, pleased to hear the genuine amusement from the woe-weary archer, overjoyed to have a reason to speak that did not involve saying anything potentially damaging.

"Why you, of course," confirmed the wild elf. "Have you any idea how ridiculous you look? You are worse than an elfling who has been out on an adventure and became lost in the woods." He was only joking and was surprised to see the grave expression that overtook the Noldo's features.

"Aye, I did become lost on this adventure, but I have found my way again now."

Legolas could conjure no rejoinder and tore his gaze away, all at once finding the mixture of dirt and leaves at his feet fascinating.

Erestor stopped and turned upon the path to face him but still the disinherited prince refused to acknowledge the seneschal. With careful fingertips he tilted up the bowed head of golden locks.

As his face pivoted skyward Legolas' eyelids rolled down and his brow furrowed in aggravation determined not to look at this most unnerving elf and reveal his confusion. Why must he be this serious? Where is the debonair rogue, Berenaur? He was about to jerk away when the seneschal bent and carefully pressed a feather-light kiss upon the wild elf's frowning lips.

Startled, Legolas froze. Another genteel compression petitioned his stern, unrelenting mouth and then withdrew.

Not with passion and fire, not with demands and desires did Erestor woo the Tawarwaith's wounded heart, but with gentle tenderness. When no response was granted he did not desist but offered the same caring caress over and over until finally Legolas' mouth lost its stony grimace and parted to release a slow sigh against the seneschal's.

Kisses.

Legolas absorbed the sedating sensation.

Ephemeral impressions of desire upon his lips, a whisper of contact then a ghost of a draft, a hushed sibillation part worship, part entreaty; his name exhaled. He breathed it in.

Soft, like the sound of summer rain on wet leaves.

The questing touch returned, paired pliancy meandering over his upper lip, a tongue tip dabbing down dreamily to taste the depression between the crimson peaks of the perfect bow.

Warm, like the tingling radiance of afternoon sun caressing bare skin.

Supple sucking secured his lower petal, now full and florid, for but an instant, leaving a gossamer glaze of moist delight.

Luxuriant, like the plush pelt of a sable lynx.

Fingertips traipsed the line from cheek to jaw, tendrils of vibrating exhilaration washed through him, collecting in the pulse points of awakening arousal. His body began to sing.

Delicate, like the elusive scent of wild orchids opening under the silver shimmer of a moonlit night.

How could he resist such tantalisingly tangible courtship? The wild elf shed the barricades thrown up to hinder further hurt and joined the playful pas-de-deux. A tilt of his head, so, and the Noldo's dipped right to capture his mouth and savour the sweetness therein. A brush of his nose on the seneschal's lips prompted a nip at his chin. A flickering lick impelled a brief exposure of the advisor's teeth as he promised access to richer treasures and taught Pen-rhovan the steps of romance's minuet.

Legolas smiled into the labial libations and mimicked every action, each caress.

A duet of whispery, heady exhalations arose from their mouths' lengthening conjunction and reluctant severance as their souls sought one another. This yearning ache spurred increased cohesion and their lips gave way in muted pops and softly sucking sighs of wet, warm, red flesh.

"There are words I must say to you," Erestor whispered between kisses.

"I cannot speak your name," the low, regretful reply filled the next interlude.

This stung Erestor's soul, yet now that Legolas was participating he was even less eager to curtail the stimulating experience, even to correct this error.

Again and again their mouths met and the Noldo would alternately take his lover's lips or let Legolas stroke his between those mobile and expressive ruby petals. Or they would both approach, equally parted in open invitation, and seal carefully together, softly wrapping just the tips of their tongues together, trading tastes, neither trying to push past the innocence of their osculation to plumb the depths of passions each knew the other possessed.

Their hands remained locked together, Legolas holding on with almost unbearable rigour. His free palm had found its way to the small of the seneschal's back and was there firmly seated.

He has never been kissed this way.

This thought filled Erestor with sadness for all that had been stolen from the wild elf. His lovers had eagerly instructed Legolas in carnal pleasure, but no one had ever made love to him. The revelation brought Erestor the answer to his quandary, however, for the Noldo had begun to despair of a means to overcome the archer's craving for violent intimacy. There were undoubtedly many other things no one had ever done with the archer.

No one ever touches him.

Erestor soothed his hand down the Tawarwaith's neck and let his fingers slip beneath the collarless shirt. He felt the ripples of excitement run through the younger elf's body. He smiled and pulled away just enough to gain air to speak.

"Shall I tell you what I am going to do, Pen-rhovan?" he breathed the query against the archer's crimson tongue as it darted out briefly to curl against his upper teeth. When it returned to the darkly delicious orifice Erestor's followed right behind and teased the muscle with little lapping licks. He was rewarded with an appreciative sigh and a delicate bite upon his bottom lip, right in the very centre.

None has bothered tell him what makes him so alluring.

Erestor retreated just enough to see his partner clearly and his spirit swelled with joyous desire. Legolas' hooded eyes were fixed upon the seneschal's mouth, watching for the tongue to appear again, panting slightly through parted lips, silently offering access. The Noldo willingly entered. He had not enjoyed this romantic preliminary to foreplay so much in centuries. They broke for air reluctantly, lingering over their moist massage.

"Shall I?"

"What?" Legolas could scarcely get the syllable out, a whimpery complaint of bewilderment. How could the advisor prefer talking to this other more exquisite use of his vocal organ?

"Tell you," an impetuous buss on the mouth, "what I am going to do with that magnificent body of yours?"

"You… my… what…?" an inarticulate exclamation interrupted the ambiguous answer as the seneschal claimed the archer's ear tip unexpectedly. A deep tremor ran through Legolas' limbs when the fleshy appendage was released.

"I think I will start with your ears," Erestor continued in mesmerising undertones of besotted bliss. "Such exquisite ears!" He tongued the swirled crevice between the outer rim and the interior shell. "These points, so decadently long and tapered, tempting me so blatantly. I shall suck them until they tingle and burn as your red-tipped cock does right now." He moved as though to follow through and Legolas tensed in anticipation but the seneschal's deep carmine mouth never engulfed the throbbing pinnacle. Instead, he breathed against the inflamed cartilage, forcing a strangled groan from the archer's throat.

"Next, I will unloose your hair," he murmured his sultry soliloquy as his free hand smoothed over the back of the wild elf's head and tangled in the trailing tresses, "this mane of reticulated gold. I want to feel this voluptuous silken flow caress my skin, every inch of it: tickling over my stomach when you devour my seed; teasing across my chest as you ride me, impaled and impassioned; dancing upon my spine while your shaft plunges inside, filling me with your essence. Valar! You are so beautiful, Pen-rhovan!"

He was delighted to find Legolas staring at him, eyes impossibly huge and dilated, mouth softly shut but ready to welcome another intrusion at the slightest signal, a faint stain of crimson growing in his cheeks. Contemplating the detailed images these unexpected declarations have raised in his mind? Erestor grinned with that thought and raised disbelieving brows at his lover's discomfort.

"You have surely been told before now that you are fair, Pen-rhovan," he insisted, suspecting he had not. "Are you trying to make me say it again?"

At that the blush broke out in full but the archer smiled devilishly and nodded. "Aye, I would hear more," he demanded and cocked his head to entice another kiss, but Erestor did not oblige.

"Very well," he said but instead stepped ahead and pulled on the wild elf's hand, coaxing him to move forward along the path. Looking back, he smirked to see Legolas walking a little awkwardly; it was evident he was fighting the urge to readjust uncomfortably tight leggings.

Erestor halted him in the midst of a centralised, multi-tiered crosswalk comprised of footpaths below and branchways above. High in the trees slender bridges, single silken strands of hithlain, linked them, trunk to boll. From within their homes escaped the dulcet sound of Sylvan voices lifted in song, and though not all were singing the same tune the entirety of the sonorous music was harmonious and soothing. Erestor smiled down into Legolas' questioning expression and began the kissing flirtation all over again.

Despite the public location and the likelihood of being discovered in their amorous exercise, Legolas readily succumbed, joining in with relish as the advisor's free fingers eased between the ties of his tunic and shirt, stroking across his breastbone with the faintest pressure. The Tawarwaith moaned and sidled closer, hoping to encourage those tormenting digits to fondle his already peaked and throbbing nipples.

Erestor graced one impossibly tight and pointed tit with the faintest flick and felt the warrior twitch in wanton desire.

"Then I shall strip you." Erestor broke from Legolas' mouth and began again just where he had left off. An exhilarating constriction in his crotch accompanied the shocked gasp that fled his lover's lips as his hand was practically crushed in the archer's grip.

"Should I start at the top?" he pondered huskily and searched the wild elf's eyes boldly for an answer, letting his fingers temptingly tug on the garments' closures. He chuckled softly at the almost imperceptibly nodded assent. "Nay, I shall have the choicest delicacy first." His palm slipped in a slow indulgent slither down to the archer's groin and shamelessly groped the restrained erection.

"Saes! Úsí!" [Please! Not here!]

"I would have these leggings off, Pen-rhovan; that rosy, rigid shaft exposed for my delight! I shall slide back the slick foreskin and hold it thus to more easily partake of the liqueur welling at the slit."

"Saes!" Legolas could not help the involuntary pivot of his pelvis to increase the tantalising contact.

"Saes man?" [Please what?] Erestor's hand roamed around his lover's hip to cup a tautly rounded derrière.

"Telithan sí avdharil!" [I shall come here if you do not stop!] 

Before Erestor could continue the repartee a series of suppressed snickers and giggles captured their notice.

Legolas abruptly pulled back to find they were the objects of much amusement for three couples, warriors and maids, approaching from the opposite direction. Embarrassed, he tried to get his hand loose but the Noldo would not let him free. The group walked past them quickly, growing quieter and glancing with sympathetic grins at their champion, his face buried against the advisor's shoulder.

"Forgive me, I was a bit carried away," pleaded Erestor and patted the shaking form pressed against him.

"Valar! We cannot continue thusly here, Bere…Eres…Ai!" Legolas' countenance had lost its glaze of aroused passion and his eyes became as dark and moody as a stormy sea. "I cannot call you that! Let me go!"

"Nay! You need not despair! Wait, Legolas, listen to me. That is not even my name, not truly!" Erestor was frantic to prevent this disastrous interruption from terminating their encounter and held on tightly, locking the archer's hand within both of his.

"Do not be false; everyone knows who you are!"

"Aye, but that is just one of the names I bear, and the least important."

"I do not know if I should believe that. How many have you got and why?"

"Three, like every self-respecting Noldo," Erestor said with feigned indignance. He watched Legolas' expression carefully as he brought their bodies into complete contact and let the wild archer feel the solid distension confined against his thigh. "There is my mother-name, my father-name, and the name I gave myself. You know the last and have used the first, but it is my father-name that is most appropriate."

"And what is that?" Legolas could not deny his curiosity.

"Sigiland [Long-knife]," the seneschal said matter-of-factly but accompanied the word with a hearty shove of his hips that sent his restrained member grinding against the Sylvan's groin.

Legolas sucked in a tremendous lungful and then burst into an echoing round of light laughter at this double entendre, which of course Erestor had intended. The wild elf all but collapsed against his lover as he let the jovial mood replace the near panic threatening just moments ago.

"I do not believe you," he repeated giddily once he was able to draw breath.

"I swear it is absolutely genuine," insisted Erestor.

"Well I cannot call you that either," laughed the wild elf with an appreciative survey of the seneschal's clothed anatomy, "No matter if it is true." An intense vision of the Noldo's impressive extremity pounding into his arse as he cried out for Sigiland to fuck him harder, deeper made Legolas shudder. He grew more serious and searched his friend's eyes hopefully. "I like Berenaur, [Brave Flame] is that also a real name?"

"Aye," Erestor hugged him, heart soaring, "my mother named me so at birth. I would be honoured for you to call me thus again."

"Berenaur," Legolas sighed and leaned up to kiss Erestor, timidly almost. "It suits you, for your bold defence of my person shines like a fiery torch against the darkness I must defeat."

At these words Erestor was speechless and could only hold the younger elf close, their continuously interlocked hands pressed between their heated bodies.

"We cannot stay out on the pathways all night." Legolas whispered, leaning his brow on the Noldo's cheek. He closed his eyes with contentment, inhaling deeply the scent of their mutual desire.

"Tell me where to go and I shall get us there," said Erestor as he stroked the archer's supple back and rubbed his cheek against the unruly hair. But he did not wait for a reply, instead the Noldo tempted the Sylvan to present his lips for further adoration and once more the two lovers became lost in the sensual exploration.

"Follow this trail, the one along which grow those nodding white bromeliads," a female voice, Gladhadithen, replied from behind Erestor but he was unwilling to allow this surprise to interfere with his slow seduction. Legolas, however, giggled as his eyes darted to peer, quizzically mischievous, at her smirking visage.

"At the end of it is a tall oak, the largest by far in the vicinity." She grinned at the forest champion as she spoke, still addressing the Imladrian advisor. "Up close to the canopy is a secluded talan. All you require is already there."

The seneschal now recognised the speaker as the healer from the council chamber, but before he could reply he sensed her leaving them.

Legolas took the initiative and resumed the oral enticement, giving voice to his needy longing in a series of barely discernible, imploring cries with each respiration.

Erestor slowly withdrew from Legolas' ardent kisses and smiled to find the younger elf drawing closer to prevent their separation. The Noldo let him continue for a bit, fingers drifting up and down Legolas' back as he enjoyed the attention.

"Come," whispered Erestor, finally taking the next step along their path.

The avenue of bromeliads was breathtaking to behold, even in the vanishing light as Anor retreated beyond the horizon somewhere far from the green boundaries of the Wood Elves' homeland. Narrow and winding, wandering between an avenue of evergreens, the byway was a purely Nandorin construction that, while cultivated by elven hands, maintained a distinctly natural appearance, as though Yavanna herself had devised the design of the trail.

The limbs of the pines merged just above head height and formed a veritable tunnel of foliage. Through and among the interwoven limbs the long narrow lances of the epiphytes' banded leaves protruded. Nodding on delicately dendritic bracts of translucent jade, the sprays of white flowers limned in green, accompanied by clusters of deep indigo berries, draped the brush-needled plumes of the bunya-bunya [Australian evergreen pines]. From these blossoms a faint scent of sweet nectar spilled, as if the star-shaped cups of the plants held not rainwater but honey in their depths.

Someone paying close attention would comprehend that the maze formed the symbols for feä and hroa, and at the very centre the words merged, and in that place grew the majestic oak harbouring its hidden talan high in the canopy's cover. Only after traipsing around the entirety of the living puzzle could this tree be reached.

The close of day done and Ithil obscured from sight in the living channel of meandering tenebrity, the only light available was emitted by the two eldar moving in moderated haste along the way. Erestor scrutinised Legolas' ethereal glow surreptitiously lest the fallen archer notice. The Wood Elf's gentle radiance had never been visible so plainly to the seneschal, for he had always seen it under lamplight or moonlight, and of course in sunlight it was felt more than seen.

In truth, the Noldo was both charmed and concerned, for his companion's hazy corona was but a slender husk of gleam that scarcely extended beyond the elf's skin. While Erestor's body shown with a refulgent and dreamy apricot-hued aura, the feral warrior's only shimmered faintly like the surface of an iridescent pearl. He knew not if this was normal for Legolas or an indication of his reduced physical state and, while admiring the beauty of such a sheer gloss, he was worried.

His light is insufficient to brighten more than an inch beyond his nose. Perhaps it is some adaptation exclusive to Sylvans., he reasoned. For it could not be advantageous to be easily spotted among these dire woods.

It was not a thing he had previously considered, that different types of elves might not cast the same glimmer about them. Erestor had always assumed the natural luminescence of the eldar was but a remnant glister of the stardust from which they were all composed. Not having such complete eclipse of external illumination under which to make the comparison before, he now wondered if the variations extended between individuals as well, for certainly no other elf save Pen-rhovan could have such remarkable lustre.

His hair had turned from gold to argent and his eyes reflected a shade of sea-green that surely did not exist anywhere else but within this flesh-bound extension of the Spirit of the Forest. Lips flushed and full from being kissed at length were as dark as cinnamon, and when they parted in that endearing smile his teeth were just like dew-covered ivory. Erestor found his breath stolen away. If Legolas was glorious in sunshine and tantalising when caressed by flickering tongues of lamplight, he was nothing less than captivating in the magnificence of his unique nimbus.

Still clasping the archer's hand, Erestor impulsively yanked him over to the path's edge and plucked a blossom from one of the plants. The stem he wove through the felted locks at Legolas' temple and the wild elf laughed. But suddenly the Noldo gasped and stared open-mouthed at the flower.

"What ever is the matter?" demanded Legolas, quickly feeling the spot where the older elf's eyes were currently glued in bulging amazement.

Under the influence of the Tawarwaith's effulgence the bloom fluoresced, changing from white to icy blue, while the green rinds of every petal gleamed a soft, warm yellow.

"Nay!" pleaded Erestor. "Do not take it out; it looks wonderful! Do all the flowers turn new colours when they are near you? I have never beheld such a thing before in all my long life."

"I do not know; I have not been adorned with flowers before this night."

"By Elbereth, I would not have imagined I could so easily endure pitch darkness!" sighed Erestor. "Have I said yet how lovely you are?"

"Once, and promised more but 'til now said naught again," scolded the fey Sylvan, but added: "The air around you is lit as if a cloud of fireflies clothes your body!"

That compliment made the advisor pull hard on their linked hands to draw his lover into his embrace for a long and heady kiss, no longer free of the passionate heat rising throughout his being. When he withdrew his tongue he was physically shaking and heaving to draw breath, and grinned as they leaned on one another for mutual support. He felt the wild elf's heart pulsating against his chest as Legolas insinuated loose fingers amid his ebony braids. Wet, cool lips sought out a tender spot behind the seneschal's right ear and latched on. Erestor growled and shivered.

"Take me right here," the breathy demand met the coils of his inner ear and sent his senses into tumult. The younger body undulated side to side, the hard swell in the soft leather breeches teasing his flesh and Erestor had to fight to keep from ripping Pen-rhovan's leggings off and fulfilling that request.

But he did resist, for he knew what Legolas was up to and this time he would not let the misused warrior direct their passion, forcing the violent penetration he was so accustomed to receiving. Erestor took a deep breath and a step back from Pen-rhovan.

"Nay, that shall not be, impatient one!" His spirit ached at the confused look of hurt that momentarily flashed through those aqua tinged eyes. That was followed by a sheen of delighted lubricity dancing into the altered irises.

"Ah, then I shall have you!" came the triumphant retort. Legolas had the leggings open in a trice and would have been down on his knees with the engorged penis down his gullet had Erestor not expected that and clamped his hand over the archer's biceps to keep him on his feet.

"I will not see you thus, kneeling in the twigs and the dirt!" he hissed in tones that were nearly angry.

"But why?" Legolas flinched and sought to get loose. "I do not understand what is wrong?"

Erestor released both holds in order to take gentle possession of the distraught countenance before him and tenderly kiss away the worried tension around Legolas' eyes and lips.

"Nothing is wrong, Pen-rhovan." One hand dived to shove his escaping erection back under wraps and loosely close up the breeches. "You deserve more, that is all, and I intend to give you both pleasure and comfort this night. We have joined in abandonment and unchecked license before and this is a sensation you know. I would have you learn something else of intimacy than that. This night shall be very different for you."

With that declaration he wrapped Legolas up in a confining cocoon, bringing their dual arousals back into alignment, and recaptured the willing mouth. This time it was Erestor who swayed against the archer's lean and lanky form, eliciting a tremulous cry from the fallen prince.

The seneschal disengaged and again grasped Legolas' by the hand. "Come," he coaxed once more and headed further along, eager to reach their destination and begin the imminently pleasurable instruction. Yet there was hesitancy in Legolas' gait and Erestor looked back to find the wild elf's eyes cast down and his shoulders hunched in apparent distress. He halted and reached out to lift the lowered gaze and then let his palm come to rest over Pen-rhovan's heart.

"What is it? Do you not wish to continue?"

"Nay! Oh! I mean, aye," Legolas' faltered and shook his head to clear his mind. "I do, but this way is reserved. I know not if we should stay on this path."

"How do you mean reserved? Surely the healer would not direct us to someone's private abode."

"Not in that sense exactly. But you can see this track is taking us deep into the woods, can you not?"

Erestor had not noticed and looked around in alarm, not that he could distinguish anything in detail beyond the gleam of their combined auroras. Suddenly he understood why. The tunnelled avenue was dark not only due to the interlocked limbs overhead. The path had taken them so far beyond the stronghold's city that no lamplight from nearby talans shown down upon them.

"What does this signify, Pen-rhovan? What do you fear?"

"The place this leads us to, it is set aside for newly-bonded couples only. You and I, we are not. We should, mayhap, go elsewhere."

Erestor squeezed the Tawarwaith's fingers tighter, struck to the core by the evident pain in Legolas' voice as these words left his lips. Sighing, he reached his arm around the archer's back and held him close. Desperately searching his mind for the right words to speak to ease away this insecurity, the seneschal was terrified his statements might once more tear open the barely closed lacerations in the warrior's sorely wounded feä.

What could he offer Legolas, really? He had feelings of deep compassion and friendship, strong physical attraction and ardent passion for the wild elf. But empathy was not love and friendship's bonds were unlike those of souls eternally merged. These things he could not provide in the fullness that Legolas deserved.

Was the strength of their friendship enough to warrant the sensual satisfaction he desired to give and receive? Was he mistaken again, believing his actions to be beneficial only to evoke some fresh injuries and unleash unforeseen havoc in the wild one's existence?

"Ah, Pen-rhovan, I know not what is best for you," he ruefully admitted and soothingly rubbed the tight shoulders. "It is true, what we share is not as intense as soul-binding. Yet, it is more than a casual coupling I would offer you. What to name this thing escapes me, love; I but understand that you are somehow part of me now. There is peace within me where before I had an ancient ache, and it only left me upon encountering you."

Now Legolas was surprised for these were not words he had thought to hear and could not fathom what the advisor was referring to. He stood back at arm's length and peered silently, intently, searching the Noldo's eyes for any dissembling. He found nothing within those smouldering orbs of black heat but an earnest yearning to reveal this secret wound.

"What is this hurt?"

"It has been there so long I had stopped giving it any notice," Erestor shrugged. "It is the guilty grief over the deaths of my father and sister. They sacrificed themselves at Gondolin so that I could escape. That is not what Ada said, but it is what they meant, and I let them do it. They knew I was afraid and feared I would falter and shame them." A small note of bitterness had crept within the tail end of this speech and Legolas' fingers abruptly covered the frowning lips to banish it.

"Nay, I believe that not! Any facing such horrors would feel dread, that does not mean you failed your loved ones. Neither are you the master of fate, Berenaur. The decisions your family made were not due to lack of faith but rather a sense of duty to Turgon their king and their love for you. This devotion aught not be sullied by such misgivings in your heart. Had you remained and perished with them, do you really think they would love you better? You honoured them and respected their free choice and most likely gave them some small sense of peace, knowing you would continue here. You did not cause them to die," he said solemnly.

Erestor smiled and took hold of the fingers, pressing them first to his lips and then against his heart. "I realise this now, but had not believed it before meeting you. A crueller doom than yours I cannot imagine, yet somehow you have turned it into a benediction. There is a grace about you, Pen-rhovan, that you have willingly poured over me."

"You speak of my bond with Tawar," Legolas remarked concisely, glad to understand what all this was about and set the Noldo straight. "That is none of my doing; it is a gift to me also."

Erestor was not surprised that the wild elf believed this fully. How oft has he been told, by both word and example, that his existence is shameful and nothing good can arise within him?

"And is that part of it," responded Erestor gently, "the way you do not claim any of the credit? Tell me, was it Tawar that spared my life and gave me aid? Did the Spirit of these trees overlook my faults and wrongs? Did Greenwood instruct you to return my careless indifference for your suffering with complete trust in our joining?

"Nay, you do not even need to answer, Pen-rhovan, for even I understand your actions do not spring from your service to Tawar. Aragorn told me you denied the call of your trees in order to safeguard him and the wizard, to keep inviolate a vow you spoke.

"You behave thus because it is in your character to do so. It is a completely natural part of your existence, your feä demands it like the hroa requires breathing and rest. That is why everyone realises you could not have been guilty of neglect of your duty at Erebor. Everyone except yourself."

Legolas was staring in open-mouthed astonishment and the seneschal simply could not resist. He leaned in and kissed the younger elf deeply, hoping to impart something of the overwhelming effect the archer had on him. Erestor broke the kiss and inhaled his lover's rapid suspirations, laughing softly at the imploring light flickering in the glimmering, half-mast eyes when the Tawarwaith presented him his parted lips again. He took them.

A series of slow osculations followed. Erestor let the wild archer suckle his tongue and drink of the air in his lungs, sample his lips. He allowed Legolas leeway to plunge his oral muscle within, a wave of questing titillation breaking upon teeth, cresting in a bounding surge against the roof of his mouth. They both became light-headed and simultaneously ceased to regain their equilibrium.

Legolas grinned as he let his head drop upon the Noldo's breast; Erestor smiled in equal delight and held him.

"And I find I want to nurture the same qualities in myself, Legolas." He began his oration again. Erestor was fully determined to be in command this night, and he was not done with what he wished to say. He smirked when Legolas' eyes popped wide in disbelief.

"Valar, are you not yet finished?" he said in hushed exasperation.

"Nay, and do not interrupt me, young one, show proper respect for your elder!" he teased back, but soon grew serious again as he gazed into the vibrant eyes regarding him, wonder shining forth disguised as embarrassed disregard.

No one has ever told him of his merit.

"Aye, it is true. I want to be worthy of my bond-mates' eternal love, to believe Adaren a thêlen [my father and my sister] would proudly boast of my deeds and name me honourable, to feel inside myself not a sense of apathetic despair but rather a welling of purpose and…and something to believe in. I find that I believe in you, Legolas.

"I have not the means to explain it properly for I have not experienced this before. But you have given me these things I so acutely craved without ever realising they had gone missing from my soul. It took an Age of time for this embitterment to blemish my spirit yet you have driven it out in a matter of weeks.

"I admit that I am selfish. I am seducing you; I want you to impart more of the same; I do wish I could bind you to me so that I may partake of your grace whenever my strength wanes. Yet I cannot offer you the entirety of my soul in exchange. Neither is your spirit completely free from entanglements and past wrongs.

"Still, there is a part of my heart that now responds only to you, Legolas, and that I do beg you to accept. Say that you will allow this, let us continue to this place of consummation, for I have vows I would declare to you, not in words and golden rings but with my very substance. Let me make love to you, Pen-rhovan, and hasten the recovery of your feä."

Erestor did not wait for a reply, covering the almandine mouth with his before Legolas could even begin to construct an answer, initiating another lingual exchange in that most ancient of living languages. When he released to find air, the seneschal transferred his oral attentions to the throbbing vein in the slender pearlescent neck, sucking and lapping, tasting and nipping the delicate ivory skin.

No prompting was required to get Legolas moving on the path this time, for the archer was the first to set forth, intent on reaching the talan and having the Noldo show him these new pleasures only dreamed of over long centuries of pining for Malthen to render such attentions. Just hearing these words was a mental stroke to his libido. Maltahondo had not once said his character was worthy of emulation or his innate disposition contained admirable virtue.

They went a few metres and Legolas halted to steal another breath-quenching kiss, hoping he was making his consent to Berenaur's proposal quite clear. To posses exclusively even a small fraction of this elf's heart was more than the fallen prince had thought possible and he was afraid the Imladrian would regret his overture and retract the bid.

"I think perhaps I shall start at the top after all," Erestor huffed out as their mouths disengaged with a sloppy wet sound that was absolute bliss to his hearing. He glanced to see the wild elf's perplexed visage and inwardly smiled; he had returned to his detailed list for the evening's program and Legolas had not caught on yet.

"Yes, I desire to see if your nipples match the dusky dark brown of your lips under the sheen cast by your argent aura." Erestor made short work of the ties and laces of the tunic and shirt and pulled back the fabric, exposing one cinnabar coloured nodule of pert and delectable flesh. He stood back a bit to better appreciate the heaving chest and its tempting pinnacle of mahogany pigment.

"Oh, beautiful," he breathed and then stroked the plump protrusion, pulling and squeezing as he invaded Legolas' mouth, penetrating to taste the depths of his throat, savouring the fractious wails issuing from the wild elf at the double stimulation.

"Ah!" Erestor exclaimed, relinquishing both delicacies. "So sensitive! I believe you like that even more than Penbara does!" He flicked the tapered point back and forth beneath his fingertips and watched as Legolas threw back his head and shimmied in unbridled delight. "Shall I suck on these while I fuck you?" The more experienced elda chortled at the expression of hopeful scepticism flickering across Legolas' face as he attempted to picture exactly how this might be accomplished.

"Aye, it is not impossible," he assured and carefully pulled the fabric back in place as Legolas whimpered his displeasure. Erestor gently rubbed his fingers over the hard nub hidden beneath the silky material, bestowing another feather-light kiss on the gulping lips before snatching back his eager pupil's hand and moving away down the path again.

They reached the oak tree soon after, out of breath and with no clear notion of having stepped the distance. Somewhere along the way Legolas' belt and shoes lay discarded on the ground and all the ribbons from Erestor's hair adorned various branches amid the evergreen arches. The seneschal's tresses fanned around him, unfettered and tangled from Pen-rhovan's fingers wandering through them. Legolas' tunic and shirt were undone and hanging loose off his left shoulder whence the Noldo had thrust them aside to place reverent kisses all along the scar on the archer's clavicle. They gazed up into the limbs, unable to see the flet; one in consternation for how to reach it, the other in barely contained expectant curiosity.

The bonding-night talan was off limits to all save those newly bonded and, prior to their occupation, family members who arrived early in the day to prepare the temporary dwelling according to the tastes of their kin and traditions of the Sylvans. Legolas, with no siblings and no cousins, no uncles or aunts to see bound, had never been inside the secluded bower. He had resigned himself to the belief that it was a setting he would never encounter, either as one of the decorators or as a claimed elf. He was very pleased that he would now have the knowledge first-hand and prior to his younger siblings.

"Eru's arse! Must everything here be either buried underground or at the very top of a tree?" complained Erestor.

"What are you grumbling for?" laughed Legolas. "Do you not climb up to a talan when you go to Lorien?"

"Aye, but there are stairs to reach them by, or at the very least a rope ladder."

"Ah, then their traditions are a bit different. There is a sort of unofficial contest that goes on between the new-bound Woodland couple, just about now."

"Oh? What sort of contest?"

"It is a race, and the stakes are quite high." Legolas was grinning and also blushing, which made his fair skin take on a warmer tone under the influence of his misty nebula. He looked the colour of hearty, golden Dwarven ale and Erestor was drawn to touch him.

"Really?" he whispered as his fingers trailed down the faintly bronzed chest to circle a tightened point of brown. A few strands of the silvered hair were parted around the nipple. "What sort of race might that be and what do I win should I best you?"

Legolas looked down to the hand caressing him and reached to lay his fingers upon the advisor's wrist to direct the movement and enhance the sweet sensation. His breathy moan was enough to inspire Erestor to push the locks aside and bend low to lick against the tender, tumid flesh.

"You," Legolas began and tried to pull away. A blistering oscillation of libidinous thrill shot straight to his throbbing penis when the Noldo's quick bite prevented it. "Ai! Berenaur!" he gasped and almost lost his balance, grabbing the older elf's shoulders to prevent it.

Erestor reluctantly ceased his delectable sampling with a final swab against the stiff concentration of nerves, pressing the swelling bud down into the resilient firmness of the toned pectoral muscle. He heard the archer's choking half-croak, half-gasp as the nipple sprang back, jutting out even more from the stimulus. Superfluous on the male physique, but oh so essential for achieving the apex of delight., the seneschal languidly ruminised. Straightening up, he wrapped both arms around Pen-rhovan to provide a stabilising scaffold. He smiled and turned his attention to smothering kisses all over the absolutely adorable and wholly erotic expression transforming the exquisite features.

"The race?" he queried again with a smirky snicker over Legolas' loss of concentration. The Tawarwaith was completely at the mercy of his somatic reactions, eyes sealed shut, lips parted, body nearly limp in his lover's arms and yet simultaneously straining for greater contact. The concept excited the Noldo Lord more than he thought possible to endure much longer unrelieved.

"Race…" murmured the disinherited prince vaguely and sought Berenaur's mouth hungrily. They broke to respire. He felt warm hands sensually stroking up and down his spine and shivered all over, the tremor ending in a healthy, albeit restricted, cock-bob. Legolas drew a deep lungful and his mind cleared. "The goal is the talan. First to reach it gets the choice for the evening's initial coupling position."

"Valar!" Erestor exclaimed at such boldness. These Woodland folk are not shy in the least! That was a prize worthy of heroic effort and he dearly wanted to win the competition. Yet he was severely outclassed in tree climbing when compared to any Wood Elf. "It is not level odds," he grumped, "for you are naturally acclimated to this environment. We must do something to make the contest fair."

Legolas frowned. He had rather been counting on that to be the victor and gain the right to claim Berenaur immediately. He had a strong desire to repeat their first encounter, without the unpleasant prelude. Still, the seneschal had a valid point and the warrior did not want to wound the Noldo's pride overly much by showing off. "What do you suggest?"

Erestor thought in silence a moment and then lascivious mirth sprawled across his countenance. "You shall go naked except for wearing my boots upon your nimble feet!" He found Legolas' expression, veneered with incredulous lust, especially gratifying.

"Boots!" he protested heatedly and shook his head before breaking into merry giggling. "They will be too loose and I am unaccustomed now to such. Aye, that will even our chances. I accept the terms!"

The advisor from Imladris bent awkwardly to tug off his footgear, hopping a bit to retain his balance, reflecting that in all his centuries he had never heard of such a thing. Legolas was apparently unconcerned about the required nudity, eager to undergo the traditional challenge. He wondered what his bond-mates would do if he suggested this little game. Orophin shall have to wear one and Dambethnîn the other!, he thought and laughed aloud at the mental image.

"What?" asked the Wood Elf and Erestor raised his gaze to find the fey creature standing in all his natural perfection before him, smiling, one hand at his hip, the other slowly massaging his thigh.

The seneschal ceased breathing as he beheld the image displayed for his discovery alone. Flushed with his aroused passion, Legolas' skin had turned the hue of honey new from the comb, his long twisted tresses moonbeam dipped, eyes softening to pale aquamarine. Lips, nipples, and the erect organ all were engorged and stood out in dark contrast, beckoning the Noldo to partake of the amber coloured extremities. The archer's shaft pointed right at his lips and the tiny opening exuded a few drops of shining silver liquid just upon its peaked crown.

It was more temptation than Erestor could resist, and why should he? He grasped both the Woodland warrior's biceps and backed him to the trunk of the ancient oak, kissing the pliant lips eagerly, demandingly. When Legolas' back impacted the tree, Erestor dropped to the forest floor and did as he had promised earlier, peeling back the delicate foreskin and sipping up the dewy essence, lapping into the slender slit to stimulate further secretion of the slippery nectar.

"Berenaur! Valar!"

Legolas' shout of excitement was more than enough encouragement and Erestor took the entire length of the rigid, slender sex down his throat, sucking with delirious ferocity. He distantly registered attempts to speak entreaties and endearments but the syllables were all mixed together and virtually incoherent. No matter, the intensity of the pleasure he was giving was easily apparent as Legolas sank clasping fingers into his hair and held on.

He could feel the wild archer struggling to remain still and pulled back nearly completely off the inflamed cock. Erestor glanced up to find Legolas' huge eyes locked upon his mouth and smiled around the full, wet column. He waited until the younger elf's focus lifted to meet his, then drew the organ voraciously back in, sliding his hands around to cup the supple arse and shove, forcing the solid intrusion even deeper. Erestor repeated the procedure as Legolas strained to control his breathing and his body, but at last took the hint. He began hesitantly pumping on his own.

"Mmmmmnn…" the rumbling, low-pitched growl of appreciative enjoyment vibrated against the animated penis, inciting the Sylvan into a more vigorous rhythm.

"Aye! Nay!" Legolas tossed his head, wanting to give in and just fuck, desperately trying to refrain from such license for fear of choking Berenaur. He felt the hands against his rear again, pushing forcefully, and at last relented.

Bracing his hands on Erestor's shoulders, Legolas pivoted back and forth with gusto, abandoning caution in the face of such exhilarating friction as the Noldo's tongue swabbed against his cock and teeth scraped ever so faintly across the sensitised tissue. The sight of the long shaft, darkened and slick, sliding in and out of the sucking torridity of the maroon rimmed orifice excited him to new heights of carnal impetus. An aching, itching fever collected in the organ's bluntly rounded head; such intensely searing pleasure in so small an area was unbearable and yet too magnificently intoxicating to end. Dearly he wanted this experience to last and nearly sobbed to realise he could not suspend the impending flood. The fingers gripping his rear slipped away, some to carefully coddle his balls while others insinuated down between his cleaved cheeks and teased his body's entrance.

Legolas was vaguely aware that he was emitting the most feral sounding grunts he had ever voiced but soon lost even that level of rational comprehension. A ragged cry flew from his throat when one of the fingers plunged inside and wormed up to find his swelling prostate. Legolas shouted, a painfully expressive mixture of both regret and rejoicing for the act's completion, when the gland was softly stroked and initiated the surge of his vital syrup up through the engorged member. Transported beyond exaltation, a state of soaring ecstasy claimed his soul as the semen exited his body to be instantaneously consumed within Berenaur's being.

Erestor swallowed. The back of his tongue massaged the tingling tip of wild elf's cock and his fingers worked, both inside and out, to wring a final shuddering moan from his lover's lungs. He felt Legolas' legs trembling just before they gave out and so was prepared to support his weight, allowing the spent organ to slip from his lips and the sated warrior to slide down the trunk and into his arms. He cradled his partner compassionately, holding Legolas as his pulse pounded and his frame shook with exhausted spasms in the aftermath of the orgasm. The seneschal savoured the sensation, crooning soothing endearments, and kissed the head bowed upon his breast, lightly rubbing the lax arm draped about his neck.

"Oh that was wondrous, Pen-rhovan; your taste is an enchantment; your seed, an infusion of infinite vitality," he whispered.

No one has pleasured him thus, at his feet in adoration. Erestor's hold round him contracted, drawing Pen-rhovan tight against his chest as his heart swelled. The Noldo then helped him sit back against the tree, brushing the tangled fall of shimmery strands from Legolas' face. So many firsts for this one tonight!, and that thought alone granted him immense fulfilment.

Legolas was smiling dreamily, lungs labouring, a playful twinkle in those blue-green eyes. "Wondrous, aye," he managed as he gazed at the advisor in a peculiar amalgam of puckish awe. He took a further moment to regain more regular respiration.

"You cheated!" he accused quietly and joined in Erestor's laughter.

 

The depth of the darkness was impenetrable. Nothing beyond a few inches of fuzzy obscurity, a shifting mosaic of dancing, patternless patches of shadowy night, could even be glimpsed. The fleeting motifs of black over onyx were reminiscent of the after-images seen on the inside of the eyes' lids squeezed shut against a searing glare. Erestor closed his and after a moment opened them, hoping for the contrast to aid his perception, to little effect.

Bloody pit of endless void! How can thin air possibly be so completely impervious? It is as stifling and caliginous as the bowels of some foul Orcs' nest!

Yet in the absence of visual stimulus the presence of the Greenwood was more clearly apparent and the seneschal was uneasy with the immensity of the entity surrounding him. The whispering rustle of twigs and dry leaves filled the air and with every breath Erestor took it seemed he drew the disquieting murmurs into his person. The very atmosphere he inhaled acted to reveal him, delving into his marrow and bone to ferret out his deepest held fears and failings, disseminating the intelligence thus procured as each exhale poured back into the autumn chill. Erestor felt panic's first scream building and mentally upbraided himself.

Bah! It is but the active skittering of four-footers and birds searching out their evening meal! He gave his body a thorough shake to ease the tension collecting along his spine as he tried out this logical explanation for the distinct sense of being watched. Yet his gut warned that he was much too high in the trees to ascribe the subtle sonorance to nocturnal wildlife. Erestor had never before felt so acutely the sentient cognition within the wood-clad giants steadfastly affixed to Arda's bosom. Or rather, that this entity is so keenly aware of me!

Against the noise of his struggling lungs and pounding heart these other sounds were a striking counterpoint, filled with a guarded anticipation, as if the Powers themselves stood by observing, taking his measure, performing an evaluative sampling of his very soul. Far from the city he might be, but his carnal union with the woodland champion would be witnessed nonetheless.

With startling clarity the Noldo was swept back to the morning after the rains and relived the beatification worked upon the forest in the outpouring of the Tawarwaith's passionate fulfilment. Erestor found this disturbing, for the wild elf had been severely harmed by the acts done that night, yet the Greenwood had not been able to comprehend the nature of the crime committed upon its atheling. Then again, the forest had punished the seneschal continuously along his route to the stronghold, though the wounds his unguarded tongue had inflicted on Legolas had been unintentional and his heart had already opened to the fallen prince of the Woodland Realm.

And what is my status now? The muttering ether held only this hesitant, hopeful consideration of his existence; Tawar's opinion of his worth seemed precariously poised between despair and rejoicing.

Just as Legolas must feel, he thought, comprehension suddenly filling his mind. The Spirit of the Woods could only see him through the eyes of its champion. Then Pen-rhovan both fears and craves this night. Erestor's heart constricted in sorrow for a moment then surged anew with a profound respect and admiration for the young archer's courage. In the face of such disastrous previous encounters, he was willing to extend his trust once more; hoping for acceptance, steeling himself for the pain of rejection once the fire of lust had been quenched.

Nay, it shall not be thus ever again, should I be allowed a voice in determining his fate. Erestor sat straddling a sturdy limb, its diameter equal to that of his own arm but no more, back pressed reassuringly against the solid boll of the great oak, and prayed to Yavanna for the consent and blessing of the trees.

Yet, he must find Pen-rhovan first. Somewhere above was the feral elf, naked and ready for his lessons in lovemaking to continue. Surely by now the Sylvan had reached the sheltered talan and was probably wondering where his would-be lover had gone. The dread notion that Legolas might be up there waiting, feeling he was abandoned after all, gripped the seneschal. Why else would he not throw down a rope or at least light a lamp?

Why did I agree to this race in the dark?, he inwardly groaned and gazed around in restive disgust for his inadequacy. He had tried his best to make steady progress, moving up from one strong branch to another, sticking to those that seemed most likely to bear his weight without cracking. He must have gone two thirds of the way to the top before he came to this impasse. Nothing met his eyes but a series of slender twigs and stems, surely not hearty enough to bear him forward or support the bulk of his body's mass. He was stuck, fearing to go up and yet unable to face the yawning blackness beneath his perch.

"Legolas!" he hissed in a loud whisper, then mentally chided himself. For whom was he lowering his voice, these trees? "Legolas!" he called more loudly, training his eyes skyward to search for any indication of the faint silvery glimmer radiating from the limber, graceful body he longed to have back in his arms.

Abruptly a loud bumping and shaking among the limbs to his left signalled the rapid descent of something heavy crashing through the branches, followed by a dull double thud as the ground far below was struck with force. "Pen-rhovan!" he shouted now in alarm and tilted forward as much as he dared, trying to pierce the velvet cloak of ebony air.

"What?" the exasperated demand came from just below. Then the Tawarwaith sprang from whatever position he had obtained and his slender fingers grabbed onto the branch where the seneschal was now clinging with desperate fear.

Erestor stared in a mixture of relieved aggravation at Legolas. The wild elf had pulled his head and shoulders above the branch, wrapping one arm around to keep it tucked securely under his left armpit, his chest braced against the bark. The other hand was lightly resting on Erestor's thigh and the majority of the enticing body was dangling out in the air as he swung his legs lightly.

"What is wrong?" he asked again, but the anxiety was gone from his voice, replaced by a rather impatient tone of wheedling complaint, as he gazed upon the Noldo Lord and pulled himself closer to the tempting crux of the parted legs.

"I thought you were falling," replied Erestor sheepishly. Of course he would not fall, a Wood Elf could not lose balance in a tree. "What was that racket? I heard something hit the ground."

"And you thought it was me?" asked the woodland First-born in affronted surprise.

An expression very near to being a pout graced the voluptuous lips and caused the Noldo's heart to flare up in a flurry of excessive beats, luring him to bend lower and kiss them. Erestor eased the fingers of one hand out to caress the protruding edge of an extravagantly tipped ear and gave it a titillating tug. As the expected gasp of joy opened the Sylvan mouth, the advisor thrust in his tongue and explored lavishly, continuing the gentle squeezing, rubbing the sensitive collection of nerves, coaxing a string of appreciative but muffled exclamations from the archer's throat. His tongue retreated from the savoury orifice, replacing his fondling fingers, and Legolas pressed harder into the ardent, wet contact.

"Now do not be angry; I was but worried for you," he reassured between licks, working his tongue behind the delicate structure to the smooth skin below the hairline, tasting the salty evidence of Legolas' earlier excitation. He discovered the area was extremely ticklish when an involuntary twitch writhed through the suspended figure and a gurglely laugh escaped into the night. Erestor refrained from further teasing, fearing he might truly cause the wild elf to loose his grip. "What fell, then?" He closed his lips over the flushed tip again and softly sucked. Legolas' hand on his flank dug in painfully and Erestor yelped.

"Sorry!" the clenching fingers relented, the mouth returned, and Legolas sighed. "The boots," four ragged breaths followed this brief report. "Could not keep hold to them any longer. I am sure they will not be too badly damaged." Legolas presented the other ear, tingling as the hot, saliva-smeared skin of the first reacted to the sudden exposure. "Oh, yes, like that, like that," he whispered and shut his eyes as Berenaur obliged.

Erestor really could not muster up much regret over the loss of the footwear in the presence of such an erotic sight. He glanced over the side of the branch, suddenly wondering whether the archer was hard again, to see if he could spy the exposed genitals. He could just make out the darker outline of the resurgent member against the pale glow of the taut abdomen and a small grin curled the corners of his lips. Stretching out his leg, he ran his toe up the inside of the nude thigh and faintly nudged the swelling balls, and a sound that almost met the qualifications for a squeal erupted from Legolas where he dangled from the limb.

Breathing a silent laugh against the inflamed ear, delighting in the shivery wail his unexpected touch elicited, the seneschal was absolutely content. There was nothing Erestor enjoyed better than this, the slow awakening of a new partner's latent sexual appetite. He relished being the one to introduce a novice lover to the particular hungers of their own flesh. Despite Legolas' previous experience, he was more attuned to providing such stimulation and receiving harshness in return, and Erestor considered him a neophyte to the romantic arts. He wondered if he could make Pen-rhovan come right here, suspended in the air, and stroked the sensitive sac again.

"Valar!" Legolas squirmed and thrust forward, but could not connect with anything. He moaned and bowed his forehead upon the seneschal's knee.

"Ah, you do realise that you have broken the rules we agreed to," Erestor said softly as though their conversation had not been interrupted at all. "The contest is void and I win by forfeit!" his tone was one of victorious anticipation, never before so pleased to discard a good pair of boots.

"Nay, I did not!" Legolas' head shot up, eyes wide in bold contention. "Surely you must know I have been to the top already."

"Why should I assume such? You just popped up from somewhere below me!"

"I was after the blasted boots!"

"Oh really? Why did you not stay on the talan, then you would not have dropped them?"

"Because you never arrived and I feared you were stuck on a limb, as you are! I lost the boots on the way to find you!"

"Just admit it, I have won! If you had got to the talan already you would have left them up there for proof!"

The crestfallen expression on the archer's countenance proved he had not thought of doing that and rather wished he had. The rueful demeanour quickly decamped in favour of the stubborn defiance so frequently at home upon the fair features. Legolas knew how to end the argument and shuffled closer along the branch.

"Oh no, you have taken your turn and made your choice! It is my go now." With that he sidled even nearer until his head was nearly in the Noldo's lap. Before Berenaur could respond he reached for the ties of the leggings, using his teeth to aid in the one-handed unlacing. Quickly he pulled the burgeoning sex free and bent it forward to meet his gaping lips, wrapped his arm tight around his lover's waist, and drew him in.

"Ah!" was the only sound Erestor made, a cry of unrestrained excitement as Legolas, hanging off the branch, swallowed his cock whole.

Down and up again the silvered head danced twice and the seneschal delved his hands into the thick locks, pressing his spine hard against the tree for support. With a resounding pop the Sylvan pulled away from the heavy shaft which sprang back to full attention against the fabric of the Noldo's tunic.

Erestor groaned and jerked with a faint shiver as the cool air drifted across the slickened flesh. With halting breath he watched as Legolas nuzzled his nose against the curly tangles surrounding the column's root. All respiration ceased when a maroon tongue flickered out and swabbed against the tautly stretched skin almost buried under the leather breeches. Then Pen-rhovan's lips parted and he sucked up one of the concealed testes, carefully rolling the sensitive gland within his mouth, and Erestor screamed the accumulated air from his chest.

Legolas let the warm brimming globe slip from his lips and smiled an impish grin up into the sweat-gleamed visage of the Noldo Lord. It was a most gratifying sight, the seneschal's mouth agape and his eyes staring as his lungs strained to contain sufficient oxygen to satisfy his racing pulse and sustain his rising heat, inky tresses a cascade of infinite night about his shoulders.

The archer went back to the object of his desire with fervour, murmuring a low pitched continuous hum as he impressed a line of nibbling kisses up the bulky cock, following the throbbing vein. Out flashed the crimson lash of his tongue to lap beneath the flared rim. He let the tip of his oral organ taste all the way around the lip of the tapered peak and teased the underside mercilessly before licking directly across the very crown. There he gathered up the moisture welling from the minute orifice before enveloping the head fully, letting his teeth discretely examine the firm flesh.

That was more than Erestor could sit still for and with a guttural bellow he thrust up his hips and shoved the long length of aching flesh deep inside the Tawarwaith's maw, bracing one hand behind him on the bark while the other remained ensconced within the thick fall of argent hued hair.

"Pen-rhovan! Ah, Legolas, saes, na Eru!"

Legolas stilled his body and took it all, suckling the distended penis greedily as a thrill ran through him to hear the advisor's heartfelt pleas for more. A sudden tingle jolted from the point of his ear and coursed like a blaze of searing star-fire into the centre his soul. Berenaur was ever so softly pinching the sensitive cartilage in time to the steady tongue-stroking. As the Noldo thrust his florid member in and out of the plundering mouth, Legolas longed for the burst of hot semen to flood his oesophagus and nourish his need to render satisfaction, yet wished he could keep the intensity of this decadent feast from ever diminishing.

Erestor could not contain his body's release for long under such intoxicating stimulus, however, and too soon he felt the brilliant flash of dizzying sublimation as part of his soul liquefied and merged with his seed, shooting from him in a blinding stream of glorious intensity. He did not hear his own shouts or note his erratically flexing hips, but felt fully the marvellous massage of the long tongue in the gifted throat drinking down his essence with zeal. He spun away into the hazy afterglow of this exquisite conclusion and just let his consciousness drift in the beauty of the moment.

When he became aware of his surroundings again, his eyes recorded the sight of the Wood Elf's face nestled against his crotch, his relaxed member being appreciatively licked all over. Erestor ran his hand tenderly over the tangled mane and Legolas raised his head. His sweet smile was a pleasing accompaniment to the Noldo's giddy grin.

"Had anyone told me before now that I could find such ecstasy by sitting in a tree, I would have pronounced them mad."

Legolas just smiled at that and rested his cheek against the advisor's loins.

The wild elf's arm was still wrapped snugly around Erestor's waist and it occurred to him that the strain from hanging onto the branch during such an incredible performance must be reaching unbearable proportions. Without a word he reached for Legolas, gripping him under the arms and settling him sideways across his lap. The lovely tapered organ peaked out from between the archer's legs and Erestor's fingers went right to the slippery tip to play with the foreskin before dropping to cup the hairless scrotum.

"Legolas, you are harder than the trunk of this oak," he sniggered as the Tawarwaith wriggled under the petting fingers.

"That is not my fault."

"It is mine, then? I suppose it is my responsibility to remedy the condition."

Incited by this reply, Legolas balanced his weight on Berenaur's shoulders and turned to face the advisor, one leg on either side, throwing both arms around his neck in a warm embrace as he drove his erection against the still damp skin exposed by the open leggings. "What remedy do you prescribe?"

Erestor willingly accepted the naked elda's head upon his shoulder, drawing him close and stroking the golden skin, gently smoothing the marred back as he sought out an inviting spot on the bared neck and latched his lips upon it, biting and sucking a mark that would be visible for at least two days. He could feel more than hear the faint sigh of pleasure from the amorous archer and smiled, hugging tight.

The rigid shaft kept poking insistently against his navel as Legolas continued to pivot on his lap. The sturdy legs were splayed wide, spanning Erestor's shanks, the supple rump parted and easily accessible. The advisor's fingers found there way within the cleft and felt for the cinctured entrance as Legolas caught his breath and suddenly ceased moving. The Noldo ran the nail of his thumb against the ring of muscle and made the opening spasm as the archer sought to accept the exploring digit. Erestor grinned and let his flirting hands run back over the toned gluteal mounds and up the graceful spine, ending on the strong shoulders where he rubbed and kneaded away the strain accumulated during their latest coupling.

"Then, you concede the race to me and I shall choose our initial position?"

Legolas' head lifted instantly and a vexed snort escaped his nostrils. "Nay, you have not won for you cheated by distracting me and sapping my strength before we could start."

"Then we are even now, Pen-rhovan, for I know not if I can move from this limb after your vigorously talented extraction of my essence."

"All right, we shall call it a draw. You and I are quite evenly matched, Berenaur," Legolas smiled into the dark glitter of the Noldo's eyes and leaned in for a brief kiss. "I think I would like to strip you now," he added with a giggle and set to work on the tunic, persistently rocking his lanceolate erection against Berenaur's stomach.

"Ai! Wait! Legolas, I need to move from this precarious perch, if you do not mind, before we continue," pleaded Erestor and grasped the busy fingers to halt them.

"This is a very sturdy tree and quite used to such antics as ours. Besides, it would never let me fall, nor you either for it knows you are dear to me," he admonished quietly. He respected the older elf's wish, however, and rose, holding out his hand to help the Noldo to his feet.

Once upright Erestor pulled Legolas close and claimed the alluring mouth that had just uttered such a romantic endearment. The taste of both their unique secretions mingled and mixed and the result imparted a sensually smoky tartness upon his palate. Possessive hands circled loosely round the archer's narrow waist and rested comfortably over the swell of the firmly muscled arse as though they were in the habit of finding their way there. He broke the languid tangle of tongues but ere their lips had separated more than a finger's breadth the Wood Elf reached up and framed the Imladrian's face in both hands and brought them back into oral union.

"Follow me!" he commanded with gruff breathlessness when he severed the contact and then leaped up into the darkness.

Almost at once Erestor felt a sensation he had quite forgotten about as the back of his neck twinged and a prickling tingle shot through his mind. He was absorbed back into the Tawarwaith's awareness of the Greenwood, and the places to put his hands and feet were located without his conscious effort to seek them out. With ease he scaled up the ancient oak in Legolas' wake, keeping the bobbing luminescent rear in his sight the while, and in short order he was standing on the high platform beside the fey Sylvan.

Now that they were so high in the canopy, the overshadowing network of branches relented and some small spots of star-dotted sky peered through upon the lovers. In the pale gleam, the shapes of furnishings could be determined and upon one of these the greater glint of a silver lamp winked under the subtle movement of the breeze swayed limbs.

Erestor went to it at once and found ready to hand a small flint. He quickly struck a spark upon the lantern's wick and filled the lofty flet with bright light. Holding the lamp up high he spun to behold his craftily won prize, lips pursed in feigned annoyance, but the stern expression instantly dissolved into a shaky sigh of appreciative pleasure. He had intended to scold the Tawarwaith for withholding this easy means of directing him upwards but the lamp's flickering incandescence was dancing all around the woodland elda, highlighting the slender physique and its lean-muscled angles.

Now that his own aura was no longer the principle source of illumination, Legolas was again revealed in warm hues of crimson and gold. Erestor let his gaze wander where it would, the intensity of his scrutiny verily palpating the rose-flushed skin, hungering over deep maroon peaks of sensual sensitivity, lingering long on the erect male organ. The proud penis rose from the silky cluster of honey-dipped curls crowded around the smooth pocket containing the source of Legolas' potency. Erestor's stomach flip-flopped in anticipation of what he was planning to do next.

Legolas remained fixed and watched Berenaur with shining eyes, barely breathing as he endured this examination, and self-consciously brought his hand to rest over the jagged scarlet reminder of the newly healed wound on his thigh. He had been surprised and pleased that the scars were barely noticeable without external light, and now almost regretted the oil lamp's presence. He was much marred since last he had lain naked in Berenaur's arms.

The seneschal noticed at once, and found his eyes searching for the other signs of Legolas' most recent battles, sighting the stark discoloration in his side, a fading line along his arm, an ugly mark around his ankle. There were others not so easy to see; Erestor had already felt them under his fingertips. It fired his rage to find these blemishes on the otherwise perfect form, but he struggled to master his feelings lest the wild elf misunderstand and read his anger for disgust or rejection.

"Come here," he called and motioned with his hand. There was a bench not far from the table and Erestor went to it, leaving the lamp behind. He heard the nearly noiseless step of the barefoot archer following and then fingers slipped into his palm, gripping tightly, and he felt the latest injury, scabbed over and rough. When he turned Legolas was there, staring up with that inscrutable look reflecting from the depths of those bottomless lapis orbs. Erestor patted the cushioned seat and stood aside as Legolas sat gingerly on the edge, never taking his eyes from the Noldo's face.

"Few bare such visible testimony to the quality of so valiant a spirit." He traced the outline of the spear's damage. "Would it surprise you to hear this does not detract from your appeal?"

The warrior grimaced and looked away. "I do not need to hear such falsehoods; it is enough not to have it mentioned!" he complained bitterly.

"I am not false." Erestor suddenly sprang upon his lover's lap and forcefully turned Legolas' head back to face him, pulling up his tunic to reveal the prominent organ bulging through the open leggings. His craving for complete union with Legolas had quickly re-ignited his desire. The seneschal grabbed Legolas' hand and wrapped it around both their cocks and together the fists pistoned the calid columns of compressed flesh. In unison yearning moans of urgency erupted from their lungs. But Erestor had no wish to spend himself this way and stopped as suddenly as he had begun, removing and entwining their hands, sliding away to rest on Legolas' knees.

The two elves stared at one another, audibly sharing the air, tense with their mutual need.

"Valar, get those clothes off!" hissed the Tawarwaith as his fingers tore at the ties of the garments.

Erestor immediately jumped up and out of Legolas' reach. He tossed his head, sending the long fall of his ebony locks swishing over his left shoulder. As if this were any ordinary preparation for an evening's rest, he undressed. Not with teasing laziness or in heated haste, but with casual nonchalance he tossed the tunic to the floor and began working on the shirt's closures. The look of covetous cupidity on Legolas' face indicated this seemingly calm restraint was having the desired effect. Slipping the silk blouse from his shoulders, Erestor flung it over the younger elf's head and smirked to see the offending obstacle yanked free and impatiently cast aside.

Legolas was breathing fast through parted lips and made no effort to hide his avid fascination during the sluggish unfurling. He could not tear his eyes from the smooth toned flesh of the hairless chest. He caught his breath as the Noldo flexed his pectorals and caused the pointed nipples to jump invitingly. The small protrusions were coloured so deep a brown as to be nearly black and Legolas longed to taste them. With tremendous restraint and a visible shudder, he reined in his need to touch and savour the revealed skin.

Hungering eyes tracked the seneschal's hand intently, following as it moved lightly down the sternum to his abdomen. The fingers reached the navel and paused to circle there then with utmost delicacy barely traced across the burgundy tip of the full organ. The commanding sex extended out in a graceful arc from its base amid the thick nest of black hair between the elf's legs, its naked head reaching the lower rim of the sensual indentation created by the umbilical scar. A minute whine of ravenous voracity escaped Legolas' lungs as the protruding flesh was pulled and pointed toward him as if in offering. The display was not complete, however, and so he waited, gripping the seat of the bench to hold himself still, lifting his expectant gaze to Berenaur's.

Erestor relinquished the massive member and slid his hands up to his hips where the gaping leggings had sagged. Slipping his thumbs under the fabric he pushed the garment lower, lifting out one long leg and then the other before straightening back up adjusting his balls with a flex of one hip. Of course his penis gave a most enticing wobble as well and he clearly heard Legolas vainly call upon the Star-Kindler's name. With a final flourish the seneschal kicked aside the breeches to join the discarded tunic and stood still for the archer's inspection, a seductive leer upending his darkened maroon lips as one hand indulgently stroked his sanguineous shaft.

"Magnificent," said Legolas in quiet awe, and let his eyes rove upon the exposed skin of the glorious figure. Berenaur was absolutely flawless, an ideal of balanced contrasts: black hair against pale white flesh, tall and lean yet broad of shoulder, well-muscled yet still elegantly slender and regally proportioned, exquisitely beautiful yet powerfully built. The Tawarwaith could no longer ignore his ardour and rose from the bench, intent on sampling every inch of the perfection displayed before him.

But Erestor was quicker and nearly pounced upon the smaller elf, pressing him back to the seat, palms against the ruby points of the creamy chest, pushing Legolas to lie flat on the bench. He planted one hand on either side of the archer's head and grinned down into the questioning blue eyes.

"Aye, you are that and more, Pen-rhovan," he murmured and took the ready lips. "Nonetheless, you could have used that uncanny link with the woods to show me how to get up here much sooner!"

"But then it would not have been a race!" Legolas secured one nipple between his fingertips and tugged, smiling at the satisfied groan this generated.

"True, but I would not have been stuck on that branch feeling ridiculous. My heart almost stopped from mistaking you for an old pair of marching boots!" Erestor sighed as Pen-rhovan gave the other jet peak equal attention.

"Yet but for that I would have missed the opportunity to appease your temper so enjoyably!" The Tawarwaith's hands drifted up to filter through the enticing length of inky locks.

"Oh is that what you were doing, Pen-rhovan?" he spoke absently, leaning over his sumptuous delicacy, licking his lips in salacious anticipation as he surveyed the tempting array of available spots to taste. Erestor made his choice and buried his nose in the blond pubic curls, inhaling deeply the intoxicating musky aroma of the Sylvan, delighted to feel the slender penis leap at the contact as Legolas' hands contracted around the bunches of hair he held.

"Aye, ilya fassë laurëa, orilya laurëa! [Aye, all the tangled hair is golden, golden all over!]" he murmured in Quenya and saw the colour rise higher in the wild elda's cheeks. "'Tis true, then? You understood that, even on our first encounter in the Southern Regions?"

Legolas shrugged evasively and trailed his hand across Berenaur's chest to the flat, hard stomach. The appreciative caress ended as he grabbed the crimson cock and handled it with practised expertise, watching his lover's eyes eagerly and smiling with wanton invitation.

"If I concede the race, what would you choose, Legolas?"

But Pen-rhovan's hand was holding him exactly right, pulling on his erection with the perfect amount of pressure, and the pace of the leisurely pumping was exquisitely timed to match the tempo of his quickening pulse. He threw his head back and leaned into the archer's able grip, rocking into the firm friction with enjoyment. Suddenly he reached for Pen-rhovan's wrist and stilled his movements, still gazing intently up into the branches as a smile found its way across his noble features. He returned his sight to the recumbent warrior and lifted his brows in enquiry, for no response had been offered.

Legolas was just staring at him as though spellbound, which indeed he nearly was, for the sight of the dark-haired elda astride his pelvis so casually employing him for pleasure had raised a compelling image in his mind. His mouth went dry as he pictured Berenaur's cock sliding inside his body, easing in and out in that same slow and steady rhythm, relaxed and redolent as he fucked. Every lazy intrusion would strike Legolas' internal centre with the broad, blunt, naked, red head. He imagined the sensation of the Noldo finding release, spilling in a long, writhing convulsion of his entire being. The vision almost made Legolas come and he inhaled sharply, not realising he had stopped breathing for a moment.

"Here," he managed to mumble. "Have me here, now!" He was pleading pathetically but did not care as he tugged on Berenaur's arms to try and pull him into kissing range.

"Aye," the Noldo agreed and met the questing mouth eagerly for but a short tongue tease. "That was my choice also. We are so attuned in this endeavour!" He stood and with a bright smile took hold of Legolas' hips and shifted him a little on the bench, bringing his rear just to the edge of the cushioned seat. He held one leg by the calf and lifted it up, settling the heel carefully onto a small ledge underneath that Legolas had not noted was even there. The other leg he placed identically, so that the archer's back was not uncomfortable and his feet were supported without being raised up at all or even spread apart.

Legolas was a bit confused as the arrangement did not seem conducive to fulfilment of his phantasm, but before he could voice any of his questions Berenaur suddenly crouched low to the floor and disappeared from his sight.

"Berenaur?" He made to rise and see what was going on but the Noldo got to his knees in a flash and pushed the archer back down, pressing upon the firm stomach.

"Patience! Stay still a moment. Trust me, Pen-rhovan, and you will not be disappointed." He smiled as Legolas relaxed under his hand, then returned his attentions to the underside of the wooden bench.

Legolas sighed and tried not to fidget as he listened to the Noldo feeling around the base of the seat's legs and tapping on the braces supporting the frame. A sound like a drawer being drawn open followed the seneschal's satisfied grunt. Next, it seemed the elf was rummaging through the contents of whatever this compartment was, picking up and putting back the items. This went on for a few minutes and then the wild elf heard a very smarmy sort of chuckle. His curiosity was about to get the better of him when Berenaur rose from the floor, grinning hugely.

"What…?"

"Shh!"

Erestor padded to the end of the bench by Legolas' feet and dipped below his line of sight again. Another smoky snicker issued from the region and then abruptly the end of the seat tilted up, coming to rest at a slight angle as the ledge for the feet moved as though split in two, which it was.

It was at about this time that the concept registered in the Tawarwaith's brain that this was not an ordinary bench.

Legolas nearly rolled off from surprise as the movement suddenly spread his legs wide and he felt a definite draft of air against his completely exposed anus. He gripped the sides of the seat and craned his head forward to stare with hugely round eyes. He could see the seneschal bent over fiddling with something and then the Noldo's face turned to him with a devilish grin. He felt the cool brush of air again and realised Berenaur was blowing across his opening. He shivered from crown to soles.

"I take it you have never played on one of these before?" Erestor asked with restrained mirth. He could see that Legolas was speechless, noting the very slight shake of the golden head and the nearly wary amazement crowding the indigo eyes. "Do not worry, I will make certain you enjoy this fully."

As he spoke he was once more working on the equipment and it sounded as though he was fitting pieces of wood together somehow, the noise reminiscent of a table's leg being set into a pegged or slotted opening made to house it. This was followed by the unmistakable sound of a cork being drawn from a bottle accompanied by the light aroma of fragrant oil of lavender. The auditory signals filling the room next were fully recognisable as that of hands becoming coated with the slippery stuff.

Legolas' body responded immediately and instinctively as his heart rate jumped and his cock filled to painful capacity. His insides bunched up into rigid knots, he contracted his annular ring so close the star-shaped pucker shrank to minuscule dimensions. Anticipating being forcefully breached, he sealed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.

It shall only pain enough to please. Instead he heard the softest of exhaled sighs and felt a tender wet lick against the sensitive perineum. Legolas gasped and twitched as his eyes flew open. Before he could say a word he felt the slick, probing tip of Berenaur's finger circling his entrance with gentle pressure.

"Easy, easy! I am not going to harm you in any way. This will be different, but I promise you will not be injured." Erestor's soothing voice reassured as the slippery impact continued. The digit brushed across the cramped ring of muscle and pushed delicately but insistently until finally Legolas relaxed enough to permit the invasion.

Erestor wasted no time in finding the prostate and stroked across the small bulge several times. Encouraged by the bleats of pleasure the abused elf emitted, he inserted another finger and worked to spread the narrow passage wider. He took his time, aware that scar tissue was less resilient and would be more likely to tear than stretch. With his free hand he reached for the stiff erection and massaged firmly, coating the organ with a greasy film, until Legolas was close to ejaculation. Erestor withdrew the fingers and ceased his manipulation, moving behind Legolas to lovingly smooth his oily hands over the quivering flesh of the upraised buttocks.

"Are you ready, Pen-rhovan?"

"Aye."

Berenaur leaned over and licked across the scar on the exposed thigh and Legolas jerked, expecting quite a different sort of contact. Next he felt something very hard and cool against his anus and even as he tensed at the unfamiliar sensation the thick object entered him and he shouted in shock.

"Ai! Berenaur? What are you doing?" he sputtered out the words as the intrusive tool was slowly inserted, stretching him to accommodate its impossible girth. He was trying to remain focused on the elf but his lungs were heaving in the effort to endure the pressure. Never had anything other than a cock been in there and this was definitely not Berenaur's organ. An image of the dagger forced its way into his mind. Panic surged through his chest and he instinctively tried to kick his assailant away.

Erestor easily caught the darting foot and held it, softly massaging the trembling limb all the way up to the groin and back, as he cajoled the distraught elf into a calmer state.

"Does it hurt you greatly?" Erestor's voice wavered with remorse. He had taken care to prepare the body but neglected to compose Pen-rhovan's psyche. He had not considered what sort of unwholesome memories he might be triggering. "I do not wish this to give you pain; I will stop at your word, Legolas."

He saw the rapid shake of the tangled mane but the elf's eyes were hidden under the dark seams of his enmeshed lashes and his jaw was intractably clenched. The seneschal took up Legolas' penis, somewhat softer than before, and pumped it with smooth deliberate motions, encouraging the organ back to fullness and easing the tension from his lover's features. At last the blue eyes opened and found his, a clear command to continue within them.

Erestor resumed his efforts to seat the implement completely into the constricting cavity. Steadily pushing on the dark, oil-slick tool he watched in enthralled fascination as Pen-rhovan's body drew it it, accepting the foreign object degree by minuscule degree.

"Oh, Legolas, I wish you could see! Can feel me shoving it in deeper, deeper? Just let me, Pen-rhovan. Ah, Valar! It is huge and it is spreading you open, filling you, that small red ring clamping around it."

Legolas listened and his heart quickened as the demanding penetration resumed. His eyes drifted shut. He concentrated on the voice subduing him with its sultry tones, supplying an erotic image to join the sensation of being invaded by the unknown mass. And he found that it was exciting, being taken by this inanimate thing given life in Berenaur's hand, learning its nature with only his gut to supply his imagination.

At last it slid against the interior gland and Legolas shouted of his pleasure and eagerly pushed back to increase the sensation. He croaked out a shaky grunt of erotic torment when the object halted and the throbbing subsided gradually. Legolas could now feel a light contact against his buttocks as if he had a smooth flat slat or board balanced on his inclined arse. While that was interesting, his real curiosity was centred internally. He shifted his hips experimentally and groaned as the unyielding hardness rubbed his prostate. That was exquisite! He repeated the shimmying motion with a loud oath and his left hand flew to his prickling penis.

"Nay!" Protested Erestor and snatched the archer's hand with one of his while the other pushed on the gyrating hips, stilling him. "As enticing as it is to observe your responses, Pen-rhovan, I do not wish you to start without me!"

Legolas opened his eyes to find Berenaur gawking at him in undisguised lust and offered a weak grin. As he watched, the Noldo climbed back up to straddle his groin, letting their erections rub ever so slightly against each other, and he shivered in anticipation. Berenaur crawled up to kiss him and then transferred his tongue to suck and lap at his nipples.

The Tawarwaith laced his hands through the ebony hair and flexed his back to encourage the slurpy suckling. The movement initiated another grating rub of the solid tool inside his rectum and he howled under the dual stimulation.

He did not notice when the seneschal's hand dropped over the right side of the bench and grasped onto a small lever concealed just below the seat.

Erestor worked the lever and Legolas screamed in delight; the object inside him had just withdrawn a good three inches only to be shoved back right against his prostate. Chuckling to note that everything was in sound working order, the advisor grinned into the questioning eyes boring into his. He found Legolas' hand and guided it over to the handle, wrapping the fingers around it.

"Just a slight push or pull is all that is needed. Try it," he encouraged and sat back to watch, rolling his penis against the silky skin of the archer's scrotum carefully.

Tentatively Legolas pushed the devise and gasped as the penetrating piece shot even deeper inside him. He pulled and the object moved back like lightening until he was almost empty. Desperately he shoved both the handle and his hips to prevent that from happening and arched off the bench as searing scintillations of fiery brilliance danced before his eyes in the wake of the explosion of sensational pleasure coursing through his body. He was dimly aware of calling Berenaur's name and that the Noldo was speaking. For the life of him he could not really make any sense of the words. Somehow his hand was pried off the handle and he whined.

"Valar! Not so hard as that! I want you conscious while we make love!" laughed the Noldo Lord and leaned closer to kiss the wild elf deeply.

"Ulmo's Balls! What is this thing?" Legolas rasped out when the tongue retreated.

"Well, if it has got a proper name I never learned it. 'The Bench' seems to be the commonly accepted term. It is a grand toy, and if I ever meet the clever elf that invented it I will promptly kow-tow at his or her feet.

"It comes with a variety of implements to use, and most bonded pairs who have one make their own attachments, as loving gifts for one another, since they know each other's bodies so intimately. For your first time I chose a fairly traditional phallus shape, just a bit broader than I."

"And longer."

"Yes. Well. This one is made of wood, though I have seen other materials utilised, and attaches to a plank at the end of the bench so it stays seated just right once it is inside. Through an ingenious series of gears, springs, and hinges, the plank with its attached phallus can be manipulated as you have experienced. I think I should work the control the first time."

"Nay, I think not!"

"But I won the race, Pen-rhovan, you have already conceded!"

"We agreed it was a draw!"

Before the argument could escalate, Erestor flicked his wrist and shoved his shaft against the lean abdominal muscles beneath him, sending Legolas into spasms of delight.

Erestor had yet more surprises in store for Legolas. Even as the archer was still trembling from the glorious feelings shooting through his body, the seneschal stood up on the bench, each foot placed upon additional supports on either side and below the flat surface on which Legolas lay. He reached up into the air above him and withdrew a rope secured high among the tangle of branches. The hithlain cord was knotted to form a loop at the end and the Noldo held onto this like a handle as he resumed his seat.

And as he sat back down, Erestor reached behind, gripped Legolas' member, and impaled himself upon it in one forceful motion. He remained utterly still, head bowed and the midnight hued hair spilling all around him and over Legolas' chest, heaving mightily for several heartbeats. He lifted his eyes slowly and met the absolutely astonished ecstasy of the wild elf's gaze. He held that gaze as he pushed up to the brink of disunion then reclaimed the Sylvan spear and simultaneously worked the handle. The shudder running through Legolas' frame and the lusty shriek of pleasure that resulted added to his own exhilaration as the Tawarwaith's cock stroked his core and his balls lightly brushed against the downy golden curls.

Up and down Erestor rode his Pen-rhovan, using the rope to aid the strenuous action required of his squatting hamstrings, working the lever in concert with his movements to send Legolas into a state of bliss he had never experienced before. He had thought, based on the series of incoherent and guttural shouts, groans, and keening wails filling the talan that Legolas was beyond reason, until the steely strength of the archer's grasp encircled his cock and started pumping him. Their eyes locked and Erestor wished more than anything that he could kiss the full lips while the long shaft pierced him.

In an instinctively synchronous syncopation of grinding hips, thrusting groins, and pulling hands, the pair worked each other into blinding passion and rendered themselves deaf and dumb from the volume of their expressively inarticulate exclamations. They reached their peak together, Legolas squirting his seed deep into the squeezing channel of Berenaur's arse as he clamped around the phallus in his and milked the steady stream of warm semen from the Noldo's pulsing cock.

Erestor let himself collapse over the sweat-wet form of the slender golden elf, relinquishing everything in order to slide his arms up and drape them over Pen-rhovan's shoulders. He let his head fall heavily against the rapidly respiring chest, cheek resting on top of the firm knot of one red nipple, and closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Legolas' softening member was still inside and he liked that just fine. He felt his lover's arms encircle him limply and smiled at how heavy the light limbs felt across his back in the wake of such a thrilling expenditure of energy.

They remained thus for some time, dozing slightly as they reclaimed their breath and their strength, retaining as long as possible the dreamy euphoria of sexual elation. Neither of them ever wanted this feeling to end but it was not something to worry over for the night was early and this was but the premier of coital satisfaction. They simply cherished the union of their minds and bodies.

Eventually Erestor stirred, feeling a slight tension in Legolas, and carefully dismounted, leaning on the bench for support. He looked to find Pen-rhovan's drowsy grin observing him from half-lidded eyes of mellow blue haze. Their mouths fused briefly in a noisy kiss. Erestor had spilled all over Pen-rhovan's midriff and a creamy dollop of gooey sperm enveloped one of the scarlett nodes. The Noldo licked across the hard little nub and sucked it clean.

When he straightened up again, the nipple was all shiny with his spit and Legolas dragged his fingers across it with an eloquent sigh and a shuddery remnant of his orgasmic tremours. Erestor was very tempted to work the lever again and fought hard to resist the urge as his penis stirred under the stimulating mental image of Pen-rhovan writhing on the bench, begging and pleading in ecstasy.

"Legolas, how many times can you come in one night?"

 

Tbc


	58. Chapter 58

**Thranduil sui Adar [Thranduil as a Father]**

  


In dread anticipation Thranduil departed from the Chamber of Twilight and the throngs of disgruntled and dissatisfied Wood Elves.  Glad he was to leave behind the tactile hostility vented in every breath and murmur among the common folk and each growling glunch shot his way from amid the warriors as they exited the stronghold.  Yet as soon as he stepped within the internal hallways, the King knew there was a more urgent matter to attend than deciphering the cause of his troops' defection and his subjects' mutation from acquiescent compliance to assertive belligerence.  From high in the private chambers of his new and happy home life the plaintive wails of the infant prince filtered throughout the caverns and enveloped his very soul with depression and woe.

_Why does he cry so?_

The sound was not the screech of a hungry stomach needing sustenance nor the teeth-grating squall of complaint over soiled cloths and venting gases of a nascent body.  Nay, Taurant wept as though real tears must be pouring down his downy cheeks and gut-rending grief consuming his spirit.  As unheard of as it might seem for an elf less than a month freed from the safety of his mother's womb, the child was beset by some malady of the heart. And his father was beside himself in anguish as a stirring of guilt besieged his conscience. This was a sound he had heard before; though intervening years had buried it under other memories.

_You were warned!_

Meril's clear and lilting voice encircled and weaved throughout the disconsolate desolation of her babe's distress, crooning a lullaby in hopes of easing the little one's burden.  Within her words the strain from failing to placate the infant and the increasing frustration for her lack of maternal power over whatever was amiss in Taurant's world clung to the song as bitter cold fills the wetness of winter rain.  That she was pacing across the width and breadth of the royal apartment's voluminous chambers added to the brittle tremor affecting her serenade; the short stride and choppy steps offering testimony to her fraying nerves.

_She was warned!_

Thranduil did not hasten on his way but instead progressed ever slower as he climbed the numerous steps up through the main gallery toward his lofty abode under the stony skin of Orod Im'elaidh [the Mountain Amid the Trees].  He felt helpless.  Doom dogged his whole life; inescapable was his fate of wretched despair and unending sorrows.  What had he done to earn such troubles?

_Well do you know!  Do not play the innocent!_ His interior intellect mocked in sneering disparagement and would not be silenced.

How could this disastrous destiny pass beyond him to engulf his beloved children, truly incapable of any evil thought or deed?  Was the pain and torment carried in his very seed?  Perhaps, if that were true, then Ningloriel's child was the first to bear the affliction of the curse.  Thranduil paused upon the stairs and ground out a bitter groan of impotent regret, for it was manifest that this was not far from reality.  Misdirected delusions of extant events, all products of his lax character, had marked his heart and governed his actions.

_Again, you already possess this insight!  Go and see what you have wrought upon your unblemished prince!  Why do you tarry in the halls?  He will yet be wailing however long you take to reach his side._

With a severe shake of his shoulders and head, Thranduil straightened his spine and lifted his drooping chin.  At least let him face truth squarely and do what he might to take from his tiny heir the burden of retribution.

_Manwë hear me!  Let the blame and the punishment rest where justice demands, not upon this innocent but rather on his parents.  Spare my children!_

With this plea ringing through his mind the King found his legs and bounded up the remaining flights to reach his family, throwing open the door to the front parlour with vehement determination to shelter the next generation of his House from further harm.

At once he froze nearly upon the threshold, for there was Gwilwileth curled up in a soft upholstered chair, her red hued cheeks stained by tears that coursed with alarming regularity as each eye filled, brimmed, and spilled over and over.  She was virtually silent, just a soft hitched sobbing accompanying her steady stream of worried effluence.

Upon seeing her Ada come through the door, the distrait elfling gave up on her efforts to be calm, lifted her watery countenance and opened out her chubby baby arms.  Quivering for a moment as she tried to contain her fear and confusion, the child's lower lip quaked as she valiantly sought to suppress the building wail of utter bewilderment and fright inundating her world.

"Ada!  Tauron crying an' Nana so angry!  Want Lind'on!  Want Limlas!  Where Lind'on, Ada, where?" the barely comprehensible flow of speech burst out amid her sobbing cries and shaking frame.

In seconds the King had reached his daughter, scooping up the child in sheltering arms, clutching her with protective desperation next to his laden heart.  He shushed her gently and rocked Gwilith in his clasp as he sank upon the chair and attempted to comfort her.  In his pocket he found a handkerchief and pulled it forth to dry her nose and cheeks.

"Ai! There now, there now, Echuiross [Early Spring Rain].  What is this distress?  Lindalcon is well; he has left the Council Chamber on some errand, that is all.  Naneth is not angry, hêniell nîn [my girl-child], she is only wearied by concern for Taurant.  Who is Limlas, sell dithen [little daughter]?" He asked this even as his inner self scoffed, asserting that he was fully aware.

"Legolas."

Gwilith confirmed his assumption and unconsciously his hold around her tightened as the familiar disgust arose within him.  That his outcast heir had somehow managed to find favour with the common folk and the lower ranks of the Wood Elf warriors was one thing.  For Ningloriel's son to win the affection of his daughter was something that burned in his gut like wine turned to vinegar.  He felt Gwilith whimper under his grip and sighed as he relented, softly patting her curling chestnut tresses in commiseration.

"I am sorry, sellen [my daughter].  He is gone from the stronghold with his friends.  I do not think he will be sleeping within the walls any longer now that he is healed of his injuries.  His home is with Fearfaron."  Thranduil tried to answer as pleasantly as he could, not wishing to upset his elfling further.

"Limlas not stay?" The undisguised confusion and hurt in the flutey, bird-song voice actually made Thranduil cringe.  Her tears started anew with greater force and she gave forth voluble expressions of her petulant distress noisy enough to drown out her brother.

"Gwilith!  Gwilwileth, do not carry on so!  He is a grown elf and has a home of his own.  It is not that he wishes to be away from you, hênen [my child]."  It seemed to the father that his children were holding an unofficial competition to determine who could holler louder, for surely Taurant's cries increased in amplitude almost instantly.

"Want Limlas here!"

"Shh!  Do not fret, you may see Tirno again.  He may come to visit," even as the words left his lips the King's eyes grew huge in disbelief over what he had just promised.  The fact that his daughter's tears diminished to a trickle and her unbridled ranting was replaced by a small smile and a glimmer of her usual lively cheer only minimally ameliorated Thranduil's dismay.

"When, Ada?" Gwilith demanded.

"I do not know exactly, hên vell [dear child].  Perhaps when next Lindalcon takes you to the gardens to play.  I will speak to Nana first and we shall decide."

"Really?  How good of you to include me in your planning!"  Meril's words were hard to discern over the woeful bawling produced by her son, but she was confident Thranduil heard.

She stood in the archway of the second room, her private study, with Taurant pressed against her bosom as his baby body trembled under the unleashed feelings his small frame was so desperately attempting to vent.  She jiggled him gently as if this artificial jostling might help minimise the jarring caused by his unending sobs and tearful keening.  The glare she sent her husband was surpassed only by the acidic character of her vocalisation.

Thranduil flinched at both and shifted Gwilith from his lap as he stood.

"Hervessen [my wife], allow me to take Taurant.  You have consoled him all day."  He held out his arms and offered her as gentle a smile as possible under the stress of their ragged nerves.  "You see to Gwilith and find some solace in the gardens; take tea there together.  I will try to calm our elfin prince."

Meril scowled deeply.  If Thranduil thought she would ignore his offhand remark and have the outcast's acceptance in her home remain unchallenged, he was mistaken. _I will make certain to apprise him of that fact._  She was, however, beyond weariness and truly needed to be free from her babe for at least a few hours to regain her own strength and composure.  Carefully she transferred the inconsolable soul over to his father's waiting arms and watched as Thranduil adjusted Taurant into a comfortable position, cradled in the crook of his elbow, so he could peer down into the scrunched up, puffy, red-blotched, completely miserable little face.

Taurant seemed not to notice the change in parental possession and continued screaming and hiccuping every breath that entered and left his lungs.  Squeezed down into expressive lines of utter desolation in a visage seemingly composed of vivid red skin and a hugely gaping mouth, the green eyes were unwilling to acknowledge his father.  The infant's small hands were wrapped tight around his fingers and flailed out now and then as his plump legs kicked together in frog-like spasms.

"Ahh!  Glîbrog, Glîbrog!  Tirio nin, tirio Ada! [Ah!  Honey-bear, honey-bear!  Look at me, look at Daddy!]" The Sinda Lord accompanied this ridiculous demand with the bizarre demonstration of extending his tongue to touch the tip of his nose as his dark green eyes crossed to focus on the maroon muscle's progress.  This had no effect and so he tried again.  "Tirio nin, Taurant!  Tiro sí, penlend! [Look at me, Taurant! Look here, Sweet One!]"

The small face unfolded as the mouth shut and the eyes were unveiled.   Two enormous orbs of emerald seemed to suddenly fill the quieter countenance as the elfling locked his tear diluted vision upon his sire.

A bright smile lit the King's eyes, which he shared for an instant with Meril, and he immediately tried the one look sure to work whenever Gwilith had become unwieldy in her babyhood.  Thranduil puffed out his cheeks into big round balls separated by lips pulled into a ridiculous pout that pushed up to touch his elegant nose again as he opened his eyes wide, crossing them.  He added in a peculiar sound that issued from his nostrils, since his mouth was sealed, reminiscent of a cricket or a frog.  Each time he made the noise, he would suck his cheeks back to normal and then puff them full again. 

Taurant stopped crying and just stared.  

In spite of her wrath, Meril's eyes softened as she watched the Sinda Lord making faces and odd chirpy noises to try and distract Taurant out of his sorrow.  Beside her, Gwilith bubbled out a giggle and pointed at her Adar.

"Ada be the cabornîf! [frogface]" she laughed and glanced at her Nana.

Like Lindalcon, Meril found her daughter's exuberance hard to resist and she shared a genuine grin of delight with her daughter.

"Aye, Adar is an old mundgabor [bullfrog] sometimes, is he not?"

Thranduil uncrossed his eyes long enough to send her a soul smile through them, then returned at once to his demonstration of the depths of paternal love expressed in terms of his silly pantomime.

Meril and Gwilith left, passing into the interior rooms and thus to the balcony stairs, the girl chattering away at her usual level of irrepressible intensity.  Her mother's calm and noncommittal answers gave proof that she realised the child merely needed to talk away her raw emotions.  Their voices diminished as they descended down into the gardens, and soon Thranduil could hear them but faintly.  He relaxed his facial muscles into their normal construction and observed his son's reaction to that.

Taurant looked back from those clear intelligent eyes of his and made a few more minor hitching sighs as his small form finally released the strain from hours of unabated shrieking.  His mouth opened but this time no ear-slicing scream issued forth, only a tremendous yawn that stretched the diminutive lips, a thin, red rim round a great, crimson cavern.  The involuntary intake of air seemed to go on for eternity until at last his lungs blew out the mighty breath in a wispy sort of mew.  A couple of blinks of his lavishly lashed lids preceded the sudden concealment of his penetrating green gaze.  His thumb found its way inside the over-worked mouth as the other hand latched onto his father's long hair.  A half-hearted sucking ensued and this was followed by a sudden spread of warm wetness at his crotch as his diminutive body completely relaxed into deep repose.

Thranduil laughed softly and carried his child to the nursery to change the damp cloths and the babe did not even stir during the procedure, lying in limp exhaustion with shut eyes the while.  Dry and redressed in a long gown of spun flax, the infant prince did not wake when he was again lifted up and tucked against his father's chest.  Thranduil moved to the rocker and settled in, establishing a soothing rhythm that was as much a comfort to himself as his slumbering son.  The Sinda Lord began to hum the melody of an ancient lullaby as he rested his cheek on the fine mass of silky hair and carefully rubbed his fingers against the prince's back.

_Taurant is so very small!_  Of course he had noted the same with Gwilwileth, but the concept was just as jarring now as it had seemed then.  How would this tiny thing ever become an independent elf?  So vulnerable was this beginning of life, so easily thwarted could it be if the strength Taurant required was not poured forth from his parents' feär into his.  It was as vital a nourishment as the milk he demanded seemingly unceasingly from Meril's breast.  The child's distress this day had proved this more than any word of lore or advice from scrolls on child rearing ever could.  He was apparently reacting to his mother's uneasiness over the events in the Council Chamber.

The image of the Tawarwaith, glaring in bright blue rage as he boldly asserted his kinship to the new prince and the outspoken woodland princess, invaded these musings.  Thranduil tried to recall what Ningloriel's child had been like at Taurant's age, but of course he could not summon an image for what he had never seen.

_Heard him, though, in those early days.  Surely then he generated more noise than in all the years after speech became his tool to use._

Who had cared for the child he had never considered, yet this day he wondered, for surely it was not Ningloriel.  While she had seemed to like the idea of a child to call her own, the actual practice of raising one was not within her command.  Too much mess and loss of rest and responsibility was demanded in such a task, none of it focused on herself.

She had doted on him intermittently once he was older and in control of his bodily functions.  The King seemed to recall the garden was their haven during the elfling years.  Or rather it was hers and she would let him spend time with her there.  _Did she ever sit thusly and hold her son as he dreamed?_  It did not seem likely, given what he knew of her nature, yet she must have done in the first days, before the shrieking started.  Then she had fled to Lorien, as she always did when bored or stressed, and was gone for two loa.

And Thranduil remembered the terrible argument between him and Ningloriel that preceded both actions.  His refusal to even look upon the newborn had initiated her flare of rage.

The infant's screaming had continued on and on ceaselessly, night and day, and Thranduil recalled his vocal threats to strangle the babe if it was not silenced.  He had demanded the healer deal with it, and told her to employ some herbal drug, he cared not, as long as he need not hear the crying any longer.  How Gladhadithen managed he had never asked, but the wailing had ended after two unbearable months of lamenting tears.  The child, and the elf he grew to be, was amazingly silent after that.

_Easy to overlook and forget about, if that is what one wished, as did I._

What this early deprivation might render upon an elf he had met in living evidence already.  The son of Oropher comprehended the irony that in large part he had contributed to the creation called the Tawarwaith whether the elf was of his seed or not.

_But can I deny he grew from my germ?  I would have confirmation, yet there is no one to give it._ He was lying to himself again. There was means to gain the proof but he no longer truly desired it.  The carpenter's words were ringing soundly through his soul. _'Elrond's actions only make sense if Legolas is yours.'_  Fearfaron had been just in expressing deriding scorn for Thranduil's lack of compassion for a virtual orphan within his House.

Since that conversation the concept had taken root, slowly insinuating its choking runners and creeping vines throughout the fertile furrows of his convoluted mind while the more stubborn parts of his brain refused to let the insight supplant his familiar, habitual disdain for the outcast.  Yet he had come to accept the former prince was his child.  Embracing that notion meant acquiring responsibility for what had been lacking in the Tawarwaith's childhood.  Unwilling had he been before but Taurant's despair showed him the path he must take if he would spare his youngest the bitterness endured by his oldest.

Thranduil cuddled his infant heir closer as if to shield him from the penance owed for this neglect.

_The source of Taurant's upset; did the babe sense the danger and peril I faced in the room below?  Did he feel the anger of our people turning against us?_

Thranduil, however, knew this was not the reason for his son's distress. The cause for the new-born's unrelenting anguish was wound around his mother's betrayal of his older brother, for Taurant had been in the archer's arms, looked into the blue eyes.  It was all part and parcel, the past catching up with the present, laying siege to the prince's future. It was the Tawarwaith for whom the infant wept.

_Or rather, for the enmity from the step-mother, the conflict between the forest champion and his father._  The King stopped rocking at the import of that phrase. It was the first time he had mentally recognised the elf as his own without hesitation.  Meril's false claims he shoved aside lest the uneasy bewilderment this would bring also engender the babe's renewed ranting.  Best to handle that difficulty when Taurant was snugly tucked in his cradle behind the closed nursery door, then he would speak with his mate in private.  
   
_And what of Tirno's thoughts on it all?  Does he look to me as his progenitor?_  The idea seemed preposterous.  It was no surprise that this elf would despise him; threats and vengeance were what Thranduil expected.

And yet it was confusing.  Legolas had so vehemently stated his claim of a brother's bond in blood to both Taurant and Gwilwileth then had drawn a dagger to threaten the sire the three must share if the kinship was true.  Next he reversed himself and defended the King's actions regarding Erebor, demanding the Judgement be left intact, even when the carpenter would have it otherwise and Lindalcon revealed the depth of his distress over the situation.

_Fool!  It is not you he supports, but the father of his brother and sister!  Their benefit, not yours, defines his actions.  He told you as much._  The interior persona sneered at his dense-headed attempt to think things through.

This being the case, it made no sense for the Tawarwaith to have instigated the mutiny of the troops during the noon break.  Thranduil shook his head, frowning, and rose from the chair cautiously so as not to rouse the resting child.  Out to the balcony and down the steps he softly trod, verily tip-toeing to prevent a return of the harsh shrilling cries that had so wracked the little one through the morn.  The King came upon his daughter and wife amid a bed of soft ferns by the brook; they were stretched out flat, cloud gazing.

"Meril," he called and both heads craned up to peer in his direction.  His consort sat and reached out for their son, and carefully he handed Taurant over.  "Watch him awhile; I must tend to something urgent regarding my troops."

"Ada, stay!" Gwilith commanded loudly but Thranduil smiled and shook his head.

"Worry not; I will return to read you a story and tuck you in.  That is, if you are good and let your brother sleep!"

Gwilith nodded solemnly and Meril said nothing, allowing her cold demeanour to communicate her displeasure at this abandonment.  With a last glance over his shoulder at his family, Thranduil strode through the garden toward the barrack's grounds, determined to get to the root of the uprising, using the same gateway Aragorn had earlier destroyed.  An odd thing he found that to be when he came upon the tattered remains of the wooden pickets strewn over the lawn, and absently noted the need to order repairs.

Instantly upon setting foot within the warriors' domain his presence generated a strong sensation of strain and displeasure amid the scattered groups of stalwart fighters.  With no word spoken to call them forth, the barracks emptied and the hard clay ground was soon hidden under the press of numerous booted feet.  They made no move in his direction, merely tracking his progress with silent disgust, and the depth of their antipathy made the Sinda Lord want to shiver.

Thus he endured for one short span what Legolas had faced so frequently in his youth.

Soon the King was ringed in by a wall of elves, very angry and thoroughly dangerous.  Into the centre where Thranduil stood stepped Talagan and faced his old friend with fiery reproach.

Thranduil was not cowed by this display of hostile solidarity, however, and turned slowly about to meet the eyes of any warrior that would dare, for he was Oropher's son and was bold enough to confront whatever challenge might present itself.  Warriors' ways he understood, and he could not believe these soldiers stood in such open defiance over the perils of war and the fate of chance.  Finally, having given any that would take it the opportunity to share their personal displeasure, the King turned to his comrade of his elfling days.

"Talagan," he began, "to you I come to understand the meaning of this opposition.  What is the cause for this lack of faith among my troops?"

"We have shown no treasonous behaviour, Lord, rather we uphold our sworn oaths to protect our people.  We stand in defence of the innocent.  Our wrath is just if what has been told holds truth.  For that determination, we need to hear an accounting from your lips," answered the Sinda to murmurs of agreement and nodding heads.

Thranduil's brows arched in surprise and he let his eyes wander throughout the throng again, judging the level of indignation and seeing that the elves believed they were in the right.  This was not about war, then, or treasures, or even Lost Souls and Wandering; none of those things could be said to involve innocence on any level for the participants.  That they would risk those same vows of allegiance Talagan invoked and oppose their King bespoke the seriousness of this mysterious misdeed.

"Of what do you speak?  I am not aware of fault of the kind to which you allude.  Be plain and state your charge or make your queries, that I may answer," he commanded, easily as righteously incensed as were they.

"The Noldo Lord has made a charge against Maltahondo of the most heinous sort.  The guardsman defiled the innocence of a child, a defenceless elfling with no family willing to safeguard his welfare.  Word has reached me that you were aware of it and did nothing."

The King visibly startled.  Whatever he had been expecting his old friend to say this was further from it than he currently stood from the shores of Eldamar.  His eyes narrowed and he stared in shock at Talagan, unwilling to really accept that he had just been accused of conspiring in the rape of an elfling.  His face coloured a vivid purple in his fury and he was forced to clench his hands together to keep them from forming fists and striking the captain down.

"How dare you!" he managed to hiss out through bared teeth.  "What manner of treacherous lies has that Imladrian miscreant and friend of kinslayers been feeding you?  By what sorcery has your mind been turned to such imbecility to even consider this claim; you, Talagan, who have known me my whole life?"

"It is not the Imladris Lord only that says this!" one of the Wood Elves announced.

"Aye!  We have heard testimony from the healer that Maltahondo admitted his crime before the wizard and the carpenter." Another seconded.

"Vile then is he!" shouted back Thranduil.  "Yet I was not a part of this evil act!  What causes you to think thus?  If I would be indicted let the evidence be presented before me.  I am no rapist of children!  Valar!  I am a father myself!"

"That letter." Talagan quietly inserted the simple words and watched carefully his comrade's reactions.

Thranduil's confusion was genuine enough, for he had no idea what the captain was talking about yet.  Seeing this heartened the Sinda warrior and he relaxed slightly.

"I do not know what you are referring to," the King said, taking a deep and calming breath upon registering his friend's release of strain.  "Please explain."

"The letter you showed me from the Lord of Imladris indicated Maltahondo was Legolas' paramour.  Do you recall it now?"

"Aye, Talagan, I remember the letter and do not deny its contents were inflammatory and bizarre, even grotesque.  Still there is not a connection that I can see.  I say now, be open in what you charge or I shall deem it an act of treason designed to overthrow the just rule of the House of Oropher and hold you to trial before the Council."

"The connection is our Tawarwaith!" a Sylvan voice proclaimed vehemently.  "The healer revealed that the guardsman abused the trust of his office and took the elfling for his own pleasure."

"And this long before the child was of age, or had even enough knowledge of such matters to form any judgement on the rightness of submitting to these acts," added one of the Sindar warriors, and shot a stream of spit into the dirt in disgust.  "These are the ways of Orcs, not eldar."

Thranduil's thoughts were in a whirlwind of disarray and denial. He knew not which emotion to give preference: indignation over being likened to so lowly a criminal or repugnance for the act having been done by an elf retained in service to his House.  No matter that Maltahondo was sworn by a debt of blood to Ningloriel's people; he had dwelt in the stronghold and been entrusted with the welfare of the Queen's offspring.  It was truly not in Thranduil's disposition to wish such a horror upon any elflng; not even the bastard of his worst enemy deserved so horrible a fate.

_'How could you hate a child? An innocent you had in your care.'_ Fearfaron's accusing voice interrupted his busy thoughts.

"Ai, can this be possible?  Would Manwë allow so foul a deed upon one of the First-born, by one of our kind?" he mumbled as he shook his head, clapping both hands over his ears as if they were wounded just to hear the story.

"Why do you call so readily upon the Powers?  They heed us not.  We look after our own affairs; but for Namo's final decree of fate we expect nothing from the Valar," said a quiet Sylvan voice.  "The crime did not originate on the distant shores of the Undying Lands."

"Aye, this was under my hand to prevent, yet I was too blinded by false treacheries to ever look upon the child," whispered Thranduil.

"I judge you did not realise," said Talagan with great relief, and no one contested this, for everyone could see their King was overwhelmed by how easily this evil had slipped past his best defences and resided comfortably within his home.  "I hoped that was the case yet there were over-arching circumstances that cast this doubt upon you."

"Nay, I did not see," Thranduil said flatly and dropped his hands listlessly to his sides, "and I comprehend what you infer.  It is true I wished the child never born, but I did not wish his death, at least not as such and certainly not by so dire a method.  The calling of a warrior often hastens the journey West, and for that end I did hope, but nothing more."

"More than sufficient for malice to be done!" growled a Sinda archer.  "I am guilty of the same foul hope."

The truth was unpleasant but easier to admit once their King had set the standard.  Had Thranduil dissembled and attempted to put off responsibility, the assembly might have turned him out from the Greenwood at once.  As it was they murmured in disquiet and grudging admiration for their leader's honest confession. 

"A fine line but at least our King did not cross it," said Talagan.  "None of us were cognisant of the despoilment, not even Gladhadithen."

"Too fine.  Inaction and passive disregard are dishonourable," complained a Sylvan.

"Let it go, he was unaware!" replied another.

"Nevertheless, something must be done about it!" a third called out and his words met with solid approval.

"In this I agree.  Yet never have we faced a situation of this nature and I do not think any Laws deal with it.  How could an elf do this thing?"  Thranduil wondered aloud.

"I have questioned him on it and he denies fault on his part, stating that Ningloriel gave him the elfling," quoted the captain in disgust.

"He lies!" blurted Thranduil, the expression on his features lending the two simple syllables a venomous virulence.  "She was not a good mother, but even I would not accuse her of hating her child.  He was the only thing she cared about besides her ambitions and her comforts."

Many assenting comments followed this rebuttal; it was easy to believe an elf low enough to abuse an innocent entrusted to his protection would be sufficiently cowardly to lay blame for the act on someone unavailable to refute the claim.  Better that than envisioning the possibility of a life-bearer despising the product of her creative power.

"Aye, he is a worm.  We have come to feel he is the one responsible for Tirno's failure at Erebor.  Maltahondo had reason to want his transgression kept secret!" a warrior asserted and most were vocal in their avowal.

"Nay, I do not concur.  The Tawarwaith is going to great lengths to prevent the forthright account of events on the ridge.  He is not protecting the guardsman, surely."  Thranduil sighed heavily and rubbed his brow in irritation.  This discussion was only making things murkier rather than clearing them up.

"The Noldo Lord, he asserts that Tirno loves Maltahondo," the difficulty this idea still presented was obvious in the soldier's halting report.

"Gladhadithen says so, too," proclaimed another in equally displeased tones.

"Ai, Valar!  What an odious situation!  He may or perhaps he only misbelieves this, for what example does he have and to what can he compare his feelings?  Certainly not his mother's association with me!

"And even if it is true there are those he loves more strongly.  Did you not listen to his words this morning?  He stated so quite clearly; he will do whatever he must to ensure the future of the infant heir and our princess of the woods," said Thranduil and blinked in wonder to hear himself take on the role of defender of his off-cast heir.

Talagan could not suppress the sharp inhalation that turned into a fit of coughing, as though it was he who had just swallowed a gagging aggregation of pride mixed with black feathers.  To hear these words from such a source he would not have ever dreamed possible.

"Where is this proto-orc being held," Thranduil continued, flashing an annoyed scowl at his old friend, "for so I assume Gladhadithen meant when she referred to his resting recovery.  I think a second interrogation might be fruitful."

Talagan motioned and together the group moved across the grounds and around the back of the barracks toward a small out building where the healer's art was practised.

"Hold," Thranduil paused in the courtyard ten paces from the healing wards, eyes trained upon the bolted door before which a stout swordsman sat, leaning back in a chair braced against the barrier, arms locked over his chest, warily watching the crowd approach.  The King could not prevent a wrinkled expression of scandalised condemnation from contorting his patrician features as he considered the creature beyond that door.

He did not truly wish to confront this despicable elf and trade words with something so degenerate.  Not since he had last held Orcs in his dungeons had the King felt such a fulsome sensation of revulsion creep across his flesh.  He had no doubt of the verity spoken by Mithrandir and Gladhadithen; questioning Maltahondo would produce nothing new.

Besides, he had much to say to Meril and needed to hear her thoughts on all that had thus far transpired.  That she was angry he already accepted, yet Thranduil was beset by the nagging notion that he would soon be teetering between fear and rage himself.  These emotions must be acknowledged and eradicated before further distress was visited upon their elflings.

_And I promised Gwilith a story._

"A snake speaks but a single language with its doubled tongue and all its words are false.  Flog him."  With that command the King turned and hurried back through the garden toward his waiting family.

Tbc   [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tawarwaith/)


	59. Chapter 59

**Ben'waeth [According to the Wind]**

  


The table was not set with white linen and fine silver, crystal goblets or fragile china.  No artistic arrangement of greenery or branches bearing bitter autumn berries of red and orange graced the centre of the board.  Instead the sturdy square of lovingly crafted and smoothed golden oak was covered in a simple cloth of humble flax, unadorned with embroidery or lace.  A collection of utilitarian earthenware plates and bowls clustered near the middle where a squat pitcher carved from tight-grained seasoned cedar held sweet water within its aromatic bounds.  Cups to match sat within arm's reach, two of normal size to fit an adult's grasp and one smaller and wider at the base with two large handles adhering to either side like ridiculous ears.

In fact, the redwood mug was painted with a silly grinning dwarven face and had a cover formed in the shape of an absurd little pointed cap.  A thin slit in the rim of the lid situated just above the artfully rendered expression of mirth permitted fluid to be sipped from the container.  The implement was indeed designed to charm and entertain a child's eyes and belonged to the chestnut-haired princess of the Woodland Realm.

The royal family dined together in the nursery since Meril's discovery of an uninvited guest within the heir's rooms. The table, the same gracing the royal couple's private balcony and upon which they broke their fast each day, was crowded near the fireplace and had supplanted the rocker for the duration of the meal.  No amount of reassurances from Thranduil relieved his wife's mind and despite four guards stationed in the halls leading up to the sequestered chambers the agitated mother was not appeased.  She remained unconvinced of the efficacy of her husband's soldiers given the ease with which the outcast had eluded notice previously. 

The King of the Woodland Realm occupied one side of the square and his beloved consort sat opposite him.  Their vivacious toddler sat between her parents in a tall chair and primly handled her miniature wooden spoon as she concentrated on bringing the brimming soup to her lips without spilling a drop.  The dark red mouth opened and in went the broth and the child looked to her naneth for approval.  Meril smiled warmly and Gwilith glowed, dipping the serviceable utensil down into the nourishing concoction as she turned this enchanting expression upon her adar.  She demonstrated her exceptional skill for his edification. 

"That is very good, Echuiross, you did not dribble any over your chin this time," Thranduil chuckled and reached out to brush back some of his elfling's wispy hair still too fine to remain bound in the ribbons and clasps designed to restrain it.  "Soon you will not need to use the cawesgal [top cover, bib] at all."  He tapped the clean vest tied over his daughter's clothes to protect them from her still developing co-ordination, for the child was not yet three years of age.  She was obviously very proud that the stark white bib was still as fresh as when Naneth had secured it round her, and he was pleased for her.  The King glanced up to exchange his joy with his wife but found her gaze rather less than warm.  He sighed the smallest amount.

"Meril, the butter, if you please?" he said.

"Of course, Hervennen.  More sweet bread?"

"Nay, but I thank you."

Silence ensued disrupted only by the normally unnoticed scraping of fork and knife, chewing and swallowing, the muted thump of a cup set down, all the nondescript noises that formed the background accompaniment to every meal, exaggerated by the lack of conversation.  There was too much to say and none of it could readily be spoken.

"Oh!" the princess suddenly exclaimed and gained the immediate attention of both her parents.  "When Limlas come play?" she asked brightly, facing her mother.  "What Limlas like to eat?"

"Gwilwileth, I do not know the answer to either of those questions."  Meril forced a smile as she spoke and controlled the flash of rage that tempted her to veto Thranduil's hasty compliance to his daughter's wilful manipulation.  "Adar and I will discuss this and tell you later."

"Yes, yes," the elfling answered impatiently; her Ada had promised and so she was not concerned too much about the answer.  Ignoring the undertone of agitation in her mother's statement she imperiously tossed her head.  She wanted advice on what to demand from the kitchens when her grown-up friend visited.  "But what for tea?  What Limlas wanting?"

"I know not, child!" her mother snapped and Gwilith was wise enough to discern the subject was not to be broached again if she wished to avoid her Nana's icy, silent, uncompromising anger.

"Do not worry about it, sell dithen [little daughter].  Limlas will enjoy being with you and not care about tea," Thranduil assured her kindly. He sent a defiant look into his wife's darkening visage, daring her to challenge his right to make this decision.  Meril's stubborn attitude was beginning to irk him.  If he chose to let the wild elf visit his child, then she must accede to his wishes. 

"I read the book to Tauron, Ada," Gwilith said, excitement in her words.  She recognised her father's reaffirmation that the consent given would not be retracted but was confused and worried to sense her parents at odds.  As yet she did not comprehend that Legolas was the focal point of their contention and actually thought she was changing the subject.  She wanted to tell her Ada all about the big event and plunged right in.  "Limlas said was perfect!"

"Perfect?  Why I am not one bit amazed at that, hêniell [girl child]," he smiled and patted her head delightedly.  "Would you like to show me?  You may read the book to Taurant again when he wakes."

Meril held her tongue and instead bided her time.  She was not about to follow in Ningloriel's footsteps, pushed into a power struggle with her husband over the fate of the disgraced archer.  She had already heard the results of the Council's conclusion and knew the outcast had been cleared of every charge.  She was aware that the Judgement was under review with further decisions postponed until Maltahondo was fit to be questioned.  She was likewise fully cognisant of Tirno's rash defence of his foster father and Thranduil's forgiveness for even that grievous infraction.

What she lacked was insight into the rationale behind this sudden turnabout in the King's perception of the former heir.  Until she had some further information as to the causes for this change of heart, she refused to be drawn into disputation.  She was a Wood Elf and fell naturally into a pattern of necessary stealth; never enter into a dangerous situation without a fair idea of the strength of your opponent's forces and the depth of the enemy's resolve.  She found her appetite soured and rose to clear away her place at table.  She smiled rather complacently at Thranduil's wary scrutiny.

_Aye let him wonder and worry._

She held fast to her maternal indignation over the fact that the fallen archer would be spared punishment for his trespass and his brash and ugly threats regarding her children.  She was virtually seething with wrath over her husband's failure to support her claims and insist on the complete removal of the criminal from their homeland.  _Instead the child of Ningloriel is to be welcomed as our daughter's guest at tea!_

Yet despite her anger the royal consort was the one fretting.  What had happened?  Had the condemned elf spoken new charges against her?  _Nay or Thranduil would not be quite so calm._  Had some facts been uncovered of which she had not been aware?  _A possibility, but if so they were not made public._  She compressed her supple lips into a narrow band of vivid disapproval as she quietly cleaned up.

All the while Thranduil and Gwilith had been chit-chatting away about the picture book escapade and Meril's eyes grew wide in alarm as she focused her hearing upon their conversation once more.

"…so dark and dirty and I not see Limlas!  Limlas swallowed by the black air!"  Gwilith shuddered as she narrated the tale.

"What dark?" demanded Meril at once.  "Where did Limlas take you, hênnen [my child], and what did he do to you there?"  Images of the gloom in the dungeons below the kitchens loomed up to crowd her mind.

"Nay, Lind'on and me follow Limlas into a hole in the bathing room wall.  Go up and up and Limlas held a light.  Nothing happen; Limlas swallowed by the dark!" the girl repeated for her mother's benefit.  "Then he crawled out the cabinet, there," she pointed to the object standing solidly against the rock wall on the far side of the chamber.

Now both parents were speechless but for different reasons.  Thranduil knew of the escape tunnels of course and was simply amazed for them to have served such a purpose.  He had assumed Lindalcon had granted entry to the rooms through the outer parlour door.  The archer must have been completely determined to see Taurant to make use of the hidden passages for Tirno did not appreciate darkness in the least.  Thranduil remembered well the day the youth had somehow stumbled down into the Vestibule of the Three Doors and the resulting unholy sound of misery and terror that filled the screaming voice saturating the stronghold.

But Meril was aghast to learn her child had been dragged through the filth of some airless chute and frightened unnecessarily all to satisfy the outcast's stubborn insistence to insinuate his presence where he was neither wanted nor needed.  And even more intense was her fury against Lindalcon for having permitted such an event to take place.  Not for the last time did she regret the decision to encourage her eldest's friendship to the disgraced warrior.

"Nay, Echuiross, Limlas was not lost in the darkness," Thranduil recovered his tongue first and sought to console his frightened child.  "Those tunnels are for our safety.  We can always get free of the mountain if need be, should something block the main doors and stairs.  Limlas just wanted you to see this could be done.  Did he not find his way right to this very room?"  Gwilith nodded solemnly but a residual shiver worked its way through her.

"But, Ada, I go on garden stairs instead," she announced firmly.

"There will never be such need to choose," said Meril testily.  "Limlas should not have taken you there.  If this is the sort of activity he means to supply for my daughter I will certainly not give my consent!"

"Indeed, I do not think it was a fitting place to play either," Thranduil said with a tone of warning.  He would not argue this in front of Gwilwileth.  "Yet I believe I understand his reasoning for the choice."

With that the King rose and lifted Gwilith from her chair, untying the over-vest and laying it on the abandoned seat as he held her close.  He could feel the tension in the elfling's body in response to the barely veiled hostility growing between her parents and Thranduil was resolved to spare her any further upset.  He would not be the cause for a fresh supply of tears from Echuiross' shining eyes.

"I sorry, Nana, I tell Limlas to show Tauron book," whispered the child.

"It is all right, Gwilith, I am not angry with you," her Nana smiled gently and leaned forward to kiss the worry away from the pensive features.  "Go with Ada and get ready for bedtime.  You may read the book to your baby brother tomorrow, alright?"  Meril, too, desired to shelter her young ones from distress and transferred her gaze to her husband to communicate that wish.  She also transmitted her promise of complete opposition over the matter of the outcast archer.

Thranduil acknowledged the silent volley with the arching of a single golden brow.  Reserving his ammunition for the real sortie, he left, trotting away in a fine imitation of a prancing pony with Gwilith, giggling happily, perched upon his right shoulder.

"Ellon darianc! [Obstinate male!]" Meril huffed out as she gathered up the rest of the dirty dishes, setting them neatly in a large woven basket of river reeds.  She took up the cloth, catching all the crumbs and particles of food within its folds, and laid this atop the plates and bowls.  The table now stood barren and looked even more out of place in the infant's nursery.

The royal consort stepped across the room to the cradle where Taurant continued to sleep soundly, never having stirred throughout the course of the dinner, exhausted from his long bout of weeping.  Meril adjusted his blanket and lightly caressed his hair, her features transformed with loving endearment.

Then the softness departed and in its stead a fierce and unyielding determination to protect her babe's auspicious future as heir to the Woodland Realm filled her eyes.  She turned from the crib and found the bell pull next to the mantle, yanking it twice with undo force.  It would be a few moments before her attendants reached the high chambers and so she carried the basket out to the front parlour and then returned the chairs to the balcony, setting them outside the nursery rather in than their usual place beyond the royal couple's boudoir.  The servants would do the same for the table.

Three domestics arrived and two took care of rearranging the furniture in the nursery, stealing adoring peeks at the tiny prince as they passed, while the other carried away the basket.  Once the rocker was back next the hearth and the fire nicely stoked, one of the servants bowed himself out.  The inu remaining smiled at Meril and the two exited the child's room and entered the royal consort's private study.

They sat before her fireplace and clasped hands together, for these two had been friends from childhood.  In fact, this worthy retainer was Meril's principle source of inside information regarding the royal family and had been for centuries.  Ben'waeth [According to the Wind] was her name and she worked in the kitchens.  The fact that Meril was now part of that family had not altered their close relationship.

"What news?" asked Meril.

"There is nothing of import.  Except the outcast has been seen on the forest paths with the Noldo Lord, letting the gódhel [deep elf, Noldo] make love to him," Ben'waeth replied with a twinkle.

"Well even Thranduil possesses that secret!" scoffed Meril and her friend giggled.  "There must be something more going on.  The King seems almost solicitous toward his former heir this night."

And for the first time Ben'waeth, her long Woodland nose notwithstanding, hesitated to reveal what she had heard from one of the gardeners who had received the tale from one of the grooms who had been crossing the stable yard when the warriors surrounded their King.

"I knew it!" gloated Meril.  "Tell me, for it must be important if you must consider so carefully before you speak."

"Aye," the elleth breathed a deep breath.  "Talagan and his warriors were on the verge of ousting the King this day."

The sharp gasp that fled the royal consort's lips would normally have pleased her friend and fellow quidnunc, for theirs was a running game of one-upmanship in the gleaning of gossip, each one's goal to nonplus the other.  This time no gleeful laughter followed Meril's obvious shock.

"What is the meaning of this?  What happened?"

"It seems that Sylvan and Sindar alike have made their decision to back the Tawarwaith.  They respect the wild elf's spirit and the upholding of oaths sworn to friends in need.  They honour the defender of the trees and the grandson of Oropher."

"Yes, 'Hîl od Oropher', so I heard also.  But why now and what stemmed the flux of mutinous intent?" asked Meril, though already her clever mind thought she had the answer.  Thranduil would make the Tawarwaith his ally rather than lose the support of his troops.

"They heard the voice of Tawar today," her friend shrugged; it was the truth.  "The King has forgiven the outcast and all that remains is for the Council to undergo the formality of completing the hearing and reversing the Judgement, for none now think the archer guilty.  Suspicion has fallen upon Maltahondo instead."

Meril got up and paced across the elegantly appointed room, frustrated to hear this though it was no more than she had surmised.  This explained the abrupt felicity Thranduil had for his first wife's child.  How to deal with it, that became her immediate concern.  She could not allow the disgraced archer to resume his place within the stronghold and supplant her son's destiny.

"Yet he cannot be the heir of the Woodland Realm," she said, as though her thoughts had been voiced aloud, "for Ningloriel departed and renounced all her claims by formal decree to the Council," she relaxed and smiled as she returned to her seat.  "The Council may clear his name but cannot restore his title.  Ningloriel, foolish inu, stripped her child of his birthright in her selfish and cowardly act of desertion!"

"Indeed, but Tirno does not care about that anyway," Ben'waeth had no difficulty comprehending what chain of speculation had generated these remarks from her life-long friend.  "Truly, you were mistaken to feel he meant harm to his brother," her friend remonstrated.

"I heard what I heard!  You surprise me; there is no proof of his kinship and we perceive why there never will be.  It was you who informed me of Maltahondo's affair with the Queen, after all!" retorted Meril.

"Aye," said Ben'waeth and tears filled her eyes as she realised how much worse the situation was for Legolas if such suspicions were true.

"Dear Ben'waeth!" Meril exclaimed and embraced her friend warmly.  "What ails you?"

"You and I have been like sisters all these many centuries!" she said and shook her head where it rested on Meril's shoulder.  "But I find my taste for this tale has changed; it is unsavoury like butter gone rancid.  I wish no harm to you and your children, but neither can I hope for any more ill-fate to dog the Tawarwaith.  I would have you speak of Erebor."

Meril held her friend away at arms' length and studied her intently, reading there the signs of words held back and information kept secret from her.  She dropped her hold and frowned in hurt reproach.

"So.  We will not speak of it then.  As for Erebor, I cannot leave Taurant during these early days.  You heard his tears today, how much worse would it be were I to desert him to attend this sordid event?" she said coolly.

A silence like the deadened quality in winter's air before laden clouds dumped drifts upon the lands below extended between them and if it was not the first storm the two had weathered in their friendship it boded to be the most severe.

"And where is Maltahondo?  What is amiss with him?  Is he being held because of this purported complicity at Erebor?"  Meril picked up the former tone of their conversation and if the conspiratorial camaraderie was less convivial both chose to ignore that.

"The guardsman was nearly choked to death, set upon by the Noldo Lord.  He is in the healing wards under guard.  The Imladrian had news of Maltahondo we would never have guessed."  She paused, seemingly to savour her undeniable victory in their game this night, but in actuality she was trying to concoct a plausible lie to tell and thus refrain from repeating the corpsman's real crime and betraying the Tawarwaith.

"Ai!  You are terrible!  Speak!" admonished Meril, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

"You know of the guardsman's long tenure among the Galadhrim whilst in Lorien with Ningloriel?  Well it would seem the unworthy warrior took advantage of a youth."  Now both the statements were truth, but spoken side by side they presented an image that was nonetheless entirely false.  Ben'waeth cared not; she had heard the voice of Tawar also.  Even more, she had served in this stronghold while the illicit affair was going on.  In retrospect, many small events that had been merely odd at the time now pointed to the horrid acts perpetrated upon the fallen prince, and her guilt was accumulating.

Meril had thought she could not be surprised further, but this was not what she had suspected.  She could only stare in disgusted denial that any elf could behave so foully to another, and an innocent at that.

"Oh Eru!  And the Noldo, is he kin to the child?  Will Maltahondo be removed to face charges in Lorien?"  She hoped this was the case, for she was uncertain what the guardsman might say about the Battle of the Five Armies.

"I think the relationship between the victim and the Noldo is not of blood but deep friendship.  The Imladrian learned of it only lately, according to words spoken by his friend, the human, in converse with the wizard.  Truly I cannot say how he learned the ugly secret."  Ben'waeth dared supply no further hints, for Meril was adept at deciphering the underlying message encoded in the spaces between the words.

The servant, who knew the fullness of events that had transpired in her friend's life, felt it unlikely for the royal consort to change her mind regarding Erebor and she did not want to give Meril more hearsay to use against the Tawarwaith.  The situation between the guardsman and his charge might easily be used to establish the presence of distraction to Legolas, or of protecting Malthen to the exclusion of the rest of the warriors.  The less informed Meril was, the fewer such conclusions would arise among the general population.  Ben'waeth waited patiently to learn how this half-truth would be received.

"I see," Meril did perceive her friend was holding back and this spurred both her curiosity and her anger.  Nothing more would she hear of use tonight and so she stood, holding out her hand to Ben'waeth.  "Do not fret, I will try to uncover more.  I will be certain to inform you of what I find.  I must go and tuck Gwilith in for her reverie."

Ben'waeth rose and clasped Meril's hand. The dismissal was clear; she would not have further chances to sway her friend's opinions this evening. _If only Meril was not so stubborn and could admit she is wrong!_  Ben'waeth smiled thinly and left, bidding the royal consort a good night, saddened to find herself torn between friendship and faith.

Tbc

 

Tbc [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tawarwaith/)


	60. Chapter 60

**Thranduil ar Meril [Thranduil and Meril]**

  


Meril went to her daughter's rooms and found Thranduil finishing up one of his famous fables featuring dragons, dwarves and brave Sindarin knights of Doriath.  As usual, some great treasure was involved.  The tale ended with death for the dragons, outsmarting of the dwarves, and the recovery of a priceless heirloom of the elf king's house.  With a magnificent flourish and fitting dramatic effect Thranduil presented this worthy item to his elleth dithen [little girl], seeming to magically produce it from the very ether.  It was a tremendous blood red ruby in a silver box lined in pure white velvet.  Gwilith squealed delightedly, clapping, and accepted the token with appropriate awe as she exhibited the jewel for her naneth's inspection.

The royal consort smiled as she approached and kissed Thranduil's forehead before leaning down to secure the covers round her princess and press adoring lips against both cherubic cheeks.  She made the obligatory compliments regarding the rarity of so fine an artefact and bade her elfling sleep.  To her husband Meril gave instructions not to remain over long, keeping their child from her rest, and then retreated to their chambers to await the chance to unleash her bitter opposition.

Her patience was not tested, however, for Thranduil followed less than an hour later.

"Tell me about Erebor," he demanded peremptorily and settled in his armchair by the fireside.

Meril started in surprise, for she had not heard this tone from her husband before.  This was not the churlish irritation reserved for remarks directed at the woodland populace at large, reminiscent of a long-suffering superior dismayed by his underlings' lack of mental acuity.  Neither was this the bored timbre he often adopted for brief replies to her long-winded retelling of day to day events within the Realm.  Yet, it was also not the distrustful reserve fringing the syllables of state Thranduil used when treating with foreigners or elves of Noldo descent.

_At least,_ she reflected, _the words were not spoken in the searing acrimonious contempt that coats even his faintest reference to the former Queen._  Meril's heart thudded irregularly for a second, for while his mood matched none of the negative sort to which he was by habit inclined, the short sentence also held nothing of the indulgent and adoring devotion he professed to feel for her.  This was an order; abrupt and to the point, stated with cold confidence of immediate obedience.  She approached cautiously and sat in the corresponding seat on the opposite side of the grate.

"What do you mean, tell you of Erebor?  I am no warrior; I was never there," she stalled, hoping to draw him out and discover if he had facts or only suspicions.

"Very well."  How he despised this vocal two-step.  A talk between bond-mates aught not to proceed after the fashion of opponents circling and feinting, attempting to uncover each other's weaknesses.  "Do you mean that you have no knowledge of what transpired?" he leaned forward and watched her eyes keenly, for though he was loath to admit it he suspected his wife of being a rather gifted liar.

"Nay, that is not what I said.  I learned from others what happened; my husband was killed at the feet of the Lonely Mountain defending Andamaitë, his comrade in arms."

"From others, such as Lindalcon?  Are your own dreams not affected by the visions to which he attested today?"

"He said this?" she almost wailed out the query and wrung her hands.  "Ai!  He did not mention that to me!  What did he say?"

Thranduil assessed her manner and her vocal signals and found both fear in them and truth; she had not been aware of her son's dreams and was genuinely fearful over the impact on the youth rather than what these images forebode.  _Or so she appears._  He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with his hands, rising to pace around the room.

"Lindalcon stated quite earnestly that his father will never rest until the truth of Erebor is revealed.  Whenever he sleeps, your son relives the battle as his adar experienced it."  _Complete with the horrific moment of death, no doubt!_

"Niena's Tears!  When will this nightmare release us?  Lindalcon does not deserve to suffer thus!" she cried and clenched her hands together in her lap, one tremendous fist of helpless rage.

"Indeed he does not.  Meril, you will need to explain this fully.  You must see that the past will not simply fade away because you wish it."

"Explain?  What am I to divulge?  I am not the one enduring these apparitions and I was not on the battlefield.  You ought to know more than I for you led the soldiers hence!"

"Do not bring that up!" he spun in his steps and faced her, features framed in restrained reproach.  Too familiar was this scene for his liking and a part of his soul recoiled, seeking shelter behind an icy wall of contemptuous self-righteousness he thought their love had melted away forever.  "We are not discussing why Valtamar was there but why he died there!  I find it strange that you are not perturbed by memories of your first husband, almost as if you wish to purge him from your thoughts."

"How can you take me to task for giving over my grief and indulging the love we have discovered?  You speak as if I had something to do with Valtamar's end!  That is what the Tawarwaith said to me!  You believe that outcast over the words of your wife, the mother of your children?"

"Is that what he said to you, Meril, that you were the cause of Valtamar's demise?"  Two steps brought him to the side of her chair.  He gazed down upon his wife with fearful intensity as a sudden phantom of Ningloriel rose within his mind.  "Yesterday you indicated he threatened you and our children for naming him as the culprit.  Yet, in court he insisted fervently that he is the only one to blame.  That hardly seems consistent with your claims."

"Ai!  You are turning all my words around!  I cannot conceive why you have abandoned me, Enedh o Guren [Centre of my Heart]!"  Meril presented her spouse with an expression emergent from soul-betrayed outrage. Tears began to spill down the Woodland inu's cheeks in silent testimony to her distraught mind.

"I am not deserting you, Iaunen [My Sanctuary], I am right here," the King knelt beside her chair and clasped her rigid hands between his gently.  Truly did he love her and so desperately desired to trust.  He looked resolutely into the overbrimming orbs of rich walnut brown and felt his conviction waver a mite.

How could he doubt her?  Meril had shown him only the fullness of her love and devotion in every way.  With joyous delight she had gifted him with two perfect offspring, the fruition of all his early hopes for founding a dynastic kingdom in the tradition of Elwë.  With Taurant this golden illusion was finally on the cusp of actuality.

Then the memory of his tiny son's unfettered lament throughout the day returned to his thoughts and he squelched his instinct to protect her from this unpleasantness.  "And because you are my beloved I am asking you these questions in private.  Fearfaron, for one, would not mind asking them in the Council Chambers with the entire population in attendance."

"You menace me with charges?" Meril gasped out, cringing back against the cushiony leather and pulling her hands out of his.

"I am doing no such thing; however, I am not stupid." Thranduil rose and turned away, leaning against the mantle, poking at the glowing coals in the grate with a booted toe.  "There is no consistency between what you allege and what the Tawarwaith demonstrates.  I do not care about whatever you are hiding except for preventing harm to our children.  This, I believe, is also Tirno's motive.

"You deliberately mislead me regarding his intentions here, and that, if I may point out, discredited me before our people and my troops!"  He was careful to keep his voice calm and his back to her for he could hear her sobs building and would not permit himself to be overwhelmed by empathy for her distress.

"Mislead you?  You call me untruthful?  How can you say these things; what have I done to deserve the name liar?  How could you think I would want your authority compromised, the father of my children?"  Her words were wet with teary resentment.

"Then what are you keeping secret?  I cannot do what is best for our little ones if I am in the dark over what is at stake.  Can you not understand this?"

"I understand that you have decided to pardon the outcast and welcome this unfortunate elf back into the stronghold!  I understand that you will make him your ally even after his accusations against me!  Will you also name him your heir, this bastard child?  This product of, of a criminal so vile there are no punishments designed for the crime he committed?"

"Nay, Taurant is my heir!  Be calm, for you are not making sense.  Elrond of Rivendell has ever been the suspected sire although some recent evidence points to…"

"Aye, there are those that love you and would have spared you further hurt.  Yet you do not care to shelter me in the same regard.  You ask for truth; let me tell you a fact long hidden by your former queen.  I am one of many who have known for centuries that Ningloriel kept another lover all those many years.  Maltahondo is that outcast's father!"

Whatever distraction from her own part in events she had hoped to create with her words was far exceeded by the depth of the reaction she induced in her husband.  Upon hearing this startling pronouncement, Thranduil turned with ashen face and eyes aghast and somehow managed to find his way to the chair, dropping down in it with such a look of dread that his wife quailed and pressed deeper into the luxurious leather covered seat.

"Meril, what you speak cannot be."

"I assure you it is!  Ask the guardsman; see if he can deny his longstanding devotion to your chosen mate.  Speak to Ben'waeth; she is the one who told me.  Perhaps her words are more reliable than mine!"  Meril attempted to retain the haughty tone of a wronged wife even as her own soul began to writhe in fear for whatever brought on this alteration of Thranduil's demeanour.

"Stop this!  You are not omniscient, Meril, and this is not about your wounded feelings over being disbelieved.  I ask you once more; is what you say true?  Was Ningloriel the corpsman's mistress early enough for him to have begot the child?"

And Meril peered at her husband's handsome face fraught with dire distress and cast with a haunted pallor.  He looked as if he had just envisioned a judgement of terrible harshness about to befall him.  He had not appeared so haggard and depleted since his return from the gates of Mordor.  She could not find words to answer and could only stare in consternation at this unexpected result.

Her silence was sufficient.  Thranduil had no doubt of the veracity of her claims regarding the former Queen's behaviour.  As to the rest of it, he could not stand to think of this possibility.  He covered his face in his hands, shaking his head.  _Let that not be so!  What manner of elf would bed his child?  Does Tirno comprehend his repulsive plight?_  The words of Fearfaron once again answered him: _'Legolas believes what your constant accusations of his mother taught him!  For now, that is an easier lie for him to bear than the truth!'_.

Thranduil shuddered; this was all too foul; how could any elf bear living in the fullness of this shame revealed? And if Legolas found out and his spirit departed for Mandos' domain, would Thranduil be responsible for that also?  _Aye, you turned away from the child; everyone understood he held no worth, including the corpsman._  He took a deep breath and lowered his hands, staring through fiery eyes at his mate.

"The import of what you say I am certain you fail to discern, yet this must not be repeated, for though you claim many were aware I believe for the most part it was not suspected.  Especially given the volume of attention her other lover's identity received.  I will have your word of assurance; no further talk of this!"

"Why, what is it you fear?"

"Do not bargain with me!  I need you to make this solemn promise!"

"I cannot fathom why you are suddenly so concerned over that outcast elf!  He seems more important to you than your own children!"

"You try my resolve, Meril!  If you cannot see that my failure to properly safeguard that elf's childhood, regardless of his parentage, has led us all to this very moment then I have not the means to explain.  He was right to warn of doom falling on my children; he had every reason to apprehend exactly how horrendous that could be."

"Now you are not being logical!  How are you responsible for the errors of his mother?  What control had you over the source of her impregnation?  Thranduil, you sound as though you would claim Tirno for your own!"

"As a wiser soul than I has repeated several times over recent years: Who fathered the child is irrelevant, and being a Wood Elf you were born to accept this.  And if I had no control over his siring, then he certainly could not bear the responsibility for it.

"This being true, why was he the one burdened with my hatred and derision?  Just so others could have the satisfaction of observing the abhorrence with which I treated the elfling, so that someone cruel and cold could laugh over the destruction of an unsuspecting soul.  Now that vindictive resentment spreads to encompass Gwilwileth and Taurant.  Is that preferable to you over giving a simple vow of silence?

"And I was so easy to manipulate!" Thranduil got up and stalked to the fire again, an expression hard as iron and cold as stone upon his face as the flickering firelight lent those pallorous plains the false glow of red warmth.  "Every bit of it I accepted without question, for if Ningloriel would dishonour her bonds of marriage what is a lie to such a one?  I did not believe the child could be mine.   Not until these latter days, when the damage has been accomplished, do I see the possibility is just as likely for my seed to have grown the child as another's.

"Someone must pay for these sins, and if what you have just told me regarding Maltahondo is so, then the damages have just increased a thousand-fold. I have much to amend if I would spare my children a cursed destiny!  I tell you, I will not have them suffer for deeds in which they could neither participate nor even imagine.  I pray Elbereth they will never attain that ability.

"You must decide whether you will stand beside me in righting as many of these wrongs as can be undone.  Holding your tongue on this obscene gossip is not a great task, yet that is what I require of you as your part. That, and a truthful account of what you understand about Erebor!"

Meril was stunned into silence by this long tirade, much of it contradictory and incomprehensible to her.  Thranduil had an air of desperation about him that frightened her and his portentous reference to curses and debts owed that their children must remit was a hideous concept.  She began to weep bitter tears of genuine confusion and despair and threw herself on her knees at his feet, burying her head on his lap, shoulders shaking with her body's efforts to expel the overwhelming emotions.

Thranduil gently stroked her glossy hair and waited, for he felt that this night he would learn more than he had sought regarding the weight of the fate Ningloriel's child had borne, alone and without hope for anything other than a violent death, since the Judgement of Erebor.  His instinct already told him the fault would not belong to the wild elf, but to someone with a motive entirely removed from anything to do with him or with political intrigue and conspiracies designed to usurp power.  It was going to be something deeply rooted in personal spite and hatred.  So it must, for thus had been the pattern revealed to him thus far.

"I loved Valtamar, this you must accept," she at last began to whisper and raised her eyes, strained and alight with a frantic gleam, to his.

Thranduil gripped her arm and lifted Meril up onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her as her head nestled in the crook of his neck.  This was difficult to hear, for if love was so quick to come and go within her heart, what did that foretell of the bond they shared?

"Aye, it is nothing unexpected for an elleth to love.  Go on."

"He wanted many elflings; I would not consent.  He was a warrior, and I suffered the death of my father at a young age.  The Last Alliance claimed him and his remains lie in the stagnant waters of the Dead Marshes.  My mother faded quickly thereafter, leaving me to rear my three younger siblings.  I did my best, but in the end I lost the littlest; she died of grief.  Then I sent the other two over sea at once."

"You did not join them, why?"

"Valtamar.  He served with my father; was there when he met his end.  He did try to make me do so, even though he loved me dearly even then.  I was comforted by his love, and came to return it.  I could not go and leave him alone.  He would not abandon the Greenwood, for seasoned warriors were fewer in number after the Last Alliance and needed here.

"Those early years were wondrous and we lived in joy despite the growing dangers from the Necromancer.  During the Watchful Peace Valtamar was seldom far from my side and he once more renewed his request for offspring.  I resisted long, for I did not trust to the Weaver's [Vairë, Vala of Destiny] compassion and felt my fate was always to be marked by loss, as it has ever been for a spearman's daughter and a warrior's wife.

"Nearly six hundred years did I make him wait, perpetually begging this gift of me on every Edinor Dû'wîthiel [Binding-Night Anniversary].  I do not recall what swayed me after such steadfast refusal.  Yet I have never regretted relenting to Valtamar's unceasing pleas; Lindalcon was our delight and my only consolation upon his death, prior to my union with you.

"Once our son was in his twenties, however, my husband began to demand more babes.  We argued much and the strain grew between us.  Valtamar saw my refusal as insecurity and deemed he had failed as my spouse and as a soldier.  I could not make him see I was guarding Lindalcon against the pain I endured on losing my parents and my siblings.

"By then we were often apart due to the increased activity of Orcs and the need for longer and longer tours of patrol.  Then one morn he was brought home badly wounded and I nearly went berserk, shouting at him that I would leave and take Lindalcon with me to Aman if he did not resign his commission and seek a less dangerous life.

"He called me a coward and faithless!  He accused me of caring nothing for Greenwood and our child's future, of forgetting Tawar and the bounty of the trees.  We resolved the conflict but things were not the same there after. And though we did share a bond, I ceased to lay with him. Of course we did not reveal any of this to Lindalcon and he never discovered our discord.

"Valtamar knew his rights under the Law yet did not invoke them openly as he should.  This was for Lindalcon's sake, but far better would that upheaval have been than the truth he was attempting to conceal from us!"  Meril burst into fresh tears, but these were of anger and abused pride, not sorrow and despair.  Thranduil caressed her hair and closed his eyes as he pressed her head against his shoulder.

"Valtamar took a consort," he said and felt her nod avowal.

"Oh far worse!  He got her with child, a warrior in his company.  She was wedded and the scandal would have destroyed any happiness we had left.  How could I let him break Lindalcon's heart that way?  I would not suffer it or have my child shamed thus!"  Her weeping increased intensity for several minutes as Thranduil sought to comfort her, but already he had a sick feeling in his stomach regarding the completion of this tale.

"What did you do about it?" he prompted when the tears subsided yet she did not resume speaking.  He felt her take a long shuddering breath and release it slowly, so slowly, as if she was at last purging all the pain and anger she had harboured hidden in her heart for centuries.

"The mate of this inu warrior came to me.  He was outraged.  He wanted to have them answer for their deeds before the Council, but I pleaded for him to consider the children, Lindalcon and the growing life in her womb, blameless of any wrongs.  He relented, but said he would not have a bastard foisted upon him to raise.  He said he would deal with them and that the child would never breathe air.

"Again I begged mercy for this unborn elfling!  I urged him to confront his mate and demand she remove to Aman or at least to Mithlond.  This would solve our dilemma without jeopardising innocent life.  He said he would consider it.

"The next day, the call came up for the march to Erebor.  The rest you know.  I fear this elf made good his threats and was the cause for the deaths of at least two of the Lost Warriors, Valtamar and Andamaitë."  She stopped speaking and snuggled against her husband as if ready for repose, heaving another great lungful to cleanse her soul.

Thranduil frowned; if the warrior inu involved with Valtamar was Andamaitë then Rochendil was the irate mate.  This was the real name of Ailinyéro, the elf banished by the Council for molesting the outcast under the veil of seeking retribution by chastisement.  A link had been established, but most tenuous was this thread connecting the parties.  Something was not quite right.

"What of the archer?  How is Legolas involved in all this?  How did Rochendil manage it?"  He felt Meril shrug listlessly.

"He was not, at least not in the scandal.  I have no idea how Rochendil made all this come about.  I assumed he merely saw a chance to create a scapegoat for his crimes."

"What of Maltahondo?  Where does he fit into this?  Was he part of the plot to blame Legolas?"

"Nay, I do not believe so.  I think he was as unaware of what was taking place as was his charge."

"But you condemned Legolas, too!  You demanded the fullness of the sentence, a punishment he did not deserve."

"I went along with everyone else!  How could I reveal all when that would only add to Lindalcon's grief?  I would not risk my child's life!  He was so devastated by the loss of his father, to tarnish his happy memories would have been brutally cruel.

"As for the mandates I made that day, perhaps they were not fair.   Would you hold me to account now?  Are the love we have found and the family we have produced insufficient justification for that small infraction?  Legolas did not really belong to anyone; he was just another archer, and his death would not even be remarked in Greenwood.  No one thought him able to survive a year on his own, much less seventeen.  It was never to come to this sort of conclusion."

Thranduil did not reply, for he was sorely grieved.  Of course she did not think Legolas would last.  No doubt she fully expected Ailinyéro's treatment would make a quick end of him and then the entire mess would just be forgotten.

_I thought as much myself, even hoped for it._  A foul taste of ashes burned his throat and the stench of carrion filled his nostrils as if he was standing again upon the plain of Dagorlad, watching his father sacrifice himself for the beliefs of the Wood Elves.

He understood the derangement that could overcome the mind and subjugate the soul during mourning.  He had done things he was not proud of during the earliest years of his struggle to defeat his sorrow and rebuild the Realm Oropher had abandoned.  No one had called him to answer for any of it nor would they.  Those cognisant of these actions were three in number.  Talagan he trusted not to speak and the other two resided in Aman.

_Even as Meril's would-be accusers are unreachable; Rochendil in Eldamar and the two warriors Wandering._  It was with a rather sardonic twist of conscience that Thranduil recognised the degree of similarity between their two characters, his wife and him.

He could not condemn Meril if he could not condemn himself.

With a heavy sigh he shifted, for Meril had gone lax as she dropped into an exhausted slumber in his arms.  He rose and carried her to their bed and laid her down upon it, pressing a sombre kiss upon her brow and draping a light blanket over her.

Quietly he returned to the nursery and stood gazing down upon his infant son.  He smiled and softly touched the shock of wispy hair covering the perfect rounded head.  But his smile died away as he stared at Taurant and the uneasy nagging sensation returned to his thoughts resolving into a clear and unsettling doubt within his mind.

If Andamaitë and Valtamar were expecting a child, would either one have volunteered for the duty of distracting those Goblin bodyguards?  Indeed, would they not seek the healer's dispensation and forestall Andamaitë from marching out of the stronghold at all?

Tbc  [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tawarwaith/)


	61. Ithil'lî vi Talan? [Honeymoon in the Talan?]

**Ithil'lî vi Talan? [Honeymoon in the Talan?]**

The sturdy branches swayed and dipped, rocked up and back, swung sideways left then right, right then left, uplifting towards the star-glazed bowl of menel where Ithil reigned supreme, a slender sickle of shimmering silver indulgently shedding his glory over the dark-shrouded forest.  Indeed, Tilion was not exclusive and spread his wan glintery luminance over the valleys wrought by turbulent streams of rapids and narrows, indolent rivers wide and deep, over mountain crests and towers tall, even to the Falas and Aearon did the argent face of Ithil turn.

The gnarled, twisting limbs of the ancient oak shifted lower to gather in the scents of nocturne's bloomers and scurriers far beneath the old tree's bottom-most arms, filling all the air around it with the distinctive smell of wilderness.  Mixing the diminished, frictional decibels of its stiff and woody skinned bones rubbing together with the occasional notes of startling beauty flung from the throats of dyrlin [nightingales], the resultant sound was as dreamy and relaxing as any lullaby.   Moving in the gentle currents of Súlimo's breath, the twiggy fingers combed the breeze for every particle of summer's sweet passage among the stand of live oaks, gleaning these remnants of long warm days to harbour them amid its small leafed foliage that fell all year yet never departed.

And if Manwë was truly traversing the canopy of the Greenwood, last remaining component of Yavanna's ambitious design for the comfort and preservation of the Children of Iluvatar, he could not help but grin at the tableau presented by two of Eru's First-born.

Sprawled out, side-by-side, heads bent, touching forehead to forehead, hands entwined with fingers meshed together much like the net of branch-work supporting them, limper than the beards of moss donning the arms of the cedars far away in the black-water fen the pair indulged in absolutely carefree relaxation.  Not long ago had they abandoned the clever intricacies and inventive positioning of bodies and limbs made possible by the indubitable Bench.  It was Legolas who had discovered the comfortable hammock and coaxed Berenaur to join him there.

This was actually more a semisolid platform constructed of finely knotted hithlain.   The pattern was so ancient no one recalled who had devised it, but everyone knew the symbols and motifs worked into the sturdy netting represented traditional desires of bonded elves for offspring, fair weather, abundant sustenance, and the sheltering love of friends and kinfolk for all the Ages to come.  The mesh was anchored securely at six points to various appropriate branches sprouting form the ancient oak and rose and fell with every swell of wind that caressed the canopy. But above the hammock the tree allowed a fine clear space through which to see the velvet infinity of the sky and gaze upon the gifts of Varda 

Over this talan of rope was laid a thick matt of river rushes, providing a clean scent of water lilies in calm blue pools and safeguarding toes from becoming entangled in the intricate web. Topping that was a purely luxurious quilted mattress of down and feathers ticked in dark red silk and embroidered in gold with delicate traceworks of leaves and vines, flowers and birds.  Upon that a veritable plethora of cushions and pillows in all shapes and sizes was piled, and with these the Wood Elf had hastily constructed a cosy nest in which to recoup his strength and promote his lover's flagging vigour.

For the Noldo, it was a wholly unique experience that he found both exhilarating and faintly dizzying, for he could not banish the sense of disembodiment the height and the swaying motion imparted.  He squeezed tightly to his lover's hand, comforted by the peaceful sighs and swift kisses meeting his cheek and lips. For the Tawarwaith, such a lofty haven was a familiar place and he sighed in utter bliss, for nothing more could any elf desire than the beauty of the woods under the mantle of Ithil's midnight robes and the company of a heart-mate alongside to share it. 

Delicately, as if examining the fragile fringes of hoarfrost on meadow grass, the sensitive tips of appreciative fingers slipped over the smooth supple surface of warm bare skin.  The feel of it was dissimilar to any other sensation and how to relate it to a previous experience escaped him.  And that in itself was so inexplicable, for it was not the first time he had known the pleasure of naked flesh beneath his hands.  Nor was this even his initial exploration of the inviting contours of his lover's body.  Still, the concept would not be shaken with reason or with logic; never had he felt anything so exquisite in all his days.

Eyes closed as if monumentally exhausted and unwilling to accept the burdensome task of sight, he relied on his competent hands to show him this new terrain.  The texture was not like silk or satin for there was a resilience and strength just below this temptingly yielding exterior.  This sense of power, reminiscent of the might of elven-wrought steel, possessed a beauty reserved for creations sprung only from Eru's masterful artistry.

_Perfection.  The harmonious union of physical vitality and ethereal elegance. Berenaur._ 

The slender digits drifted a caress over toned stomach muscles, pulling a rippling little spasm of laughter from a ticklish zone just above the hip in the soft unguarded side.  He smiled at the chuckle accompanying his massage of this sensitive region and continued his dreamy exploration.  He let his fingers circle around the navel and slide along the faint nap of wispy down tracking a southerly course from its lower fold.

These hairs were exceedingly fine yet so black they could be seen even in low light, and the tantalising lineation could be detected by his fingertips as he swabbed against them, forcing the hairs backwards just for the pleasure of smoothing them down once more.  He knew he had a similar trail, frail as cornsilk, observable only in full sun, equally dividing his abdomen thus.  He freed his other hand and examined his stomach to feel out the differences and heard a sharp, abbreviated breath. Was his every move so carefully catalogued?  He opened his eyes to verify this and smiled into Berenaur's expression of mesmerised lechery.

"Aye, let your touch linger, Pen-rhovan," the murmured command met his ears.  Happy, Legolas' lids dropped down just shy of shut and he continued the tactile analysis. 

Lower now, his fingers followed the silky track and grazed within the abundant growth of short, coiled strands defining the pelvis, lazily loitering to examine the wiry character of Berenaur's distinctive patch of black.  The opposite hand delved into the corresponding thatch covering his crotch and he compared again.  So dense, so compact, so unwilling to be uncurled was Berenaur's pelt, while his was longer, finer, combable.  He sifted his fingers through and heard a low groan, felt a wet tongue against his neck, tilted his head to entice it to tarry.

He inhaled. The scent of Berenaur met his nostrils: instantly identifiable now, intoxicatingly erotic, _thrilling!_, sharply masculine bearing the organic overprint of fresh semen.  A brief swell of powerless vulnerability arose in his soul.  When the air he breathed turned brittle and biting in winter's stringent chill, would Berenaur's scent yet be borne upon it?  Legolas squelched the sensation immediately, for he knew the answer and dared not allow it to ring through his mind.

Returning his attention to the roving progress of inquiring fingertips, he encountered the sticky seminal residue clumped within the convoluted ringlets and sighed softly, eagerly plunging his digits into the smear.  Eyes half-revealed; Legolas carried the pungent extrusion to his lips and consumed the cooling gel, sucking greedily, silently.  A single fretting note, long and low, slid from his soul and slipped out around his fingers, found its way unerringly to his lover's ears, conveyed a sense of deep contentment and unbearable yearning.

Propped up on one elbow to enhance his view, Erestor watched in lurid fascination, heard in escalating excitement, filled with tantalising anticipation. He snatched the fingers away, inserted his tongue in their place, delved and savoured with it, stroked its counterpart and devoured the sweetness of it.  His hand cradled and lifted the golden head protectively, fingers infiltrating the flaxen tangles, tipped up the jaw and took possession.  In contrast, the penetrating muscle was frantic, almost savage, in its endeavour to reach the depths of the Tawarwaith's being and sample his soul. 

Legolas relented to the wild and ravening voracity of his lover's demanding, claiming, subjugating osculation, submitted unabashedly to his control, invited total domination.

Briefly brushing across the fullness of Berenaur's flushed cheek, Legolas' hand returned to its previous pursuit and found the semisolid source of the Noldo's bitter secretion.  Gently palpating the long extremity, he lifted it from its rest upon the paired globes of virile potency hidden in the hairless sac.  Legolas carefully increased the pressure of his grip, relishing the flush of heat as blood rushed to replenish the thickening flesh.  He lowed against the tongue laving his palate; Berenaur's penis twitched and grew hard in his hold.  Releasing the indurate pillar of hot blood and slippery skin, he hefted the fullness suddenly burdening the Noldo's heavy scrotum.

Their mouths disengaged under the force of the spasm that rocked Erestor upon receiving this stimulus and his burdened respiration mingled with Legolas' even as his eyes travelled down the length of the archer's svelte torso to see what those hands were up to.  Pen-rhovan was simultaneously palming both sets of testicles, his and Berenaur's, features serenely contemplative, testing whether the volume of fluid each had managed to produce was yet sufficient.  A look of pure mendicity glittered within the cobalt irises raised to Berenaur's. Legolas transferred one hand and encircled his cock, already straight and firm, with a loose-fisted grip and pulled, earnestly whining.  The Noldo took it from him.

Erestor supposed he meant to pound the excited protrusion until Legolas screamed out in release but on glancing back into the indigo depths the expression within froze him.  A strange light was there and the wild elf was nearly hyperventilating.  He gave a peculiar cry and wriggled closer to the advisor, a look of confusion sweeping through his hazy gaze.

Erestor's pulse surged with something familiar that he could not quite define, as if he was about to climax yet the sensation was far more intense. His heart felt as though it had grown too large to be contained within his thorax.  He pressed his lips around the open mouth and once again insistently plundered the interior, roof and tongue, teeth and gums and tonsils, everything was his.  Yet all the while he protectively held the archer's cock, one leg overlying the lean muscular thigh, rocking his erection against the wild elf's hip.  
   
The kiss ended abruptly as a scintillating blaze of comprehension opened Erestor's mind and he nearly passed out with the dizzying joy and giddy delight following in its wake.  The sensation was familiar because he had certainly known it before, only less vehemently, less profound in its impact.  His heart was seeking to join with Legolas', his feä foaming up like a geyser, seeking a point to break through the thick encrusting shield of defensive isolation protecting Pen-rhovan's soul, determined to discover a means to mingle with the Tawarwaith's.   

"Pen-rhovan." Erestor gathered him up ecstatically, exuberantly, reverently, breath breaking with silent sobs, trying to contain tears wrought of the overabundant emotion channelling through his being.  He could scarcely understand how, but did not doubt for a second longer that their spirits would be permanently welded when next their bodies united. _No wonder he is bewildered!  He knows not what this is, yet his soul seeks mine as well else the urge within me could not be so strong._ "Pen-rhovan nîn!" he sighed into a hair-entangled ear.

Legolas shifted in this engrossing confinement, turning on his side, pressing the full extent of his body against Berenaur.  Wrapping his arms around him, one at the neck the other claiming the waist, entwining his leg round the Noldo's, he rested his cheek upon the solid comfort of the advisor's broad, bare chest.  Another of those desperately beseeching cries escaped despite efforts to retain it; he was simply having too much trouble breathing to fight it very hard.  He felt Berenaur's warm clasp leave his aching organ and a sudden spike of fear shot through him.

"Nay!" he wailed without realising the denial was spoken and immediately the strong arms enfolded him tighter and squeezed, merging them as close as two beings could be without joining in sexual union.  Legolas' spirit quieted. 

How he loved this, needed this, revelled in the comforting pressure of skin against skin, body to body, perhaps even more than that other, shorter, more exhilarating confluence of their flesh.  Legolas relaxed into the novel experience of complete trust, every nerve in every cell registering the total presence of Berenaur beside him.  The sense of safety and belonging, of acceptance and respect, these he treasured and longed to extend until the end of days, for they completed his soul the way the advisor's hardened penis filled his body.

Legolas wanted that now, too; craved the ecstasy with the security, the union of hroa and the communion of feär, and exhaled another of those needful moans into his lover's ear.  Almost hesitantly he shifted, rubbing their erections together, feeling heat and wetness crown his slit and ooze out.

"Please?" he softly pleaded and licked the hollow at the base of the Noldo's throat, dabbing his tongue down into the sweetly salty depression.  "Please?"

Erestor rolled him over onto his back and covered him, staring down into the glimmering glazed glaucous orbs.

"Do not beg!" he commanded in nearly incensed tones that he instantly wished had never met air.  The expression filling the archer's eyes transmitted the palpable fear of rejection hovering in Legolas' mind.  Erestor knew the source of this vulnerability and watched as Legolas retreated within himself and turned his face away, eyes dropping shut.

"Nay, forgive me!" he whispered desperately and kissed the cheek and temple, the ear tip and down the long column of the slender neck.  He could feel the heat of Legolas' sticky palms where he was grabbing tightly to the biceps of either arm, clinging to him in desperation, exuding a current of amorphous dread.  _Fearful of being left or terrified to love?  Both._  Erestor licked against the thumping pulse in the vital artery just beneath the skin, evidence of the increasing volatility of the Tawarwaith's emotions.  The spot was already wine coloured and as tender as spring grass. The Noldo bit, careful not to break the surface but hard enough to incite a cry as Legolas squirmed beneath him.

"Never beg," he repeatedly gently, the words ringing with compassionate insistence as he slowly rubbed against the prone form.  "All that you need, everything you desire shall be yours.  I am here now, I am here."  He met the gaze of vibrant sapphire and the combination of expectant hesitancy therein moved him to taste the wild elf's lips again, only gentler, softer this time.

The Tawarwaith responded, lifting up into the tender touches, eyes closed to hide the confusion that nonetheless escaped with every trembling breath released, and his tension did not abate.  The caress of warmth and desire ceased and he feared to know the reason though he could yet feel the comforting contact of his lover's body covering him.  He fought against the desire to break into panic and tears; frightened to feel this without a coherent reason he could name.

"Legolas, I know you not," the quiet statement met his ears and in shock his lids lifted to find Berenaur studying him intently but without sign of remorse, regret, or rancour of any kind.

A sort of wonder transformed the advisor's ancient eyes as he searched the features beneath him, felt the shivering spasms rippling through strained muscles and hard flesh pressed against his own.  Erestor could not account for such a concept, for he had bedded this elf several times already.  _Why does it seem as if I have not tasted this delight before?_ He concluded the cause must be the bond building between them, seeking to bridge the chasm of seclusion engulfing the Tawarwaith.

"You feel strange to be here with me?" Surely the archer's voice had never been so timid before.

"Nay, that is not it, Pen-rhovan; my heart feels you near and longs for complete understanding of everything that has brought you to me."  He bent low to take the panting mouth, breathed in through his nostrils and gave the air thus captured to his love.  Another of those torturous wails faintly trailed back into his lungs and he disengaged carefully.  Legolas seemed close to either a volcanic release or a complete breakdown of his wits. _Or both._  "You need not fear; I see you, hear you; Valar! I feel you inside my soul!"  This affirmation did not seem to ease the Wood Elf's distress but rather exacerbated it and Erestor's brows drew together in concern. _He is as terrified as an elfling with his first erection!_

Realisation swept upon Erestor with enough impact to make him startle.  In all his youthful dreams and fantasies of his bonding night, Pen-rhovan's mate in this talan must have been Malthen.  Now he was here with another and the loss had overtaken him.  That and a fierce attack of guilty self-reproach for accepting someone other than his first love and for making Berenaur a substitute.  _He hurts, yet fears to wound me by revealing this grief._  The Noldo's heart broke open and he clutched Legolas up against him tightly, rolling to his side to completely envelope the woebegone elf within his arms and legs as he dipped back and forth in a comforting rhythm.  He felt close to desperation himself for a means to allay this suffering, at least regarding his place in it all.

"You are not bound to Malthen," he said, determined to convince his love, and felt the tremble of a swallowed sob jolt through Legolas.

Again doubt flittered across his conscious thoughts; his remedy was ineffectual.  Perhaps if they ceased their union then the wild elf would be spared the remorse of betraying both his old and new lovers. _But Maltahondo would never bring Legolas here, has not even once envisioned such a thing occurring._ Erestor was sure of it, having looked into those hazel eyes and seen the guardsman's guilty infidelity. This was at the root of what Pen-rhovan could not bear to face. He had no wish to harm Legolas, yet the advisor's instinct prodded him not to stop, that this moment was of paramount importance to the archer though he might not be able to verbalise these concepts.

"I shall prove it to you, that what you dread is false.  What I understand of you I find worthy; what I am ignorant of will be taught to me this night.  I will learn and still will be here, Legolas. You shall be mine alone." He rolled his lover onto his back again and traced the rigid frowning creases above the worry-arched brows and soothed the tightness from the pale forehead, and Legolas closed his eyes with a gush of air from his heaving lungs.  

Erestor kissed each covered eye delicately, enjoying the tickle of luxuriantly curled golden lashes against his lips and the sensation of the hidden oculi shifting beneath the feather-light pressure. The tactile blandishment continued across the fair features, pressing slow soft lips down the cheek to the clean line of the refined jaw.  Like the Lord of Imladris before him, Erestor discovered the small imperfection in the rehealed bone and paused.

"We shall start here," he whispered and waited for Legolas to open his eyes.  They darted to and fro between Erestor's, first right and then left, tormented and imploring; he did not understand.  "What happened?" Erestor prompted gently.

Legolas swallowed, licked his lips and drew a slow breath before trying to answer, but could manage only a single word.  "Erebor."

Erestor continued to soothe his thumb over the small hump of bone, lifting both brows to encourage more as he held the wild elf's gaze.

For some minutes Legolas could only peer in bewilderment.  Why was he being quizzed on this when it was of no importance?  The real pertinence to Erebor had nothing to do with his painfully humiliating treatment but rather with the ruin his futile efforts had achieved.  He looked away but Berenaur carefully caught his chin and turned his head forward again, demanding eye contact.  He steeled himself, met the honest expression of compassion, and sighed.

"Talagan struck me down because I…"

The sentence went uncompleted as Erestor silenced the recriminations within a searing kiss that only relented when he had to breathe.  Planting a string of hopping licks all along the afflicted jaw as he heaved in time with Legolas' lungs, Erestor shifted gently, rolling his penis, stiff and resilient, against his lover's.

"He had no right to wound you thus.  He shall owe me retribution," he said calmly and briefly smiled to see Pen-rhovan's disbelieving amazement.  Following the jaw to its join at the neck, Erestor let his nuzzling nose guide his lips to the collarbone.  With a long wet solitary glide he passed his crimson tongue across the smooth disfiguration left from an episode he remembered well.

"And this one, it is my fault.  Why did you do it, Pen-rhovan?  After the way I treated you, why did you spare me?"

Legolas searched his thoughts; he had not considered the need to formulate a reason.  He would not have left even Ailinyéro to suffer such a horrendous fate as capture by the Wraiths of Dol Guldur.  His brow wrinkled in perplexed exasperation and he shrugged, blushing for not being able to define such a basic concept without sounding either condescending or vainglorious.

"I could not allow the Shadow-slaves such a victory."

"Nothing more?  Why must you put it so, as if my welfare were meaningless to you?  I do not believe you; nay, Pen-rhovan, you are avoiding much of the truth, the most important bit," said the noble survivor of Gondolin with a petulant timbre in his affronted tones.

"Ai!  I did not mean to imply you held no value! Indeed, I found you worthy, for you defended me to your Lord, quite gallantly, too.  Then you sought to dissuade him from his plotting.  And before that you commended my efforts with the traps, even though you could not understand them."  He nodded as he finished, for only when the words were spoken did he realise the verity in them.  And then Legolas blushed further to comprehend that he had needed to explain the motives underlying this fundamental principle to himself!  He was surprised to see a broad grin stretch across Berenaur's features accompanied by a lyrically light chuckle.

"Well spoken!" said the Imladrian advisor through smiling lips that saturated the other clavicle with warm compressions before returning to the symmetrical hollow between the two, there to dip in his tongue and scoop out the slightly saline dampness accumulating within.  He thrilled to hear the hushed expression of contentment that issued from Pen-rhovan as the wild elf tipped his head back and ran a feathery sweep of his fingers through the advisor's hair.

Even better, Erestor sensed a lessening of the looming despair as the tension of passion replaced the strain of apprehension.

Erestor pulled back, using one arm to brace himself as he sidled lower. The motion produced a distinctively sensual sound particular to the slipping friction of warm, sweaty skin sliding against its equally damp and heated counterpart.  The unhindered arm was busy directing his capable fingers to the point of a tantalising little promontory jutting from the rose-flushed chest. Fascinated, he watched the nub turn the colour of the deepest Dorwinion wine _but far sweeter to the palate!_ and uplift in ripe invitation.

The Noldo Lord greedily sampled both, tweaking the skin and muscle under the breast between his fingers to make the tasting easier, plucking at the archer's nipples with lips and teeth, pressing the hard peaks down with thumb and tongue, pulling and rolling them until Legolas was bent in a rigid arc, trying to thrust his hips up and push Berenaur's mouth down all at the same time. An unending string of monosyllabic "oh's" eloquently proclaimed Legolas' delight in this treatment.

Erestor knew he was perilously close to the malignant soul-wound and scrupulously avoided it, as he had on every occasion that had allowed him this close to Legolas' sumptuous body.  Instead, he scooted even lower and got to his knees.  Leaning low, he secured his lips against the scar in the side, sucking briefly, and kissed it fervently as both hands encircled the wild elf's stiffly erect cock.  He sat back on his heels and observed his lover's reactions, slowly squeezing the penis all but covered in his fists.  The very tip, ruddy and slick, poked through the clasp and he quickly bent over to kiss that, too, flicking his curled tongue against the seeping orifice.

"Berenaur!"

Legolas endeavoured to flex his pelvis and provide some motion to enhance the enclosing heat of the tight grip but found Berenaur pushing back to hold him still.  Then, reluctantly it seemed, the advisor removed one hand, exposing the upper half of the extremity, so the freed fingers could gently trace the contours of the ragged purple edges on Pen-rhovan's thigh.

"These I know of, also.  Here are the hurts you took for Mithrandir and Aragorn.  A black arrow through your side, a saw-toothed spear penetrating the thigh from back to front.  I already have the story committed to memory and such deeds should be memorialised by song.

"I can see it all playing out, Pen-rhovan, just as if I had been there!  Tawar has shown me the evil ambuscade of the wicked trees and the betraying limbs that cast you down.  How desperate was that fight, hand to hand against so many!  All the while, your blood spilled, and 'twas that which saved you!

"Coating the bark of the same tree as you struggled to get back into the heights, the filth of Dol Guldur was driven out as the vital fluid was absorbed into the beech's pith.  The tree helped you then, did it not?  Many branches found their way to strike and dislodge the swarming orcs, and as soon as you were safely in another's wooden arms, the whole great thing groaned and cracked and fell, crushing the foul beasts and blocking the way.

"Thus, I forgive the tree; by virtue of its extreme sacrifice was it redeemed, claimed within the larger spirit of the forest as it met its remorseful end on your behalf."

Legolas was shocked, for he had not described these events to anyone, not even Fearfaron, for he saw no reason to cause his friends concern over what was past.  He could not but believe the advisor; Tawar was allowing the vision's realisation within his lover's mind.  He stared at Berenaur, unable to answer any of it.  A slight movement of the Noldo's wrist wrested Legolas' attention back to his current situation as a sudden vibration of cupidity worked up from his entrapped member.   

The Tawarwaith could scarcely tear his eyes from the sight of the advisor's hand holding his cock up, motionless, confined and secure.  He felt the other hand softly smooth down the inside of the healed thigh and pull, opening his legs a bit wider.  Berenaur cupped his sac and palpated the testes within, and Legolas groaned, reaching down to provide his own stimulation.  The Noldo prevented this, leaving the balls to take the elegant fingers and kiss them.

Legolas complained stridently and pivoted his hips up off the comfortable feather down mattress.  But at that Berenaur relinquished acquisition of the throbbing penis and crawled back to lie beside his lover once more.  Legolas shuddered and turned to him, burrowing against his chest; and Erestor welcomed him into a close embrace, placing a very light kiss upon one ear tip.

"Berenaur," he murmured and tentatively returned the caress, kissing Berenaur's breastbone.

Erestor was sorely tempted to allow the wild elf to expand his attentions but even as he shivered under the warm contact of the supple lips his hands continued to press against the marred skin covering Legolas' back. The strangely leathery feel of the criss-crossed layers of scars made the Noldo's heart skip in discomfort.

The other marks, those had been easy ones to worship, being permanent reminders of the strength and nobility inherent in Legolas' character.  They reached the wild elf's spirit but were healing and fading.  Some day in the future these would barely be noticeable. The blemishes remaining, however, were the remnants of wounds inflicted under the punishment of Judgement.  The scars hid hurts still festering, infecting the former prince with their poison, darkening his feä and hastening his diminishment.

"Aye, the Judgement, now we approach the heart of the matter," he whispered his thoughts aloud and cautiously unwrapped his arms and legs from around his lover's body.  He could see the worry and confusion flooding back into the limitless blue and hastened to reassure Legolas.  "Be easy in your mind and let me finish this, Pen-rhovan.  You have trusted me this far; I swear I will not abandon you."

He climbed over Legolas' supine form so that he was facing the unpleasant souvenirs of the chastisement and swept all the golden tresses over the elf's left shoulder, which he stooped to kiss quickly.  Gently and firmly he began to massage the marked flesh, sighing as Legolas tensed under his hands instead of relaxing.  Erestor was not sure he was ready to hear this story but still his intuition prompted him to pursue this course and draw out the truth from the wild elf.

"Never have you spoken of this, have you, even to your foster-father?" He whispered and traced his fingers over several of the overlapping ripples.  He felt Legolas shudder, head giving a short negation, and try to turn over.  "Nay, do not hide them from me.  You need to speak of this.  It is important, Legolas; please," he implored.

"I need to forget about it!" hissed Legolas, angry and hurt.  Why would Berenaur want him to reveal this shame?

"And can you do that?" Erestor gently asked, all the while kneading and smoothing the marred skin and the strong muscles beneath it.  And that gave him an idea.  "These marks are only on the surface; beneath the body remains strong and capable.  Yet, the injury that hurt most goes unseen and has not been treated much less healed.  These scars are but the external expression of the real damage, rendering silent testimony to the punishment of your mind and heart. You must talk to me about the dagger and the whip."

Legolas shuddered to hear these objects named aloud, linked together, sounded with the same breath.  Not even Fearfaron brought this up, he hoped Lindalcon did not know, and the healer had chosen to leave it alone.  He had not voiced his fears over the hate and anger growing in him since that first night spent in Aragorn and Mithrandir's company.  Confronting that pool of festering rage had initiated the attack of grieving that overtook him then.  He had not revealed any of the darkness that shrouded his soul since the horrific dream of the beach and the blade. _And only Mithrandir did I allow to witness the role the dagger played._ How could Berenaur know?

_The dagger and the scourge, they are merely reminders of what has been endured, what has been conquered._ Legolas silently tried out this blatant falsehood on himself to see whether he might be able to utter the statement and convince Berenaur there was nothing to discuss or explain.  His inner mind refused to be mocked, however, and he actually cringed in the Noldo's confining embrace.  The deadly objects were tangible touch points connecting him to the daily conflict within his being, physical representations of all that he had loved and everything he now loathed.  That he and Ailinyéro inhabited the latter category was a given.  The troubling part was trying to decide where to house Malthen.

A gift from Malthen on his coming of age, the dagger had been purchased from a metal smith in Lorien during one of the guardsman's extended journeys there.  _With Naneth.  I wonder if she helped choose the blade?_  He shoved that idea away; not liking much to imagine things those two had shared together.  Legolas was never without the hunting knife before the Judgement and after reclaiming it from Ailinyéro had not set it aside until the Council hearing had begun.

It was not an elaborately decorated weapon, had no illustrious history behind it, and was not a thing of wonder such that it earned a naming.  Mostly it was a valuable tool in the wilderness. _And a remembrance of Malthen, a small part of him kept with me._ An aid in the making and mending of arrows, dressing hide from game, stripping fibre from bark and vines for rope, he would never part with it.  The dagger had saved his life more than once. _But came near to ending it thrice._  It was his hope and his doom, a grievance and a boon, death and life; he depended on and drew comfort from its lethal mithril edge.

But the scourge had no utilitarian value.  Not a single wholesome act, no worthy service could he render with the slender five-tongued lash.  One could not fight against an enemy with such a weapon, or subdue game for nourishment.  The knotted rawhide whip was a wicked invention; a devise designed to nurture agony and humiliation, purely an agent of torture.  He kept it only so he would always know where it was, to prevent it from being used on him again.  _Aye.  You keep it to prove to yourself that you are not so base as to flay your own flesh in order to feel pleasure!_

"Legolas?   Please, you must speak." The advisor made his simple request once more, concerned for the silence accumulating around them like the layers of leaves superposed upon the ground at the base of the old tree's trunk, and wrapped his arms around his love, lying on his side and pressing his chest against the disfigured back.   

Legolas was startled to hear Berenaur's voice and feel the confining closeness, lost in his rambling internal consideration of the place those objects held within the fabric of his character.  _How can he know all this?  To whom has he been talking?_  But there was no one who could have supplied an understanding Legolas himself barely possessed. If Berenaur could see this darkness in him, others must do so just as easily. For someone that hardly knew him to perceive more of his heart than he could himself was frightening. And infuriating.

"What is there to say?  He beat me with the whip and threatened me with the knife!" he spat venomously and tried to get up, shoving and squirming to get out of Berenaur's hold.

But Erestor had anticipated that and held him fast, arms a steely band about his chest and legs encircling his hips as the full weight of his body pushed the writhing elf deeper into the cushiony down bed.  "Nay, that is half the truth.  Why do you keep this inside?  What will happen if you speak of it?"

Suddenly Legolas stilled as he considered this.  _What indeed?  What more can be done?  Everything is ruined, what is this false claim to honour and dignity I try to hold onto?_  He laughed bitterly.  "Aye, worse has been revealed since then; I guess it is from habit that I wish not to mention the details.  Why do you desire to know of it, Berenaur?  Does it excite you to think on these things being done to me?"

"Nay.  But it does excite you."

All the air left Legolas' lungs in a petrified rush and seconds slugged by before he drew enough back in to protest.  Instead he found himself powerless to fend off the brutal truth.

"I cannot speak of this, please!" the wild elf wailed, now limp, face buried in the yielding mass of covers and pillows, voice muffled yet nonetheless vividly conveying the ragged frenzy blooming inside his thundering heart.

"Aye, you can.  Try, Pen-rhovan."  Erestor said nothing more after that, keeping his tight embrace steady as he kissed the nape of the neck and along the shoulders.  He would give Legolas as long as he needed to get through this.

And many minutes it required indeed as Legolas gathered his courage, arguing against the revelation in anger, hungering to trust enough to expose this horrid and hideous place in his soul, the corruption he feared would overtake him.

What will happen once Berenaur knows?  
_He already does; he just told you._

He will be revolted and flee, hoping to find some place to cleanse his flesh of the stink of their union. How could he abide to look upon him much less share this intimate cohesion?   
_No! He chose to bring you here; he sought you out and offered you this joining._

Mayhap he still does the Elf Lord's bidding and they will laugh together over the depravity they have uncovered.  They have been friends for Ages, after all.  
_Nay! His concern is genuine; one does not brave dishonour at home and Thranduil's dungeons merely for a tumble in bed._

Berenaur could not possibly want him; he has two mates already, reputable ones.  
_Indeed, but he professed his heart to you, claimed you.  You let him!_

"Why?"  He asked a second time, only the umbrage and distrust was missing and the singly worded question was encumbered with a new mixture of emotions: fear, hope, desperation, anguished desolation, all bundled into this compact expression.

"You cannot guess, can you?" Erestor said with a smile so faint it almost did not reach the reply, for the sorrow in it was stronger. He rested his chin on the archer's shoulder and rubbed his nose against an earlobe.  "Neither am I sure you can believe the answer, not yet.  I see this is difficult, but have faith in me, Pen-rhovan.  Your trust will not go unrewarded.  Speak and be unburdened of this ill."

A shorter length of soundless time transpired against the counterpoint of rustling agitation issuing from Tawar's minions, an audible reflection of the turmoil in their champion's spirit.  The Îdhben [Sleepers] had awakened midst this starry night's autumnal solitude and sent word sweeping through twig and stem, branch and bough of the union of Tirn-en-Tawar and the Noldo interloper.  All around the hidden talan and for unending leagues to the very boundaries of the forest, the Greenwood prayed unto Yavanna for the well being of the Wood Elf.  It seemed to Erestor now that the trees desired the same as he and the sense of urging encouragement within the old oak's creaking limbs was surely more than his imagination's work.  He felt the archer's chest draw a deep inhalation and held his breath expectantly.

"His name was…is Rochendil and he has despised me from the moment he learned of my existence, I believe, though why I have never learned," Legolas began the unpleasant tale.  He told of early memories from childhood, the escalation of slurs and jibes aimed his way once he joined the elf's company, furious glares following some commonplace pleasantries exchanged with Andamaitë.  There was a particularly humiliating event that had happened during one patrol along the Northern Border and he told that, too, since now it seemed to fit the pattern.

He had not been with the company long, a ten-year perhaps, and as youngest was invariably assigned the less glamorous tasks.  Filling water skins, for example.  He remembered leaving camp to fulfil this obligation, but Legolas' next recollection involved Annaldír shaking him awake late in the night.  As senses returned to normal acuity, he realised in disgust that he stank of sour wine and was but half-dressed.

"The wrong half; tunic and shirt agape, leggings cast in a heap over discarded boots, weapons, and two empty bottles of strong vintage.  Rochendil was there, too, cursing and condemning my 'careless self-indulgence', furious for causing others to worry over my disappearance and forcing Talagan to send out searches for the 'spoiled prince.'"

"Valar!  What happened?"

Annaldír had been sympathetic and tried to ease his friend's embarrassment with humour.  The spearman had drawn Rochendil away as their confused comrade hurriedly dressed.  He had accepted Legolas' insistent claims that he had not brought the drink and could not recall partaking of it, or anything of the night's events.  But Rochendil had not been so magnanimous.  He had reported to Talagan that the wine was his and had been stolen from his pack.  When Legolas vehemently denied the charge, Rochendil had countered that, if he truly could remember no details of the night, how could he so profess?

The horse-master had also been luridly specific in his descriptions of Legolas' slovenly state when discovered.  He had proposed a punishment be administered, but Talagan had dismissed the matter with a terse reprimand, sending Legolas away to clean himself up and complete the assignment.  Maltahondo had been outraged and the tongue-lashing he had given was worse for Legolas than the whipping propounded by Rochendil would have been.  Malthen had not believed his story.

"You think Rochendil had something to do with it?  Is it possible you had been drugged?" Erestor asked quietly and felt Legolas nod.

"I felt ill; Malthen said it was from too much wine.  But the entire event came to be at Rochendil's suggestion.  My water was gone, for somehow a small tear had worked through the seam in the leather of my vessel and he offered me his; I drank and volunteered to refill it.  Then he said I might as well see to everyone's at once and collected up the empties for me.  Talagan concurred and I left camp.  I know not what happened after that.  I was not found anywhere near the stream."

"Had you been violated?"

"Nay, but I had…known release, somehow."

Erestor rearranged himself, still clinging to Legolas firmly, fitting himself against the strong back as he eased the archer more comfortably onto his side.  He snuggled against the pliant body and rubbed his cheek reassuringly against the back of the golden head.  He sighed.  What to say?  There was more to be revealed and he decided it best to withhold comment until the darkest deeds were aired.

"Go on."

"After the Judgement, during the public sentencing, he claimed chastisement as his due.  He began as soon as Gladhadithen reported my…injuries healed."

"Wait," Erestor had noted that second of hesitation.  "What injuries?"

Legolas was quiet for many minutes.  "It is the custom, in these cases, for the offending warrior to tender his life in return for those lost by his errors," he said and was amazed to have managed it without any tears.

"You were expected to kill yourself?"  Erestor's words rang with stupefied abhorrence.  He had known from Elrond that the scar below Legolas' heart was self-inflicted, but had not understood what circumstances prompted him to take such a drastic step.

Legolas ignored this query and continued.  "Others intervened and so I did not die.  I tried again and was once more thwarted by the mortals.  Then Thranduil came to the humans' infirmary and pronounced his sentence. Talagan and his lieutenant gave me a very thorough thrashing, I suppose trying to worsen my condition so that I would perish.  Unfortunately, that was also unsuccessful, and five days later I had to face all the elves affected by the warriors' deaths."  The wild elf was pleased at how calmly he could recount these events, and wondered how he could feel so removed from them, as though he had seen these things happening to someone else.

"Oh Legolas, such words are unbearable to hear!  How can you speak so casually of finding death, and in such a way? I cannot affirm such opinions or customs!" Erestor was incensed, absorbing this abbreviated narration of the facts.  He pressed closer and held on tighter, dreading what might be next revealed.

"It does not matter anymore." Legolas uplifted his left shoulder in a lethargic shrug.

"Aye, it does to me," Erestor growled against the bare skin as the joint returned to its normal position. "I would not have allowed any of it.  I would have taken you away from here and the Judgement be damned!" he exclaimed vehemently.  He kissed the bowed head repeatedly and was relieved to feel Legolas respond, gently rubbing a hand across Erestor's arm where it encircled his chest.

"I would not have gone with you."

The advisor took a slow breath.  _What retort can I give to that?_  "There is more and Rochendil is responsible.  Continue, Pen-rhovan," he urged gently.

"The chastisement." Legolas shifted in discomfort, stiff and tense in his lover's arms.  "I accepted this; it was his right.  Yet I hate him for it!   He taught me to use the scourge until my back ran red. He dressed my cuts with salt.  He used my blood to lubricate his hand while he pleasured himself."

"Valar, no!" Erestor exclaimed in disbelief and unfastened one arm from his embrace round Legolas' shuddering shoulders to softly run his hand over the bowed head, for Pen-rhovan had begun crying.

"The last night was five, nearly six years ago now.  He meant to break me; he wanted me dead, perhaps he had tired of his game." Legolas' words were pitched low, for he could hardly stand to hear them, and a groaning wail of self-loathing followed, clinging at the heels of the syllables as bitterly as the freezing burn of wet sleet on naked skin. "He mentioned a new lover.  And he succeeded; he proved that all he had said of me was true, all those horrible things!" 

"What things?  They must be lies to spring from such a twisted being!"

"No, he was right.  I was excited by his lust for me, and I let him, let him…" The sentence was disrupted by a broken howl of tormented mortification.  "I came with his hand on me and my own knife pressed against my root.  It was awful… It was exquisite!"

"Nay, Pen-rhovan; you were forced!"

"It made me sick and he chained me up again.  He let them all in…"

"What?  Who did he let in?"  Erestor's comprehension quailed at the images these statements raised in his mind.

"… and put the dagger to my throat.  He was hard anew and so was I!  He wanted me to suck him.  I refused and he cut me; I almost came." A frantic railing sound tore from the wild elf's lungs and he shook as though the ejaculation was impending. 

"Ai! Legolas, Legolas! Far! (Enough!)"

But the archer seemed not to hear; once begun he had to say it all, ripping away the flimsy gauze of worth and honour with which Berenaur had sought to cloak him.

"None of the soldiers tried to stop him.  I could smell them; they were aroused, too.  Some were openly masturbating; I could see their hands round their cocks."  Legolas' fingers dug down desperately on Berenaur's arms as if to prevent them from acting out the scene.

"They wanted me, wanted this from me.  Waiting their turn.  Blood and pain.  I…I wanted to see them come.  I was going to do it!  I would have let Ailinyéro spill down my throat but for Fearfaron's intervention."

And there were no more words, nothing more to be added, no means of retraction; everything was revealed. Legolas covered his face with his hands as he wept.

All comprehensible thought drowned in the sobbing turbulence of lamentation and shame, resipiscence and fear, despair and helplessness issuing from the tormented elf.  Erestor was lost in his repugnance of it, for this was far more detestable than he had expected. Though he had seen the scars, he had been unable to truly visualise such treatment and could barely control the urge to retch.  He held Legolas and spilled countless tears with him, loosing a deluge of woe that neither relieved his soul nor cleansed his mind of the vision of these flagitious abuses.  The Noldo could summon no platitudes sufficient to undo such cruelty and heal such damage.

They remained thus, locked in a crumpled heap, for what seemed hours, exhausted from the revelation, shuddering in aftershocks of disgust and nausea that fanned through both in a single wave of bitter gall.  Erestor had no idea what he could do to alleviate Pen-rhovan's pain and just started with the first thoughts to make themselves coherent enough to utter.

"I thank the Valar for that carpenter!  I do not wonder he is so protective and sent me such cautionary glares!  Eru's arse, he will be after my hide when he learns where we are right now!"

"Nay, he will not be angry once he understands," Legolas smiled in spite of his sorrow.  "You are not like the others."  He drew and released a shaky sigh and wriggled deeper into the comforting encirclement of the Noldo's strong arms.  Berenaur had not lied; he had needed to speak of that night.  Once given voice the events lost the power of their secrecy for he need no longer fear the outcome of revealing this demented component in his psyche.

"You are still beside me," he whispered in wonder.

"Aye, so shall it always be if I have a say in your fate," Erestor repeated his vow aloud this time.

Erestor spoke his oath with clear purpose and full commitment to uphold the promise, regardless of other obligations or future concerns. _It is right, he shall be mine alone._  There was no question within his heart that not only was there a means to do this, but that should his belief prove false he would force a way; he would not be deterred. Words, so simple to say, so easy to let slip from the tracery of convoluted thoughts spun within the mind.  Severed from the unspoken context from which they arose, bereft of the supporting network of insight and wisdom that enabled them to stand against opposition, meanings had a tendency to alter. 

What was absolute within his own understanding was muddled and vague, even completely impossible to bear hearing, for the Tawarwaith. This affliction of an overactive tongue was forever plaguing Erestor and before he had time to consider the consequences, the fervent vow was voiced. No sooner had the well-meant sentence wafted through the night air than Legolas became rigid and actually grew cold within his arms.  After this fractional stillness he writhed lose and sat up, twisting round to face the advisor, fearful and angry.  The expression flaring through his eyes was so raw that Erestor shut his own a moment as realisation seized him.

"How can you say this?  You are bound to others.  I do not need such lies."

_Oh, Vairë curse these lips, this tongue!_

When Erestor re-opened his eyes the wild panic in the archer's demeanour had vanished and in its stead a dull comprehension filled the darkened orbs.  The wounded soul was all exposed, a ragged shroud tied to him on tenuous tethers, tattering in the blast of the mistral called up by the unintentional betrayal, threatening to break free and become scattered among the stars. 

"Because it is no lie!  This is what I feel inside; it is what rests easiest in my mind when I think of you.  I cannot lose you again as I nearly did before.  Everything that has happened to you since that day in the enchanted glen, you could have been spared all of it but for my wayward tongue and deliberate scheming."

"Nay, I needed to learn the truth."  The words were cold and hard as the peaks of Caradras.

"Not thusly, and I do not believe it was the truth anyway, not about your father's identity at least."

"Perhaps." Legolas shook his head as if trying to shove the memory of that day from his mind.  "I want to believe your vow; I am not sure I am able to, though. I do not want you to lose your bond-mates on my account."

"It need not be that way."

"Then how shall it be?  I cannot be yours and you theirs also."

"Why not?  They belong to one another and accepted me much later."

"I…I do not know if I want…that."

In spite of the seriousness of this discussion Erestor snickered, trying hard to hold in his laughter over Pen-rhovan's discomfort with the idea of a four-way love affair.  A spluttery hiccup escaped and Legolas glared.

"Oh, you do not wish to share me now?" the advisor teased, grinning up at the flushed countenance.  "I admit, since the first night on the talan when I touched you," Erestor's fingers reached out and trailed slowly down the archer's salient sex, eliciting a responsive shiver through them both, "I have spent numerous hours fantasising of various ways to involve you in my arrangement.  There are several very enjoyable, or so I imagine they would be, positions and combinations we might try."  The sight of Legolas' eyes growing rounder and more frightened was too much and Erestor burst into peals of deep laughter, grabbing the younger elf and yanking him back into his embrace, holding him securely against his chest.

"Ai!  Stop laughing, it is not funny!" scolded Legolas, appalled, struggling to get loose.  The seneschal let go and he sat back up, legs and arms both crossed protectively to shield his body.  "Berenaur, I do not want to be given to your other lovers in turns!"

Erestor fell silent at once and searched his lover's distraught features.  It seemed he had found another festering sore and his heart ached to see the desperate apprehension shining in the turquoise irises.

"Valar, did he do that to you?" he demanded softly and knew instantly it must be so from the deep crimson of shame that immediately suffused Pen-rhovan's cheeks.  Erestor sat up and sidled closer, opening out his arms to the archer, frowning slightly when Legolas only looked away.

"Nay, not to share.  He gave me away forever," the voice uttering this was as cracked and fractured as river ice in springtime. Legolas slumped into Berenaur's arms, head bowed and eyes shut tight.

"I would never do such a thing," Erestor promised and wrapped Pen-rhovan up snug in his protective hold.  "Never!  I only meant to reassure you that I would not abandon you in favour of them."

Legolas turned in the welcome clasp and encircled Berenaur's neck with his arms, laying his head upon the Noldo's shoulder with a worried sigh.  "But you will leave here and they do have a claim to your loyalty," he murmured dejectedly.

"That is not exactly right.  It is true I must eventually depart from Mirkwood and continue my duties in Imladris but I will never leave you.  Do you understand the difference?"

"Yes, but what of your bond-mates?"

"I know not exactly what I will say to them.  I must confess everything and I can only pray they forgive me the harm I brought to you.  They warned me often not to encumber another's heart." _But never cautioned me to watch over my own!_

"How can it be your fault if I cannot deny you?  You have not hurt me wilfully and I do not feel burdened. They must absolve you!  I will speak to them, if you wish it," Legolas offered.

"Valar!  You are remarkable, Legolas!"

"What?"

"You would defend me to them to prevent me from grief!  How can you not see that such an action is selfless and noble?  How can you yet believe the lies that dishonourable guardsman and the depraved horse-master told you?"   

"It is different; I deserved the chastisement and…and I wanted…" Once more his recriminations were silenced as Berenaur kissed him deeply, gently rubbing the right ear tip as he did so.  Legolas leaned into the tingling contact. 

"Nay. You must listen to my opinion on this," Erestor stated, more sure now of the course to tread.  "What pleasure you were taught to seek has ever been shrouded in some dark agony and torment.  Never did you know otherwise; is that not so?"

"I suppose."

"It is true, for you told me so yourself after our first encounter in the glade.  It was the dagger that caused you such distress that night, for you were recreating that final play."

"Aye, you see how the perversion has hold of me now!" Legolas cried.  He tore loose from Berenaur and threw himself down, burying his face against the pillows to hide his disgrace.

"Nay, listen to me!" insisted Erestor, lying down beside him and shaking him by the shoulder a little.  "Think of that night carefully.  You stopped yourself and cast the dagger away from you; surely you remember this for it made me fear for both our lives!  Answer; is that not what happened?  You did not wish to do the same to me that had been done to you."

Legolas' sniffling breaths grew quieter and he began to relax again against the Noldo's chest, but no reply did he offer.

"Aye, 'tis so.  And later, you feared to do me harm or even cause the slightest pain in our joining.  This you cannot deny.  Legolas, you have not become as those elves; you have thoroughly rejected their ways!" Erestor continued and once more gave his lover a small shake.

"But, with Ere…Elrond, I…" the Tawarwaith hesitantly brought up this distasteful topic, for he truly wished to find some way to live with it all and neither despise himself nor long to inflict similar pain upon others.

The seneschal from Imladris sighed and leaned his forehead upon the matted yellow hair.  He had been wondering if this would come out and since he had pondered much on that night and its ramifications for everyone involved, he felt prepared to allay these worries.

"Meeting you presents an opportunity, a choice, Legolas," he started and halted to collect his thoughts.

"What do you mean?" asked Legolas, stirring to look over his shoulder.

"Encountering you is a gift, like finding a treasure of great rarity and worth," Erestor met the perplexed expression with a warm smile.  "An individual must decide how to proceed and in this reveals the nature of their interior heart.  One may choose to squander the treasure, indulging in momentary thrills and fleeting glory.  Or one may cherish the gift and do all in his power to enhance its beauty and let its intrinsic value show forth.

"It is the same for people.  One may choose to reinforce the negative ideas with which you view your existence, encouraging your self-debasement and adding to it.  Or one can look and really see you, and celebrate the fine qualities you possess while protecting you from others that would use you. It is not in your power to determine, and never was, which of those two paths a particular individual takes."

"I am not certain I understand you.  Are you saying I acted that way because that is what Elrond wanted from me?"

"More that you expected Elrond to demand that from you, for thus were you trained by Malthen.  Yet, Legolas, even if you believe you deserve to be abused and broken that does not grant permission for others to mistreat you so, or make it right for them to take advantage of this lack of self-worth, manipulating you for their own ends.

"Perhaps if you had been given the love and care every elfling needs you might have resisted, for you are neither unworthy nor base, disgraceful nor unlovable.  But there is no way to change this deficit; it is lacking and cannot be made up.  It is a great crime; your happiness stolen before it could be realised, your self-identity stunted and twisted from your earliest moments.  There are many that owe retribution."

The pair was silent then for a long span of minutes as Legolas grappled to own these new concepts.  Abruptly he turned in Berenaur's arms and wrapped himself all around the Noldo, squeezing as ardently as a boa hoping to extract life-giving sustenance.

"You think of me as a rare treasure!" He cried these ebullient words and the joy in them was only slightly subdued by his face being snugly ensconced between the Noldo's neck and shoulder, which he was covering in lavish licks.

"Aye, the rarest, most precious of gifts; one I have done nothing to merit possessing!" Erestor grinned and wiggled in sensual bliss under the tongue bath.

"Yet there is something more to be said." Reluctantly he tugged on Legolas' thick tresses to break the tantalising cutaneous connection and waited until the indigo eyes met his. "You have been lied to, probably your entire life. You were conditioned to expect ill treatment and scorn, taught not to value yourself except in relation to others' opinions of your worth.  Trained to accept unbearable torment in exchange for pleasure.  It has never occurred to you that you did not cause those elves to treat you this way.

"This is not the sum of your knowledge now.  You can choose, Legolas.  You have learned you do not have to endure humiliating degradation to experience sexual fulfilment. You need not hold to that barbaric instruction if it is not what you wish.  What do you want?  I swear if it is within my power to grant I shall not shirk in supplying it!"

"It is only you that I want, beside me and inside me!" he softly stated the wavery supplication, shivering in expectancy of their pending conjugation.

"Ah, Pen-rhovan, it shall be with exultant jubilation that I encourage this proclivity," Erestor laughed and shifted in discomfort.  "That is, if I have use of my lungs to draw air!"

"Ai!  Sorry!" giggled the wild elf and relented enough in his clasping envelopment to permit easier suspiration.

Legolas was calm with a peace impossible prior to his soul-exposing confession, the undefined fear vanished. He was not alone and need not be ever again.  Berenaur neither despised him for his depravity nor sought to encourage it.  For the first time he was desired for something other than a warped craving to render hurt and turn excruciating torment into unbearable desire.  The fact that neither of them was ramrod stiff and burning with need was irrelevant for the moment.  The chemistry in their naked contact would quickly rekindle the fire of their mutual passion.

Erestor sighed in relief, indulging in the moment of serene communion, for he had doubted if his intuition was guiding him correctly this time.  He felt a twinge of conscience for enjoying this interlude, for he knew he had to proceed if their bonding was to be true.  There was more Pen-rhovan must reveal. He rubbed his palms over the scars, and slid one hand into comfortable repose atop the inviting curve of the compact arse, kneading firmly.

Legolas responded, adjusting to spread his thighs apart, tipping his pelvis up just slightly, contracting those strong gluteals under the steady stimulation.  His teeth sought a prim nipple upon the seneschal's chest and nipped, followed by a soft swabbing tongue wiping back and forth over the rising node, and Berenaur's hand rested on the back of the busy head.

The archer sounded a hankering plaint and switched to the other pectoral, slipping a hand between their bodies, shimmying a bit to increase access, fondling the Noldo's rapidly stiffening shaft with increasing urgency.  Unsatisfied with these efforts, he included his penis in the clasp and worked both organs into dense resilience.  The sensation of their cocks united in his fist produced an amazing demand to get closer, rub harder.  He imagined them both coming, white-hot semen mingling as it spilled over his hand, and massaged the sensitised glans with his thumb.

He wanted to see.  Legolas released the nipple and pushed up off Berenaur in order to look down and view the reality.  The actual sight of the leaking heads, dark red and crammed together, accompanied by the slick muted slapping of his palm's steady motion, was far more erotic than the vision. He could feel Berenaur's pulse hammering again and smiled as he met his lover's eyes.  Legolas was completely unaware of the prurient humming that issued from him as he resumed suckling or that he was pushing lightly against the caressing fingers prodding at the hidden opening.

Quite suddenly Erestor disengaged and climbed over as Legolas toppled face first into the covers with a displeased snort. Plopping onto his knees just behind the Tawarwaith's arse, both hands massaged the muscles with even pressure, lifting and separating the paired mounds to view the small sealed annulus.  He glanced up to find the wild elf peering at him, half on his stomach, half turned looking over his shoulder, eyes shining with lubricious anticipation.  A slight smile played over the Noldo's features for a second before he leaned over and plunged his tongue against the cinched enclosure.

"Valar!" Legolas shouted and pushed back eagerly against the wet entreaty, opening willingly with a deep groan and a tremor that worked every joint in him loose.

Curling his tongue into a slender tube Erestor probed gingerly against the inner walls of smooth muscle. The unique taste of his semen met the taste buds, enmeshed with the faint bitterness of bile salts indigenous to the region. He felt Legolas shift, drawing his legs apart to make access easier, and felt a strong surge of the possessive exuberance noted earlier.

He pushed his tongue further hoping to reach the internal nodule where the most sensitive bundle of nerves lay covered, but could not press deep enough inside.  As he slipped his tongue in and out he concentrated on a rough zone at the edge of the anus that extended along the channel's inner wall.  Understanding he had encountered the locus of the most severe tear he slowed his movements and lingered, rolling over the lumpy bunch of cells.

The breech must have been broad to produce so convoluted a closure and he realised this must be the site of many such rendings over the years.  _The most recent was not that long ago._  The advisor's indignation soared recalling the state he had found Legolas in after Elrond was done with him.  His tongue continued exploring and the tip discovered another raised ridge of repaired tissue.

This he lapped lovingly as well but the rip extended deeper than the mobile muscle could reach.  He pulled out and licked the tender perineum, thus transmuting Legolas' plaint of disappointment into a stuttering endearment.  Finding his essence there also, Erestor realised with fanatical vehemence that he did not ever want to find even a hint of anyone else's seed on any part of Legolas.  The urge to plunge his cock within the erotic confinement overcame him.

"Ah, Pen-rhovan…must!" With this hoarse and broken shout he mounted the wild elf and pumped vigorously several times.

"Aye, pathro nin, risto nin! [fill me, cleave me]" Legolas met him push by shove and voiced appreciative encouragement. 

But the pair had coupled three times already and though the itch was maddening Erestor knew he would not spend quickly.  Gradually his pivoting hips eased into a steady rocking movement as he used the head of his cock to stimulate the small mound of the wild warrior's prostate.  Legolas' spasmodic cries reached him and he stretched forward over the awkwardly folded body, every inch of him ensconced in the almost unbearably warm compression.

He ceased lunging to savour the glorious sensation of being completed, enveloped by Legolas, and met the glittery craving in the archer's eyes.  Lifting a hand against the florid cheek he raised the voluptuous mouth to meet his, relishing the immediate suction that drew his tongue down the voraciously talented throat.  Their adherent lips sundered under the insistent demands of straining lungs and Erestor smiled, rubbing his thumb over Legolas' lower labial.

"Might take awhile," he huffed through panting breaths.  "Valar, this feels incredible!"

"Aye," Legolas grinned and issued a laugh made brief by his heaving attempts to secure enough air.

"I am quite contented just so," whispered Erestor with seductive complacency and rotated his pelvis enough to give the internal gland a small nudge.  It was sufficient to send a rippling jolt through every fibre of Pen-rhovan's body and elicit a crooning call of ecstasy.  "You do not look very comfortable, however, and I made a claim earlier that I have yet to prove."

With that he lifted himself to arms' length above Legolas.  Bearing his weight on one limb Erestor endeavoured to manoeuvre his lover into an easier pose, using his free hand to turn Legolas' torso such that most of the upper body was facing him and the scarred back was hidden.  Pen-rhovan's lower half remained sideways and he shifted the top leg higher as the Noldo's penis pushed down deeper. 

Legolas released a thoroughly lascivious whimper, immediately wrapped both arms around the advisor's neck and hauled him down for a long tongue groping that included mouth, ears, and throat, trilling out a tunelessly melodious murmur.

Erestor echoed these sounds with a deeply rumbling mumble that might have been his lover's pet-name; the incomprehensible utterance was siphoned instantly into the archer's lungs to fuel the inferno building in the wild elf's core. While pleased at such attention, the sudden off-balance posture caused the seneschal's cosily sheltered cock to pull almost out of the inviting cincture where he would much rather keep it confined.  He withdrew from the kiss and with a churlish grunt he shoved back in, simultaneously dipping his head to Pen-rhovan's chest to claim one of the erect buds of scarlet-skinned nerves.

"Ai! Ad garo!" [Do it again!] Legolas implored as he watched the nipple disappear inside Berenaur's lips just as the penetrating rod rammed his prostate.

The tender peak re-emerged, wet and hard, and the sucking orifice shifted, gliding over his sternum on a slobbery film of slick spit to envelope its twin.  The lengthy and massive intrusion spreading his rectum retreated from his body's tenacious constriction even as Legolas vainly contracted the interior muscles, attempting to halt the escape.  Just as the wide rim around the organ's wedged head encountered the shrinking adit, the inflexible flesh was reinserted with forceful and proficient manipulation, unerringly seeking the hot spot of the archer's volatile cupidity. He shrieked as the Noldo sucked him and fucked him with passionate precision.

Erestor clamped down on the erubescent pinnacle like no babe ever would, pulling enough to increase the electrifying sensation, using his teeth to measure out the length the tit achieved through his persistent tugging, cooling the quivering node with his breath.  The archer's incessant and virtually incoherent pleas prompted the Noldo to give equally meticulous care to each, and resumed his gentle rhythm once more.

"Snæs golda!" [Noldo spear] Erestor was treated to this and other colourful Nandorin expletives, most of them descriptive references to his solid, piercing penis and how to increase its penetrative power, as Legolas shifted and shoved to enhance both sources of erotic pleasure.

And thus Legolas was completely unprepared when the Noldo's lips slipped to the right and below the tense pectoral muscle to surround the old scar of the dagger wound.

The archer gasped and his whole body went rigid under the stab of excruciation that lanced through him as the suction drew the skin into Berenaur's mouth.  So severe was the sensation that it seemed the cut must recrudesce under such treatment and he cried out.  Legolas just as quickly fell limp when the lips released him and the seneschal's tongue softly licked across the dark burgundy mark.  Struggling for breath he turned panicked eyes to Berenaur's, unable to manage speech.

"It is all right; these are the last to teach me of, Pen-rhovan," he reassured in soothing tones, easing his cock repeatedly up against the prostate.

"Nay, saes!" Legolas begged but found he had not the strength to pull away.  A heavy sense of defeat weighed him down and his heart ached with every throbbing beat, flaring up at the site of the dagger's entry, mixing with the pleasure of the shaft stroking tenderly inside.

"You must.  Who did this to you?  The scars inside where none should ever be, the one outside made by your own hand.  What elf first tore you in this intimate way, graced you with agony and stole away ecstasy for himself alone, left you longing only for death?"

"Oh no, saes!" and Legolas dissolved into catastrophic keening ululation, for it was simply too much. Throwing an arm over his eyes to shield them from seeing whatever might be surfacing in Berenaur's, he nearly choked when the wound was licked attentively. It seemed the Noldo hoped to scrub away the mark, and again the tender spot was sucked back inside the fiery oral cavity.  Then the mouth left and the coldness settling into the wound was frigid beyond the point of endurance and he sought to cover the zone with his hand.

Erestor forestalled the move, entwining Legolas' fingers within his hold as his searching tongue found its way back to the nipple.  He suckled and rocked back, drilling the hard penis in deeper.  Legolas shivered in delight and pushed back, wailing through his tears.  The Noldo released the over stimulated nub.

"Who…did…this?" each word was punctuated with a penetrating thrust of unerring aim and a slurping kiss upon the self-inflicted wound. 

"I…I…Malthen!" Legolas screamed out the words hysterically.  "He hurt me, hurt me so!"

And Erestor increased his pace, spurred by the harrowing desperation in the Tawarwaith's voice.

"Aye, 'twas him, curse his black soul! You did not deserve such! Hear me?"  The Noldo kissed the chin exposed beneath the horrific grimace of wrenching heartbreak and concentrated to catch the words amid the bellowing gulps and bawling lungs merged within the subdued smack of skin contacting sweaty skin.

"Wanted him, wanted… so much.  No one else."

"You loved him, 'tis natural to want the one you love."  Erestor eased his pummelling back to a less feverish friction. "But you were not his to have on a whim and break, so completely, so utterly!" and Erestor found he could not hold back his own distress or calmly encompass this kind of betrayal.  He was weeping shamelessly as he half-heartedly pumped, leaning over Legolas, arms to either side of the unresponsive body.

_Defiled him, ripped him apart body and soul, then twisted his feelings, made him believe he desired such persecution!_  "When all you needed was to be loved in return."  With these thoughts the flux of overmastering fury reclaimed him and the seneschal drove against his lover with renewed strength. "It should have been me!  Eru curse him, he stole what was mine!"

By now the two were straining together to reach the apex of this horrendous experience and transcend it.  Erestor, impelled by determination to burn away forever the hold of the faithless corpsman from Legolas' heart and mind, slammed into Pen-rhovan with unbridled urgency, channelling his anger into the motion.  Legolas, lost in the mixture of memory and actuality, relished the conjoined sensations of blinding delight coursing through his nerves and inescapable torment bursting from the aggravated wound.

He dipped one hand between his legs to mollify the exorbitant esurience of his aching penis.  When Berenaur's replaced it, he welcomed the clasp, encircling the firm fist with his own, and arched back to offer the scar.   The seneschal complied, lavishing the unwholesome remnant with steady suction, intending to draw out the poison gravitating there. Insistent fingers kept the Noldo's head in place.

_Malthen would never do this for me._  "Never loved me." Mournful was this quavering complaint.

"Does not deserve your love.  Take it back; gift it to me, Pen-rhovan."  In and out the Noldo rocked, drumming a steady beat of salubrious passion, countering the black sorrow of Legolas' rejected soul with glorious jolts of pure desideration. _Flame easily melts gold; I shall purge away the false-named elf and in his place shall glow the fire of my heart's delight in this prince of the trees._ 

"I…I want him dead!" Legolas shrilled. "Nay, I want to stab him to death until he hurts as badly as I!" he shouted these incongruous words and beat upon Berenaur's shoulders with his fists.  No outward sign evinced whether or not he heard the seneschal's entreaty, but his spirit was not deaf to his lover's poignant emotions.

"Nay, my hand will send him to Mandos first!" seethed Erestor through clenching jaws and grinding hips.  He felt the Tawarwaith's hands still their violent barrage and slip around his neck, holding so tightly he needed to let go of the wild elf's erection to reclaim his balance. Erestor stalled in his precise impalement.  He registered the press of a wet, contorted face against his breast as Legolas vented away the despised incubus in muffled, braying sobs that rattled their bodies to the bones.    

Liquefied rage issued from the lovers until Legolas was limp and his entwining arms fell lax upon the feather bed. As before, their exhaustion caught up with them; the pair subsided into a gentler coupling, deepening in devoted tenderness as the ephialtes was expelled.  Erestor shifted and began pressing kisses against the exposed neck and jaw as Legolas twitched intermittently in the aftermath of his despairing outburst and the regular impress of the Noldorin cock against his core.

"Pen-rhovan nîn," Erestor whispered.

"Baulron lend." [Sweet tormentor] Legolas replied in quiet awe. "You cannot kill him," he continued, reason returning as the bitter hatred fled.  "I will not allow you to put such a stain on your honour for my sake."

"The Noldor are already marked as kinslayers; what do I care if I earn the name?  It would be a just killing."

"Nay, it is pointless; I do not want to harm him anymore either.  I want to forget!"

Erestor frowned and ceased all motion, carefully turning Legolas' face to his, studying the sorrow-blotched complexion with its salty stains, tear-matted lashes and bright mournful eyes.

"Can you forget?" he asked for the second time and shook his head, answering for Legolas.  "You must find a way to understand that this was not your doing. Value the genuine feelings you harboured, Pen-rhovan, while accepting that their intensity was magnified by your circumstances, and then used against you."

Now Legolas' face displayed confused aggravation.  He was too tired for this and could not bear further soul rending-soul mending realisations.  "Will you just tell me what you mean?"

"It is not an easy thing to see.  You loved him, had done so all your life.  Loved, as a son adores a father or a child his older brother.  You approached maturity with no guidance, no loving parents or wise mentor to tell you the difference between the infatuation that developed and the longing of one soul to bind to another.  These are entirely different things."

Legolas propped his head up with his hand to make it easier to access Berenaur's mouth and stole an impulsive kiss.  His cock twitched again as Berenaur turned slightly and nudged his shaft hard against his prostate.  They both moaned under the singing surge of nisus that shot between them.

"My heart, then, still belongs to me?" he exhaled the words, lips no more than a hair's distance from the enticement of the seneschal's.

"It ever has, for he would not receive it."  Erestor crossed the minuscule void for a long gentle exploration of Legolas' lips, breaking away with a mild smile.  "Fool that he is!"

This brought a faint lightening of the shadows in the archer's eyes, but his anguish soon cast its pall once more and he presented a baleful expression to Berenaur.

"Why did he not want my heart?  What is wrong with it?"

"Elbereth!  Nothing is wrong with it!" Erestor exclaimed.  "On second thought, your heart does not belong to you but to me, Pen-rhovan, and I shall never give it back!"

With a last lick Erestor ceased bathing the self-inflicted stab with his devotion and transferred his mouth to the archer's sensitive ear, there to ply his tongue over the reddened tip while whispering new promises against the elegant external coils.

"He shall not hurt you again, Pen-rhovan; none shall do so.  Feel me inside you now; I fit you perfectly, fill you completely, stretch you just enough to make that small zone of delight accessible." He rolled his pelvis to emphasise the point and wrenched a feeble shout from the wild elf.  "Feel every inch of it, Legolas, that is my cock, the only one that will claim you thus henceforth.  I was made for you and you for me."

"I will have no other than you," whispered Legolas shakily.  "No other shall ever suffice again.  But you are bound and I…  I feel…strange."

"Aye, but do not fight it."  Erestor shook his head to negate the doubts each of them must entertain and began to pick up the pace of his thrusting once more.

"What is it?"  Legolas gasped out the words between bracing shudders and his disjointed vociferations of renewed passion, one hand working to relieve the building tension in his solid shaft.

"We are bonding, beloved." Erestor panted and heaved, desperately attempting to ignore the aching discomfort shooting up through his biceps as he supported his weight above Legolas. 

"You are already bound!"  Legolas contradicted. 

"Trust me, you shall be mine nonetheless!"  He snapped irritably and pushed back and forth with less and less vigour as his arms began to shake under the strain. The next instant they gave out; with an exasperated grunt Erestor flopped on top of the younger elf, struggling to recapture his dwindling energy.

Beneath him Legolas groaned disconsolately and puffed hard to clear away the mass of ebony hair that now covered his face.

"Valar!  I want to come!" he complained in mounting frustration, clutching his erection and pumping strenuously.

"Well that makes two of us!" A giggly snicker escaped from the Noldo's lungs as he adjusted to lie more on his side and less over Pen-rhovan's airways.  He reached around and stayed the hand toiling so furiously and ineffectually.  "But both or neither, young one!" he laughed.  He was too exhausted to do more than twitch his hips, but his cock inside Pen-rhovan's arse was rock hard and did not fail to stroke the interior gland adequately.

"Ai! Tormentor!" howled Legolas, twisting restlessly.  "You are the one with all the vast experience, what do we do?"

"Do you wish me to withdraw?  Are you in real discomfort?" Erestor asked and, in spite of efforts to halt it, yawned hugely.

"Eru's arse, do not dare!" Legolas caught the urge and his jaw gaped wide as he inhaled.

On hearing this, Erestor slipped his rubbery arms back in place around his lover's chest and drew him close, spooning neatly behind him, rigid cock determinedly in place.

"We must rest, then." Erestor planted a delicate kiss on the exposed ear and then contentedly settled his cheek against the furred locks.

"Worry not, I shall not leave you," he whispered and on the fringes of consciousness registered Legolas' gratified exhalation as sleep claimed them both.   

Tbc.


	62. Gwedhel Istar

**Gwedhel Istar (Binding the Istar)**

The dismal room was filled with a thick hazy miasma of malodorous  
fumes, visible and heady, and the small amount of illumination emitted  
from the hearth was reduced by the cloaking vapours to little more than  
that of marsh-light in the foggy mists of the Gladden Fields.  The  
air was stale, close, and hot; strangely reminiscent of the sulphurous  
exhalations of an amlug [fire drake], yet truly more akin to the stench  
that clung to Balrogs, though there was no one present who had ever  
been face to face with one of Morgoth's spawn to so attest.  The  
smell was quite penetrating and soon the nasty air wended its winsome  
way out of the room and into the upper reaches of the stronghold,  
capturing the attention of the councillors, the King and his family.

An alarm of fire was raised and Meril bundled up her younglings,  
hastening down the outer steps into the crisp clean atmosphere of  
Ningloriel's garden.  Frantically she called for Lindalcon and  
relaxed only after Iarwain assured her of his departure with Fearfaron  
and Gladhadithen earlier in the day. The councillors and the staff  
likewise deserted the caverns and soon a tremendous crowd was milling  
in the barrack's grounds and the main courtyard, observing the faint  
trails of noisome gas escaping through the upper balconies and windows  
of the woodland King's stronghold.

Thranduil and Talagan led a small contingent of his warriors down into  
the bowels of the mountain to determine the cause of the conflagration  
and to salvage the treasures in the vaults.   With relief  
they quickly returned, for the lower reaches were completely free of  
the vile smog.  Once back in the courtyard, the elves argued over  
what was to be done, for none could bare to enter in and face the  
burning heat and breath stealing odours.  It was at about this  
time that Aragorn arrived and realised that Gandalf was not in the  
crowd.

He knew the wizard was not with the carpenter or the healer, for the  
Man had just left them moments ago himself.  Now he scanned the  
throng for Radagast, assuming the two Maiar would be together, and  
spotted the Brown Wizard conversing with Fêrlass near the main  
archways into the Council Chamber.  With much difficulty he shoved  
through the assembled gawkers and reached the pair.

"Have you seen Gandalf?"

"Nay, not since we left Gladhadithen and her cohorts to their task of  
decorating," answered Aiwendil.

"Decorating?" the human was confused, for he had not accompanied the  
elves after they made their excuses to Legolas and Erestor at the close  
of the Council.  Instead, he had gone to have a few words with  
Maltahondo.  Desiring to discuss the results of this  
interrogation, the Man had gone seeking his old tutor.  His search  
eventually took him to Fearfaron's talon, where the healer and the son  
of Valtamar were also gathered.

The three Wood Elves had been quite vague as to Erestor's location when  
questioned and Gladhadithen had remarked that the Noldo was still  
apologising to Legolas and would likely not be available for the rest  
of the night.  Nor for the next two days, Lindalcon had added in  
giggly mirth.  Aragorn had a fair idea of what they were not  
saying, and did not approve, thus his search for the wizard.

"Aye, they left to prepare a suitable chamber for the two lovers to  
enjoy some privacy for a short time.  I am not certain whither  
that may be." Aiwendil smiled around the words.

This was not news Aragorn was pleased to learn and he pursed his lips,  
more eager than ever to find Gandalf.  Legolas and Erestor were  
not lovers! _Or should not be!_

"As you say, Aiwendil, and yet Mithrandir returned just at twilight. In  
a very poor temper, I might add," corrected the Councillor of Record.

"You mean to tell me he is still in their?" cried the human in alarm,  
forgetting his earlier concerns, and did not wait for a reply as he  
dashed back inside the hazy gloom.

"Ah." Radagast intoned with an expression of dour comprehension.   
"Well that explains much."

"What does it explain?" demanded Thranduil, approaching from the other  
end of the courtyard.  "This is the wizard's doing, this  
disgusting choking odour?  I have been in Orc dens that housed  
fresher air."  He also turned and boldly passed within the  
shrouded archways to take the matter up with the Istar.  He could  
not have his infant heir out in the cool evening breeze all night,  
though he and Meril had been quite pleased and proud of the crowd that  
collected on the opposite side of the garden gate, cooing and waving at  
the little prince.

The Man hurried down the back stairs to reach the lowly apartments  
assigned for the comfort of the Tawarwaith and his cohorts.  Long  
before he reached the chambers the mortal was coughing and wheezing in  
the less than wholesome mist.  Virtually blinded by stinging tears  
and shifting clouds of the nasty ether, he proceeded with one arm  
extended before him and the hand of the other covering over his mouth  
and nose.  As soon as Aragorn reached the door he could hear a  
steady stream of curses and nondescript shouts of ire within the  
wizard's room.  From the crack of space around the frame of the  
door, a seeping mist of the grey-blue smoke was rapidly escaping into  
the surrounding corridor.

He tried to call for Gandalf but choked on the words, and so simply  
grasped the handle, pushed the door open, and walked inside.   
Instantly he began to gag and at once retreated back into the  
hallway.  A rolling cloud of the vile air billowed out into the  
dismal passage and made the torches flicker and go out.  The Man  
was momentarily obscured within the vapours, but quickly the volume of  
the fumes dissipated and he tried once more to approach the portal.

"By Namo, what is going on in there?  Gandalf, can you hear  
me?  Is there fire loose from the grate?" he called between his  
choking coughs, waving his hands before his tearing eyes to try and  
clear away the pungent stench of the smoky emanation.  He did not  
see the wizard until the Maia's form loomed before him and blocked the  
entrance, seeming to materialise out of the stuff of the air.

"Of course not!  Find another room this night, son of Arathorn!"  
boomed the wizard's voice in irritated cadence as his strode over,  
slammed the heavy oaken door, and threw the bolt.  "Insufferable  
human!" issued faintly from behind the barred portal.

Aragorn stood staring in disbelief at the barrier, mouth open and eyes  
wide in shocked offence, uncertain he had truly heard that derogation  
from the wise Istar, not even caring about the cloying haze.   
Behind him the soft step of Radagast and the noisy complaining of  
Thranduil marked the pair's approach from the kitchen stairs.  The  
torches flared back to life at Aiwendil's whispered command.

"What is it?" he asked as he came upon the Man standing frozen before  
the room's entrance.

"Is he in there or not?" barked Thranduil, his words somewhat muffled  
by a handkerchief covering his mouth.

"Aye, he is, though he refused me entry and will not come forth!"

"By the Powers, that is unacceptable!" snapped the King and pounded on  
the door.  "Open up!  This is your doing, this befouling of  
my home!  Come out and face me!" he shouted through the cloth.

"Be gone, elf!  Do not try my patience this night!" came the  
muffled rejoinder.

The enraged elda was about to force the door when Aiwendil laid a  
restraining hand on his arm.

"Please wait, Lord Thranduil.  Perhaps I can assist," he stated  
calmly but his words were neither a request nor an offer.

"Very well, but I insist this be remedied at once!" Thranduil frowned  
but stepped back from the door as he spoke.

"Now, then, what is the matter with Mithrandir?" Radagast addressed  
Aragorn once more.

"I truly know not," Aragorn shook his head.  "Gandalf told me to  
get out and find other quarters for sleep.  The room is filled  
with a great cloud of noxious gases such that I could not  
breathe.  Will he be well in there?"

"Aye, if you mean can he inhale the stuff and not harm his body's  
functions."  Radagast grimaced.  He had a fairly good idea  
what was happening but was reluctant to reveal this to the mortal or  
the elven King.  "Perhaps you should claim the Wood Elf's  
abandoned chamber next door and let me see if I can assist our  
friend.  King Thranduil, please return to your wife and children;  
leave this business to me."

"I will do so, and yet if there is no improvement within the hour I  
will return with warriors and have the Istar forcibly removed, and his  
vile exhalations with him!" muttered the King and quickly retreated  
from the befouled hall.

"As you wish," Aragorn said.  "If there is anything I can  
do…" 

"Indeed!  Do not be alarmed, it is not of great concern and all  
will be back to normal by daybreak!"  Radagast gently pushed upon  
the human's arm to coax him toward the second door, smiling in a less  
than believable imitation of benign goodwill.

Aragorn had to comply, but his curiosity was more than alerted and he  
went immediately to the cold hearth to determine if he could hear what  
the two venerable Ainur discussed.  If he had any pangs of  
conscience over it, well actually he did not.

To his dismay he found that some of the bitter air was leaking into his  
room through the flue and only with great effort did he stifle the urge  
to cough.  Clamping his hand over his lips tightly, he ran to the  
small bathing chamber for a cloth.  Dipping that in water he held  
the rag over his mouth and nose and quietly crept back to the  
fireplace.  Grabbing a cushion from the settee, he plopped down on  
the cold stone floor and trained his ears on the empty grate.

"…really nothing more than you deserve!  Truly, you knew the  
consequences of your actions; all of us were warned!"  This was  
Radagast's voice, thin and reedy, but the tones of righteous  
indignation apparent to Aragorn all the same.  The words were  
uttered in Vanyarin, but having been tutored in such by Glorfindel, the  
human had little difficulty comprehending the speech.

"Do not lecture me, Aiwendil, you little brown charlatan!  What  
would you have done?  Could you have sat by and ignored the horror  
of such torment?  Would you have left him to suffer?"   
Gandalf answered in like manner but his timbre was as caustic as the  
fiery smoke boiling in his chambers.

"Of course not, I would have sought a remedy such as Aragorn employed."

"We did so; it was not enough.  The healer revealed Legolas would  
have died of his grief had I not intervened."

"If such was the will of the Valar, then I would not presume to second  
guess that!"

"This was the will of Elrond of Imladris, not Iluvatar!"

"You can not blame him for the treachery of Maltahondo or the  
callousness of Thranduil."

"Oh but I do!  Had he not interfered right at the beginning,  
Thranduil would never have shunned the child.  You have seen his  
pride over the new prince!  Such love could have been showered on  
Legolas but for our Noldo friend.  And the other hurts fell upon a  
helpless elfling who would not have been abandoned but for the Lord of  
Imladris!  Surely you have at least sense enough to comprehend  
that!"

"Perhaps your words hold truth, yet I am not the one with whom you  
should be angry.  If you must vent your wrath so be it, but truly  
send it to its cause!  This is Manwë's doing, not mine!   
He it was that withheld Elrond's parents from returning to  
Middle-earth.  He was abandoned also and lacked the guidance,  
perhaps, that might have prevented this fall."

"How can you defend him?  What are you thinking?"

"I am trying to understand it.  Elrond is not evil, to my  
knowledge, though evil has been done."

"Our knowledge is incomplete, it would appear."

"Precisely!  Thus, we must depend upon the Valar and their broader  
perspective.  Can you at least admit that your intentions were not  
perhaps utterly selfless? The real trouble you are having over this you  
have yet to confront!"

"Be careful, Radagast!  I will not hear this charge again!"

"You must face the truth now or forever be burdened by it.  You  
want the elf; it is that simple, Gandalf, and the sooner you realise it  
the quicker will you master these urges."

Safely behind the thick walls of natural stone, Aragorn nonetheless  
jumped in shock and terror at the unholy roar of outrage that issued  
from Mithrandir upon the completion of that statement.  Yet  
Radagast was not disturbed in the slightest and his voice continued on  
calmly amid the cursing and snarling.

"You have the weakness, as do we all: ever shall the attraction of the  
First-born be our temptation!  If you give in to this desire, what  
of your tasks here?  If you yield, how long will it be before you  
have exerted your will over all this forest for the sake of the  
Tawarwaith?

"And even then, Melian's lot shall not be yours, for the Wood Elf does  
not share this enthralment!  Will you take the next step and bind  
him to you in magic? Will you force him to love you and seal this Realm  
away while the rest of Middle-earth falls to darkness and evil?   
What other consequences will your helpful deed accrue?"

"Peace!  I would not do those things!"  Mithrandir finally  
found his wits once more.  "I am fighting it, surely you can  
comprehend this."

"You are trying to suppress it!  Surely you can comprehend where  
that leads!  This foetid secretion is but the initial stage, yet  
even to see this astounds me!  It is not your passion for Legolas  
that is at work here, Olórin, but your jealous rage!"

"Can you blame me?  How can you have spent so much time with  
Legolas and not feel as I do, hunger as I do?  I would cherish  
him, heal him, protect him.  Instead, he is off rutting with that  
Noldorin reprobate!  Erestor will have his fun and go along his  
merry way when he is done."

Aragorn's brows lifted at this bit of talk, surprised at the bitterness  
in this denouncement of the advisor and the vehemence in Gandalf's  
declarations regarding Legolas.

"I am not immune to the Tawarwaith's charm and thus have limited my  
level of contact.  Legolas must be allowed to make his own  
choices; he is not a child!"

"He is a child!  How can you not understand that?  He has no  
idea of Erestor's penchant for this sort of bed play.  He thinks  
the elf will love him!"

"And perhaps he will.  Erestor is not unmoved by Legolas' fate  
though you wish to believe the worst.  I have spent several days  
with him and find his intention is to help Legolas.  He has  
submitted himself to great risk in order to do that.  And Legolas  
finds him pleasing, is attracted to him, they are of like kind.   
Let them be, Gandalf!"

"He does not deserve to even look upon him with those lustful eyes of  
his, much less claim Legolas for his own!  Erestor of Imladris is  
a notorious rake and he has two elves bonded to him already.   
Valar!  I cannot stand the thought of him touching Legolas,  
kissing him, making love to my elf!  I am the one who saved  
Legolas from Mandos' Realm; I am within my rights to claim him!   
How dare he turn to Erestor after what I have done!"

By now Aragorn's eyes were nearly as round as they had been on the  
night of Gwain Ithil in the black water fen.  A long silence  
followed Gandalf's revealing statement and the Man began to wonder if  
they had reverted to purely mental communication.   Aiwendil  
resumed speaking in a more composed and compassionate tone.

"Legolas asked not for such aid nor was given the true reasons for the  
gift.  How would you bear the hurt the words just spoken must  
cause him, were he to ever learn of them?  He trusts you.   
Will you betray this faith?  He has let you share his mind and  
soul, but that is not enough; you would take his body as well?  He  
believes, completely, that you alone would never demand repayment in  
that way.

"Legolas gave you his fealty forever, as he should do for none but  
kin.  He is an immortal yet placed his life as nothing more than a  
shield for yours.  Is that not enough? Continue in this manner and  
the transformation will become irreversible.  The fire of your  
jealous hatred will consume your soul and Gandalf shall be no  
more.  Instead, Thranduil will have a Balrog in his keeping!"

Another long silence, then a more subdued Mithrandir finally replied,  
and Aragorn was amazed at the deep frustration the Grey Pilgrim  
expressed.

"If he takes advantage of Legolas I will not hold back my wrath!"

"There is no reason to think he is harming the elf, Olórin.

"I do not wish to wait for the proof, Aiwendil, for that would be the  
sight of Legolas cast down into despair and raging agony!  You did  
not see him ripping his own flesh in desperation!  You did not  
hear his screams!"

"Calm yourself!  It will not be thus!"

"You cannot know that!"

"Aye, I do know it, as do you.  Erestor has true feelings for the  
Tawarwaith and deep remorse for his misdeeds.  I have seen it, as  
have you.  He will not harm Legolas and will actually do him  
good.  Let them be, Olórin.  Face your own heart and  
do not place fault on Legolas for its choosing.  You love the Wood  
Elf."

Seconds sped by in dreary solemnity as Aragorn waited to hear the  
outcome of this incredible revelation.  He could hear one of them  
restlessly pacing and then the air began to clear as the thumping tread  
came to a stop.  The next words from Gandalf wrenched Aragorn's  
spirit and he winced in sympathy.

"It cannot be so, and yet so it is."

"You are at least not the first to endure it."

"Little consolation does that truth hold for me."

"It will pass."

"Nay.  It will not."

Nothing further was said though Aragorn waited several minutes.   
He was left to assume the two Istari finally returned to internal  
speech since Gandalf's high emotional state was somewhat becalmed.

He sighed and wished he had not indulged his curiosity; the Man felt  
very heavy of heart for his immortal friends, the wizard and the Wood  
Elf.  It seemed that each must be deprived of genuine commitment  
and love, while certainly both deserved it.  Legolas loved someone  
who was not free to return it and Mithrandir was forbidden to love at  
all! Like Gandalf, Aragorn found himself unable to comprehend or  
approve the will of the Valar of late.

What of Erestor's self-indulgent interference?  Can this night of  
lust provide any foundation for Legolas' recovery?  Aragorn  
worried over this as much as Gandalf and could not agree with Radagast.  
The mortal did not doubt the sincerity of his former tutor's desire to  
make amends, but that he would do so with his body was not appropriate.  
Erestor might be skilled in giving pleasure, but it was Legolas' spirit  
that needed healing.

How can merely giving in to such  
license be good for him?  Erestor  
is already bonded; he cannot love the wild elf. Sex should not be  
treated as a game.  He knew Erestor well and the human  
could not  
reconcile the concept of an eternal bond with the advisor's reputation  
for lechery.  He had never been able to understand how the  
seneschal could claim to be true to his mates, nor how they endured  
such unfaithfulness.

Surely the wild elf had learned enough of being used for another's  
satisfaction to know there was no lasting benefit in such indulgence.

Nay, Gandalf is right; Legolas does  
not understand these things.   
And I did nothing to stop it! his conscience berated him.

Now it was the mortal who rose and paced the floor in  
aggravation.  He could not lie to himself; he understood the  
advisor's character well enough to suspect he would find a way to  
include sex in his apology to Legolas.

What if Legolas descends once more  
into despair?  Even if he does  
not do so now, what of Erestor's eventual desertion?  He is  
bonded, for Manwë's sake!  Aragorn groaned aloud and  
cursed,  
then abruptly exited the room and strode to the wizard's chamber,  
pounding insistently on the door.

"Gandalf, Radagast!  Open, we must speak!" he demanded and at once  
the Brown Wizard responded, a concerned look screwing up his kindly  
features.  The Man was relieved to see the air significantly  
cleaner and detected only the wholesome scent of pipe-weed coating the  
draft issuing form the room.

"What do you want?" Radagast asked quietly.  "Would be best if we  
could confer undisturbed for the night, Aragorn.  I assure you  
that all is well."

"Oh just let him in; he heard everything we said anyway!" snapped  
Gandalf.  The Istar rose from his seat beside the grate and with a  
searing glare at his mortal friend reached for his staff, his hat and  
his pack.  Clamping the long stem of his pipe between his teeth,  
he slipped the strap over his left shoulder and crushed the droopy head  
covering over his shaggy, grey hair.

"Stand aside!" he ordered around the obstacle in his lips and drew his  
frame up to his tallest stature and his brows down into his most  
forbidding glower.

"Where are you going?" demanded Radagast.

"Aye, you must not leave; there is a matter of serious import we must  
discuss!" added Aragorn.

"I need some air and exercise!" boomed the irritated Istar and made to  
push the Man out of his way, but Aiwendil grasped his shoulder and  
pulled him back most ungently.

"Nay, Olórin, do not seek them!"

"You presume much in telling me my destination!  I said I need a  
walk, not a… a sexual interlude with two copulating elves!"  With  
this vulgar pronouncement Gandalf pulled free and shoved past Aragorn,  
stalking with noisy thumping haste down the passageway.

And he meant it, too, for he was determined to resist his desire and  
stifle the growing urge to spill his seed.  Growing!  What an  
understatement!  Gandalf was relieved his Order allowed for loose  
fitting garments, for there was no denying the painful state of arousal  
to which his male body had succumbed.  Never had he faced this  
particular aspect of his anatomy before and had virtually been assured  
by Manwë that assuming an outward form of advanced age would  
prevent such experiences.  Hah!

Then again, to be fair, Manwë had not envisioned that one of his  
Maiar would share their vital essence with one of the First-born in any  
way besides sexual intercourse.  By reducing the enticements of  
youth and beauty, the Vala thought to protect his emissaries from the  
attractions of Iluvatar's First-born.  Yet, Gandalf had given his  
substance to the Wood Elf by other means and the bond had been  
established.

And Gandalf, for all his rage and upset, held no grudge against  
Legolas, for truly the Tawarwaith did not understand.  How could  
he know that the wizard was capable of carnal desires and lust?   
He had accepted and returned the bond in full, as much as he  
comprehended it.  Legolas had granted complete acceptance to the  
Istar's invasion of his soul, just as Aiwendil had said.  For  
invasion it was; he was completely vulnerable and could not have  
resisted even had he comprehended the implications.  Manwë  
never saw fit to forewarn me of what a temptation that would prove!

To the Istar, however, it made no difference whether or not it was  
Manwë's fault. He had no need to search the lovers  
out.   In the throes of his passionate coupling with the  
Noldo Lord, Legolas' defences were down, his mind unguarded. The Ainu  
had pounced on the opportunity to insinuate a link, ostensibly to  
reassure himself that all was well with the Tawarwaith. Mithrandir was  
thus party to all that the wild elf was experiencing and the wizard  
ached to find release. Or go mad!

Thus far he had been unable unwilling to sever the link but had managed  
to keep Legolas unaware of the connection.  Not that he had to try  
very hard, what with the Tawarwaith's attention fixed elsewhere.   
The wizard was terrified for him to find out and think he was being  
spied on, an object of sexual gratification through voyeurism.

Yet in all honesty that was the situation, and in his heart of hearts  
Gandalf had no desire to shut out the images and sensations flashing  
through his mind and coursing through his nerves.

Mithrandir stalked along the trails, rudely shouldering out of the way  
any Wood Elf that crossed his path, seeking a secluded spot where he  
could deal with his torment in private.  As fate would have it, or  
at least his cock, he found the deserted path of bromeliads and fled  
into the maze, following the trail of discarded clothes and the scent  
of the wild elf.  When he reached the great oak, he flung himself  
down amid the archer's garments All of them! hiked up his robes around  
his waist and pulled off the simple loincloth.

Once his erection was free he took himself in both hands and pounded  
his flesh in time to Legolas' increasingly excited shrieks. The elves  
were too engrossed in one another to notice the bass voice added to  
their baritone and tenor duet.  When Legolas reached his orgasm  
deep inside the Noldo, Mithrandir accompanied him and groaned as he  
watched his semen pour forth for the first time.

High in the talan, Erestor posed his simple question:   
"Pen-rhovan, how many times can you come in one night?" and watched in  
amused indulgence as Legolas' eyes grew wide.  The Noldo chuckled  
as he pulled at his slackened cock and played with the wild elf's  
relaxed genitals.

"So soft," he whispered and leaned down, licking the instruments of his  
most recent delight.  With care he opened wide and engulfed all of  
it, the whole sac and the lax penis, humming as he swirled his tongue  
lazily around the subtle combination of textures and tastes.

The archer's short gold curls tickled his nose and he snorted a laugh,  
inhaling the remnant of his own scent and Legolas' seed.  He dimly  
realised Legolas was calling his name, pleading for something and  
tugging on his hair quite insistently, so he ended the enjoyable  
feasting.  He looked down to find Pen-rhovan scarcely able to  
control his breathing, a distressed expression marring his  
features.  At once he became serious and clasped his lover's hand  
protectively.

"What is it?  What did I do?" he implored.

"Nay!" Legolas tossed his head.  "I just have to get up.   
Berenaur, how do I get it out of me?"

"You want to take it out?  But why, was it not enjoyable?"   
He reached over and flicked the handle.

"Berenaur!"  Legolas' entire body jolted and his penis began  
filling.  "Aye, aye!  But I need to relieve myself, and  
quickly please!"

At once Erestor comprehended the reason for the sudden tension in the  
wild elf's body and grinned hugely as he went to the end of the  
bench.  With a slow steady pull he drew the phallus out, watching  
as Legolas shuddered and sighed.  The annular muscles shrank back  
once the tool was free.  Erestor could not resist and leaned low  
to lick against the tight ring and shove his tongue inside the  
stretched channel.

The Tawarwaith moaned a desperate wail of decadent encouragement and  
whispered his lover's name.

Erestor could not get in far enough to stroke the younger elf's  
pleasure centre, however, and after several spearing attempts to do so  
withdrew his tongue.  He pressed in three fingers instead as  
Legolas yelped and wriggled.

"Berenaur?"

Erestor ignored the plea and pushed in further, watching as his more  
and more of his hand disappeared inside the dark red cavity.  He  
grunted as the constricting ridges squeezed so tight around his  
knuckles that he winced.  Slowly he unfurled his fingers inside  
the archer's rectum and Legolas began truly writhing.

"Ai!  Valar!   Ai!  Fuck me, fuck me please fuck  
me!" he was begging over and over.  He had reached for his legs  
and drawn them up and out as far as he could, yearning to expose more  
of his arse for acquisition.  He was curved into a ball and began  
rocking himself against the seneschal's rigid arm.

"Elbereth's Tits!" the Noldo exhaled as Legolas pushed down, trying to  
take the intrusion deeper. 

Erestor pushed harder and his entire hand was sucked into the compliant  
body up to his wrist.  He curled his fingers and Legolas shouted  
out a series of high pitched shrieks the likes of which Erestor had  
never heard him utter.  He looked up to ensure these were not  
signals of pain and then moved his hand out just a mite and then pushed  
it deeper.  As he watched tears began to streak down his lover's  
cheeks. Legolas was near hysteria in his incoherent pleading.

"Legolas!" Erestor cried hoarsely.  "My whole hand is in  
there!  Do you feel it?  Valar it is so hot in there!   
And tight!"  Erestor wondered if he would lose feeling in his  
fingers before he completed this act.

"Ai, Berenaur, move it, saes, saes!"

The seneschal had never had a lover so responsive and his own  
excitement was rising.  Both Dambethnîn and Orophin had  
refused this particular kind of exploration.  He could not believe  
he had shoved his entire hand up the archer's arse.  He pulled out  
an inch and let the contracting muscles draw him back in.

Legolas gulped for air, no strength for yelling left, as his body went  
rigid and his cock lifted in tribute.

But Erestor knew they were both depleted for the time being and he  
would have to keep up this torment for quite awhile before he could  
incite another release of sperm from Legolas.  He was fairly  
confident neither of them could endure this strain much longer, so he  
decided to try something else.  He had never dared to ask for this  
before, and thus had never done it. Nervously he drew a shaky breath  
and softly blew on the straight hard shaft.  It stretched up  
toward the source of stimulation and Legolas wailed.

"Legolas," he whispered.  "I will fuck you.  I will fuck you  
for hours and hours.  But I thought you needed to empty your  
bladder?  How can you hold it?"  Inside his lover's body, he  
stretched his fingers wide and then started a steady massage of the  
firm little rise in the elf's interior topography.  "Let go, I  
want to see!"

"I…" Legolas rasped through his tears.  "I cannot!   
Please!  Oh, Valar!"

"Yes, you can."  With his free hand Erestor reached between the  
wild elf's legs and gently pressed his abdomen.  "Aye, you are  
full!  Let it go, then!  Please I want to see."  Now he  
was consistently pleasuring Legolas on the inside and applying pressure  
from without, and he could hardly wait to see what would happen.   
"Please?" he was the one begging now.

Legolas was grinding his teeth and whimpering, eyes hidden behind  
scrunched lids and drawn brows, trying to hold it in and simultaneously  
longing for some relief to the building tension inside.

Erestor moved his free hand down to the hard shaft displayed for his  
approval and took it up, slowly squeezing and tugging it but not really  
pumping consistently.  He massaged the head with his thumb a few  
times in concert with his internal stroking.

"Please, Legolas, do this for me?" he coaxed again and within the  
overextended rectum curled up his hand into a fist and pumped it in and  
out slowly.

Legolas stopped breathing and then inhaled tremendously before blowing  
back a cry that sounded so decadent Erestor had to repeat the movement  
just to convince himself he had really heard it.

"Just let go, trust me and let go.  You need to. It will feel so  
good to let go."  His seductive crooning wrung a lengthy and  
strained grunt from his lover's lungs.

Abruptly Legolas jerked and cried out and a small spurt of clear amber  
pulsed out.  With a huge shudder and a groaning sob the archer's  
sphincter opened and the steady stream of urine fountained between his  
knees.

"Ai!" Erestor could scarcely contain his delight and darted his tongue  
into the golden cascade, lapping against the jetting orifice  
greedily.  Inside he opened his hand and worked his fingers back  
and forth across the bulging prostate.  Legolas arched back and  
wailed.  For a second the flow increased under the stimulation,  
then the cock spasmed in his hand and the stream halted.    
The surging penis excreted a final quick splash as Legolas released a  
quiet whine.   Too soon it was over and Erestor gently  
withdrew his hand from inside the wild elf's body.

Legolas exhaled a mighty gut wrenching sough as he was emptied.   
He was still crying a little, eyes shut, but no longer wore an  
expression fraught with tense rigidity.   He seemed unable to  
release the intense grip on his shanks, however, and was trembling all  
over.

"Oh, Pen-rhovan," Erestor sighed.  He was breathing heavily and  
still reeling from the sight of the urination and the taste of the  
acrid fluid on his palate.  No other lover had ever done this for  
him, and Erestor had not even revealed this deeply harboured fantasy to  
his bond-mates.  The seneschal's heart felt close to bursting as  
he looked upon Legolas, blue eyes shut, chest heaving, thighs quaking.  
One at a time, he gently disengaged Legolas' grip upon those legs and  
massaged them before settling the heels back on the ledge.

The seneschal could not restrain himself longer and climbed back up  
atop the exhausted elf, stretching out over him and relishing the  
sticky wet mixture smearing across his stomach.  His cock was now  
so hard he believed he really could fuck Legolas for hours on end, and  
he rocked the solid organ into the messy residue of their combined  
excretions pooled on the wild elf's torso.

"That was amazing!  Thank you, Pen-rhovan," the soft hush of  
syllable wafted across his lover's skin and ever so softly he kissed  
the parted and panting lips and then the closed eyes and the elegant  
nose.

"Legolas?  Please look at me," he whispered and the lids opened a  
tiny bit to reveal bright sparkling blue.  "You are all right?" he  
asked.

A slight nod and faint smile was the only response Legolas could manage  
and he shut them again as Berenaur resumed the soft application of his  
lips all over his face and neck.  A warm tongue swabbed away the  
wet trails of ecstatic tears with an intensity that bespoke  
desperation.  The gentle caresses continued and the Noldo was  
softly murmuring something indecipherable in the most enchantingly  
pleading voice.

Suddenly Legolas felt a splash upon is cheek, followed by another  
droplet that shattered on his nose, and he understood that Berenaur was  
crying.  With ponderous movements he wrapped his arms around the  
advisor and attempted to pat his shoulders in comfort, too exhausted to  
do more, hoping nothing terrible was amiss.

Eventually Berenaur's tongue found its way to the tips of his ears for  
a quick little suck before departing once more to savour the skin of  
his clavicle where the scar was yet a brighter pink than the rest of  
the pale skin.  And with those mumbling lips now so close to his  
ear the archer could at last comprehend what the Noldo was  
repeating. 

"Pen-rhovan, I love you.  Do you hear?  I love you.  My  
Pen-rhovan, love you." 


	63. Gwanun Ûl Gâd

Gwanun Ûl Gâd (The Twins Catch the Scent)

It was an exquisite autumn dawn of whispery golden gleam twinkling through dewdrops, breaking the skies from darkness with startling abruptness, showing off all the magnificence of Iluvatar's design with a clarity that superseded vision and settled succinctly within the soul, lifting the heart, making one's spirit sing for the beauty of the world and being connected to it. The kind of morning that caused new appreciation of all that was so perfectly symbiotic within nature, a jubilant realisation of the harmonious balance within the unchangeable variation of Arien's journey through the heavens.

Anor's light always seemed clearer during this part of Arda's cycle of seasons, the air easier to inhale, sweet without the intoxicating qualities lent by spring flowering, cool without the bite of winter's frigid breath, temperate and mild, lacking the harshness of summer's alternately dry furnace and unbearably stifling humidity. What was green receded from the landscape while the bold shades of flame and gold and bronze displayed by the deciduous members of Yavanna's creations garnered attention. Grass had gone the colour of citrine and the deep rich emerald and dark viridian of holly, fir, pine, and yew would soon dominate wilderness and settled lands alike.

Within this pristine inauguration of Anor's hours the party from Lorien arrived at the main road into Imladris and poised upon the foot bridge overlooking the softly tumbling falls of the Rhossoll (Rustling Stream), a small tributary that boiled out of the highlands of Hithaeglir and joined the Bruinen at the Ford on the Great Road. From this vantage the broad sweep of the valley's gracefully rolling meadows looked like any other river's floodplain, for the dwellings of the elves and the Last Homely House were obscured by a barrier of orchards and woods.

Yet even from this distance away the sounds of Elrond's protected realm were audible to the keen ears of his sons and their comrades, and that is why the four were halted, staring in disturbed foreboding at the silent expanse of grasslands and weald opening at their feet. There was no one singing in Rivendell, not even the birds.

Whatever the twin Lords made of this they shared only with one another, but their agitation was easily communicated to their horses and the pair sped away across the downs, the Lorien couple close behind. The sentries did no more than whistle a salute as the entourage galloped by; there would not even be time to send word ahead of the group's arrival. The guard did, however, signal a warning to Elladan and Elrohir of fell news awaiting them.

Into the elegant formality of the central courtyard of Elrond's house thundered Nirmë and Namië, their raven-haired riders more concerned now than ever as no one came forth from within to greet them. The look that passed between the brothers exchanged dread for determination as they dismounted in unison and hastened up the marble stairs into the foyer of the palacious abode. They halted there; suddenly feeling as though they had barged into some stranger's home so intense was the sense of alienation that hovered over their hearts. Not since returning from the Mithlond without their mother had the Last Homely House seemed this foreign, this unfamiliar, this unwelcoming.

Orophin and Dambethnîn hurried after, catching the twins' dark mood and clasping hands to fortify their flagging hopes. Again the quartet's entry was unremarked and this caused Dambethnîn to sigh sadly, for normally Erestor was present to greet all visitors to the Lord's home. Elrohir half-turned and laid his hand upon her arm, squeezing gentle encouragement and sympathy as a grim smile uplifted the corners of his lips, for Erestor's friendship was dear to the gwanun (twins) as well.

Elladan led the way through the halls; certain everyone must be collected in the Council Chamber. The warriors encountered none of the household's staff en route and no voices were discernible in any direction. It was as if the whole valley was deserted, and while Elladan knew this to be false he could not prevent an instantaneous vision of Imladris, forsaken and in ruins, from flashing through his mind.

Elrohir sucked in an unsteady breath and this time Dambethnîn reached for him, though she could not share the frightening image spanning the brothers' conjoined intellects. The four turned the corner leading to the vale's seat of governance and yet no sounds of conversing or discussion met them. Elladan looked back to share his displeasure and mounting concern with Elrohir, who shook his head, for they had arrived to find the double doors to the room thrown wide and no one within.

"This is ominous indeed," said Orophin in a low voice. Normally, there would be lively activity inside, whether from a delegation of a foreign realm petitioning either aid or alliance, or local inhabitants of the valley seeking the insight of their Lord to end some dispute.

"Adar's study," spoke Elrohir, solely for the benefit of the Galadhrim, as he turned about and jogged away into the family's private suites. At last the murmur of serious words met their hearing and in their haste the group nearly ran down a trio of surprised elves laden with trays on which were piled dishes and glasses and the remains of a half-consumed repast. Without bothering to knock the younger brother shoved open the door to his father's sanctuary of books, maps, paintings, and plants and halted just over the threshold. His companions crowded up behind him, jostling to peer beyond the rigid set of his broad shoulders that conveyed annoyance, relief, and worry all at the same time.

Seated before the arched fireplace in his favourite chair was the Lord of Imladris, Glorfindel in the corresponding armchair to his right with Galdor and Lindir occupying the comfortable settee. The intrusion initiated a cessation of their discussion as one group surveyed the other.

Elrond stared at Elladan and Elrohir, seemingly shocked to see them there, and said nothing for several seconds as his gaze travelled between the mirrored emotions in his children's eyes. He was searching for signs of disgust and rage; hatred and abhorrence, shame and remonstrance but all he could see was their fear for his welfare and their distress over the trouble that had fallen upon their lands. The Lord of Imladris exhaled in immense relief; clearly they knew nothing. _Galadriel has not learned the truth, then._ With a shaky smile he rose and took a step toward his sons, immediately finding himself sandwiched between their crushing embrace as both rushed to close the distance, reciprocally reassuring each other of their respective health and wholeness.

"Iyn, iynen (Sons, my sons), welcome home," Elrond whispered and kissed each upon the forehead as they relinquished their squashing hold and let their father breathe. "I will not pretend that this reunion is joyous, for I know why you have come, yet I am gladdened for your presence."

"Aye, Adar, Miny'adar (First-father, grandfather (Quenya)) sent us. He is on his way to Mirkwood to try and mitigate this dreadful charge," began Elladan.

"And would not let us join his party for fear we would do some violence to the Elven King," finished Elrohir. "We have brought Orophin and Dambethnîn here, for they seek news of their bond-mate."

"Please, Lord Elrond, do you have words for us?" Now that the twins had made their presence official Orophin could no longer wait to learn what had become of the seneschal. He and Dambethnîn stepped further into the room and stood expectantly, impatiently, for Elrond's response. To their surprise, it was Glorfindel who replied, rising swiftly from his place and approaching the pair.

"We know little of his fate at the present moment, I am afraid, and it is one of the greatest concerns of this situation," he said solemnly. "Come and be seated, for surely the journey was trying and you came with all speed possible to reach us." He ushered them to his own chair and Orophin sat, pulling Dambethnîn onto his lap as she crumpled up in despair, wheezing out little whining whimpers as she hid her face in her husband's hair. Orophin did not miss the deadly glare Glorfindel bestowed upon his Lord as he moved away to pour out a serving of Miruvor for the distraught visitors.

"I cannot imagine that anything productive will be accomplished this day," said Galdor tersely, "and it has barely begun! Indeed, these last five days we have done naught but argue over the means of settling this contention, with no accord reached. I must go and attempt to relay some form of encouragement to our citizens, even if I do not feel any myself." He rose and tapped Lindir on the shoulder, signalling him to follow, and moved toward the door, stopping only briefly to share greetings with the Orc-slayers as he exited.

"I shall see what I may do to help," said the minstrel but his sorrowful voice betrayed his own lack of faith in achieving anything positive along those lines. He smiled, a sore-hearted curvature of grim lips, in response to Elrohir's questioning glance and shook his head a little as he passed from the room.

The brothers took the advisors' places on the settee as their father returned to his chair. Glorfindel pressed Dambethnîn to take a sip of the cordial and retreated to lean against the mantel when she had calmed down a bit. The silence was broken by Elrond.

"Glorfindel, perhaps you should take our guests and settle them in suitable quarters. I would like some time to speak with my sons alone."

"As you wish. Orophin, Dambethnîn, I will answer as many questions as I am able. Please, come with me." The Balrog Slayer helped the female warden rise and led the two disconsolate elves away, sending another harsh grimace in his Lord's direction as he left.

"What happened?" Elladan demanded as soon as the door shut behind them, for he was alarmed at the open hostility between his father and their most esteemed councillor.

"It is difficult to explain, but I will try. In turn, you must hear me out and withhold judgement until all is revealed."

"Valar! Is it as bad as that? Is Erestor truly in danger?" asked Elrohir, for he could see no other reason to send the Galadhrim away.

"I do not believe Erestor will suffer physically," Elrond's words were tinged with wry sarcasm the nature of which the twins found inexplicable. "However, our situation is most uncomfortable. Thranduil has reason to be angry but to go to this extent to exact revenge is excessive. Nonetheless, we must deal with him officially now."

"Perhaps not. Miny'adar may be able to reason with him as they are kin," Elladan hopefully interjected.

"Nay, I believe Celeborn will fail in this," said his father and forced a bitter laugh from his lungs.

"Adar, we are waiting," reminded Elrohir. "Why were you there and why has Erestor not returned with you?"_ How I long for Miny'ammë's gift at such times! (First mother, grandmother (Quenya))_ he thought and Elladan inaudibly affirmed that. It was some minutes before any response was rendered.

"I was in Southern Mirkwood with Erestor, attempting to learn something of the activities of the Wraiths in Dol Guldur," Elrond said at last. He paused and rubbed his eyes wearily. Now that it came to it, he did not know if he could actually speak of this with his sons.

"Oh," said Elrohir with disappointment, looking not at his father but into the dancing flames within the grate. "I had thought you were there for Legolas."

Upon hearing these words Elrond went stone still and all colour drained from his countenance as his eyes slowly turned to examine his younger son in disbelief. "What? Why would think that?"

"We assumed you went to aid the Wood Elf in his dire fate because of your connection to his mother. Is this true?" Elladan spoke for his brother.

"Yes, Adar; there is no need for the pretence regarding Ningloriel and her child any longer. Had you shared your intention, we would have assisted you and the venture might have been a success," added Elrohir.

Elrond frowned; he had thought Elrohir would have outgrown these foolish fantasies long centuries ago. It would not help matters that the younger son still harboured a gentle image of the Wood Elf in his heart. For so long Elrond had kept these two facets of his life separate, his illicit affair and his respectable family, controlling each with masterful handling, never allowing either to connect or cross over upon the other. The concept of Elrohir defending the fallen forest prince, treating even the vague notion of him with brotherly concern was galling. An astoundingly realistic vision of his son holding the wild elf in a protective clasp while Elladan stood guarding over them sizzled into his consciousness, and within it his sons' distress and repugnance for their father fairly radiated like heat from the sun. _That I will not abide!_

"Exactly how do you see the situation between me and Ningloriel, Elrohir? Are you among those who believe I sired Thranduil's cast-off prince?"

"Aye, Ada; what else is there to think?"

"And what is your opinion, Elladan?"

"I have not the firm convictions of my brother, yet I will not discount the possibility exists."

"I see." Elrond got up and paced to the end of the room and back, incensed. "I am astonished that either of you could entertain such a concept! That I would father a child and then abandon it, that is how you view me, Elrohir? That I would leave an elfling of my own flesh and blood in the care of that Sindarin upstart?"

"Ai! Adar, you are too harsh! Never did I imagine any of that!" protested Elrohir.

"And what were we to think, then? You would never speak of it to us," Elladan defended his brother's romantic heart, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to calm him. "We assumed you could not be sure, or that Ningloriel would not have the child removed from Greenwood, wanting her son to rule their people someday. I thought you feared to alienate us, or rather Arwen, because of this second family. I also felt you were ashamed of it all."

"We invented many scenarios, but none in which you would knowingly wrong one of your own. Ada, surely you understand that we will support you through this, whatever the errors involved may be," concluded Elrohir.

"Good, good, that encourages me greatly," Elrond smiled darkly at his oldest son, shocked at how near Elladan was to the truth of the feelings that swirled through the memories of the years with Ningloriel and the subsequent encounter with her son. _Aye, shame and fear, that is all the spiteful inu gave to me. I should have abandoned her and taken her son while she was still here._

He resumed his seat with a heavy sigh and rubbed his forehead. His sons would never understand this. Could they remain at his side once they learned the extent of his vindictive malice? "Let me assure you both that Legolas is not of our lineage. Remember that in the time to come; it is most important that you never lose sight of that fact."

Elladan and Elrohir did not feel anything like reassurance, however; instead a weighty sense of doom collected in the air of the room and they were deeply concerned for what the truth could be.

"Why? Why is this so vital? You have told us nothing and I fear whatever you are hiding more than any legion of Orcs I have ever faced. Speak!" implored Elrohir, unable to contain his emotions longer, leaning forward and slipping from beneath the shelter of Elladan's arm. Instinctively he reached for the hand at its end, entwining their fingers tightly.

"I did go there to find Legolas, but not for any reasons involving rescue from his punishment. I sought him to use as a spy upon his own, for he seemed likely to bear them ill-will, were he anything like his mother."

"Then Thranduil has more than reason to be angered, he has just cause for his charge; you truly did this. How came the plans to failure?" Elladan's tone was bleak and brimming with disappointment. "Indeed, how could such a plot succeed? What possessed you to undertake such a scheme? Did Glorfindel know of it?"

"Nay, he was as shocked and worried as we on learning of their disappearance," Elrohir reminded him. "Legolas has obviously remained loyal to his own. I do not suppose I can blame him for that."

"Loyal!" Elrond snorted in derision. "I would not want that one as an ally! Deeply do I regret ever setting eyes on him! Fealty and faithfulness he does not comprehend. He is too much like his mother!"  
__  
What does he mean by that?

I know not, but I dislike the rancour in his tone, as if this was something personal rather than a failed attempt at espionage.

Aye. It is personal. He would never do something so, so irrational otherwise. What use is a condemned exile in gathering information? He is lying to us.

Nay, to himself. It is not that he distrusts us, rather he is, isAi! I understand this not!

The twins shared these thoughts and waited, saddened deeply. They perceived that they would have to discuss the whole ugly situation again with Glorfindel in order to get at the underlying motives here.

"Adar, he has never been beyond his country's borders and by your own words had no reason to suspect kinship to you. Why would you assume he would accept alliance with you and turn on his own? Ningloriel was entirely devoted to her Nandorin subjects, if that is what you meant by likening them one to the other." Elladan attempted to draw Elrond back into discussion even as a new thought occurred to him. "Unless he did believe you his father,"

"Or did not know who you were," Elrohir spoke with sudden insight as well. "Did you not reveal yourself to him? That would explain why he would turn you over to Thranduil's guards."

"Ah, both," Elladan nodded and looked bleakly to Elrohir. "The gossips in Lorien put it forth that Ningloriel believed Adar was her child's father. She must have shared this with him."

Elrond listened to this exchange with increasing irritation, his brows drawing together and creating deep creases of displeasure across his forehead as his eyes pivoted from one to the other in turn. As before, the nearness to the truth the two approached was alarming. _They will have it all figured out in minutes._

"Valar! I do not understand your obsession with justifying that outcast's actions!" he snapped. "What difference does it make whether he thought I was his father or not? Why do you care for him to have behaved honourably? It is not in his character to do so!"

"Obsession?" Elrohir was surprised.

"We wish to understand how you made the decision that such an undertaking was feasible. You are not being very forthcoming, Adar." Elladan growled.

"All right, perhaps I over-react," Elrond took a steadying breath. "This situation is most trying. I will answer your queries, then. No, I did not tell him who I was for the subterfuge could not have worked that way. I feared what you suggested, Elrohir, that Ningloriel had told him such lies regarding his paternity, if for nothing else than to spare him the dishonour of his true parentage. His mother kept another lover, her guardsman Maltahondo, and that elf is the fallen prince's sire."

"That is unfortunate," murmured Elrohir, feeling for Legolas low estate._ Something about this explanation still does not set easily within reason's bounds._

"Aye, but I still do not understand what use he would be to you or why you found it necessary to lie about your identity," prodded his brother. _I agree, Adar is not lying but is skirting around the truth carefully, as when crossing an ice-bound river. There is something he dreads to reveal to us._

"I thought he might tell us something of the contents of his King's vaults. I have long held the suspicion that Thranduil possesses Isildur's Bane. I needed to secure his trust in order to hope for any such revelation."

This did not seem to startle his sons, and Elrond both admired them for having concluded this possibility on their own and worried for how flimsy his rationale for the actions he took would seem to them.

"Well, if he thought you his sire, that would seem sufficient motivation! Why the secrecy?" Elladan asked directly. _Valar! What can be so damning?_

"Aye, and I thought the White Council had assigned Dol Guldur and Mirkwood to Mithrandir's methods. I cannot believe he would know the Ring was there and do nothing." Elrohir added. _Betrayal. He betrayed Erestor and fears to tell us so._

"Mithrandir's methods, as you call them, have produced nothing," Elrond ignored Elladan's remarks and answered Elrohir instead. "Erestor and I decided to recruit the Wood Elf and sought the aid of Maltahondo to take the proposal to him. When that failed, we went to seek him out ourselves."

"So where is Erestor? Did Legolas send word to his people of your intentions? Has our seneschal been taken captive by the Woodland King for these crimes? Is this what you are trying so hard not to tell us; that you were forced to leave him behind to make good your escape?" Elladan hoped Elrohir was correct and this was it. Such was certainly horrible, but could be forgiven, for he truly believed that circumstances must have forced his father to take such a course, if indeed this had transpired.

Elrond inhaled a startled breath to hear such reasoning from his oldest. It was so tempting to accept these ready made alibis and excuses, so easy would it be to bend the truth around such concepts and thus reclaim their admiration and respect, their forgiveness for this folly. It could all be Legolas' fault. _If only I had not confessed everything to Glorfindel!_ He exhaled slowly.

"Yes and no. Erestor is indeed in Mirkwood, and I feel certain he is within the stronghold. I do not believe he is in physical danger. Thranduil is no fool; he will not dare to spill a drop of blood from my House.

"It is true I left him, but it was Erestor's free choice to remain. He went looking for Legolas; he has foolishly become enamoured of the cursed outcast," he said this hesitantly, cautiously and waited for their reaction to such a statement.

It could work; they would never actually meet Legolas, and Erestor's reputation for philandering was against him. The only problem was Glorfindel and he could be ordered under his oath to Manwë to withhold the more personal revelations Elrond had made to him. He had already agreed to do this regarding Lindir, Galdor, and the population at large. _As long as he has not told the Galadhrim, all will be well._

Elrohir and Elladan sat back and tightened the grip one another's hands, disturbed. They could not tell where the truth ended and the lie began, for all of what had just been said rang with the same noble tones they were accustomed to hearing in their father's voice. Yet never would they have thought to hear him disparage their friend and countryman thus.

"You do realise, Adar, that you have just called Erestor a traitor to Imladris as well as to his bond-mates?" asked Elladan quietly. He squeezed his brother's fingers harder as Elrond nodded solemnly, meeting each of their gazes steadily.

"I do, but you must understand he is not himself. The Wood Elf is very alluring and Erestor cannot help his fascination."  
__  
He believes this.

Undoubtedly, yet it cannot be so. Erestor would never betray Imladris.

Then he has sundered his bond to Orophin and Dambethnîn?

Nay, I cannot accept that either. He loves them. Ada has misunderstood.

Elrond sighed. He could see it in their eyes; they rejected this idea completely. _Still, they are my sons and they will not gainsay my words. This ruse may yet succeed; I must be more specific_.

"I saw him with Legolas."

"What do you mean?" asked Elrohir, knowing already exactly what he meant, hoping fervently to be proved wrong.

"With him, Elrohir, as in consorting with him, laying with him, shoving his cock up the hecilo's arse, spilling his seed down the bastard's throat, fucking that cast-off reprobate in as many ways as experience and the dissipated creature's stamina, which apparently is quite prodigious, will allow!"

The twins gasped at the unhidden virulence of their father's obscene words, the seething anger and disgust, his unadulterated jealousy and anguished sorrow, all of it was plain to their ears. They stared, aghast and helpless in the face of this raw and oozing wound in Elrond's flawless character. For several heartbeats they could not even muster rational communication between themselves, trading only their aggrieved horror to see this kind of baseness exposed in their father.

"What of it?" Elrohir blurted angrily. "Erestor has been with many elves and never betrayed a trust. You know this, Ada." _He desires Ningloriel's child for himself?_

"You are," Elladan swallowed before trying to go on, encouraged by the strong pressure imparted by his counterpart's palm. "You are very disturbed by this, Adar." _As if he and Erestor became rivals for the Wood Elf's affection. _

"Of course I am disturbed by it!" the Elf Lord scoffed. "How do you think I should respond to some bastard of common silvan blood stealing Erestor away from his home, his loved ones, his mates?" He uplifted his arms to underscore his exasperation over Elrohir's refusal to comprehend reality, dropping them back to his knees with a slap as his palms connected there.

"Stop," pleaded Elrohir and looked away from his father. _Aye and Ada lost._

"Nay, it is time for you to dispel the fantasy of Legolas from your thoughts and replace it with the truth. Elrohir, he is just like her. He let me fuck him after but two days spent in each other's company and with little more coaxing than a meagre compliment or two. He thereafter let Erestor bed him, using sex to lure our seneschal into a compromising situation within Thranduil's stronghold."

"Far!" (Enough) Elladan shut his eyes and held up a hand to emphasise his distaste for this topic. "I have no wish to hear this." _Elbereth! He has lain with that elf!_

"You bedded him? He let you?" Elrohir could not encompass the concept. _Nay, Adar would not take his lover's child as his next bed partner!_ "Why would you do such?"

"Let me? He demanded it! The second time was of his offering as well. After that he seduced Erestor. He left us and Erestor refused to come back with me. Legolas is unworthy of your regard, Elrohir, and the sooner you accept this the easier the days ahead will become."

"I will listen to no more!" Elladan stood and tore his hand free from Elrohir, stalking toward the door. "None of it makes any sense. I must mull this over in solitude, Adar."

"Wait!" Elrohir was on his feet and at his brother's side before the handle of the door could be turned. "We will speak again later, Adar," he called over his shoulder as they exited the study, leaving behind an irate and dissatisfied Elf Lord.

Elrond knew he had not convinced them. If they went to Glorfindel now they would realise the full extent of the deception he was attempting. _I cannot let this happen. They must not ever know!_ With that to spur him, the Noldor Lord sprang from his seat and fairly bolted from the room, seeking his Master-at-Arms, hoping the twins would feel the need to discuss the matter between themselves before approaching the Balrog Slayer for his counsel.


	64. Fîr Úgerth

A/N: Many chapters ago, (Thavron ar Aran) it was mentioned that  
Thranduil's grandmother was of the Green Elves and dwelt in Region.

Tolkien tells us the Sindar probably did not immigrate to Greenwood  
until early Second Age, before the building of Barad-dûr (SA  
c.1000). I am thinking, though, that the Sindar would not be happy  
living in Lindon with the Noldor, right after the second kinslaying. So  
I have taken liberties again and made Thranduil's childhood take place  
in Beleriand but that Oropher and his folk left before the death of  
Thingol and the destruction of Nargothrond.

Tolkien also tells us in 'The Hobbit' that Mirkwood had an Enchanted  
River, Magical Gates and the Wood Elves could make and extinguish fires  
instantaneously.  So, what's the connection and how did all that  
come about?  Here's my idea, and as usual, it is dark.

* * *

  
**Fîr Úgerth (Mortal Sins)**

_Truth. Those that would describe it a concept beyond the  
bounds of Arda, arising in the heart of Eru, sung with the voices of  
the Ainur, cherished for the clarity of knowledge it lends and the  
fortification of conviction in right action; those folk know but a  
slender phase of truth, failing to see the dark enshrouded fullness of  
its real nature. It is a rending dagger, a brutal master, unrelenting,  
unforgiving in its demands for fealty, lacking compassion or concern,  
caring but for its own revelation and preservation, no matter the  
wounds such devotion causes upon adherents to its rigid creed._

And bitter musings were these for Thranduil to harbour as he gazed upon  
his twelve-day-old prince and heir, who slept in peaceful repose after  
the strenuous torments of the daylight hours. Yet he could not halt the  
turn of his thoughts, even the beauty and promise revealed in the  
infant's existence could not move his mind from the dark and rancid  
considerations Meril's words had spawned.

_Truth is death, even for immortals, and thus have the eldar  
been told falsehoods and pandered to in deceit by the Valar and their  
servants. Truth is sorrow and anguish, and thus are families ripped  
asunder, beloved kin sacrificed to maintain the lie of Eru's love and  
the Powers' care. Who among Eru's elite joined his children in the Last  
Alliance? Not one, not even a single, simple servant of the humblest  
Maia, not one among the Valarindi (children of the Valar) would stand  
and lend the aid of their mighty strength! That is truth, and as it  
lies in the shallows of the Mere of Dead Faces so it resides in the  
broken lands and buried bones of all my father's ancestors, crushed  
beneath the weight of water from the Great Sea. 'The Sundering Sea',  
that at least is an honest designation._

As the vision of the separating shield of salty fluid, ever restless,  
never at peace, always sighing in mourning or raging in fury, inundated  
his inward gaze, a memory of Ningloriel was superposed upon it. She  
appeared indulgent and smiling, clasping the hand of her elfling,  
leading him through her haven of flowers to play amid the maze. The  
child was radiant in joy and cavorted at her side, cherishing the touch  
of her possessive grasp, sending his love to her soul silently through  
the dancing azure deeps. And the crashing sound of the ocean's song  
changed, becoming as a lament, while the shrill calls of sea-birds  
gliding above the swells were too like the crying of his first-born all  
those centuries ago.

Thranduil cautiously caressed the infant's crown of golden down once  
more and turned away. No such parting shall Taurant endure and  
Echuiross shall have her Naneth's counsel for the days of her maturity,  
he vowed.

He left the nursery and his apartments, not deigning to look in on his  
consort or his daughter, taking the back stairs, hurrying away from the  
future he had laboured so many centuries to bring to fruition,  
hastening into the past where the seeds of it lay buried deep in the  
heart of the mountain. Such hopeful determination had sowed those  
grains of potential into the fertile soil of possibility, so diligently  
had he toiled to ensure that chance would sprout into substance. His  
efforts had been rewarded and he had tended the tenuous germinations  
reverently, for what sacred fluids he had used to water the seedling  
dreams, how precious the vital energy employed to protect and nurture  
the slender shoots!

_How is my truth any less pure than others' might be? Why  
should my will not bend the fates, for is not Arda my domain, prepared  
for my kind, given unto us? I have as much right to decide destiny as  
any that have abandoned Middle-earth for the security of those  
protected shores. They sit back and watch, sighing for the marring of  
their grand design, but keeping clear of the work of eradicating the  
sickness and healing the scars. That is also truth!_

By the time this point in the internal dialog was reached, Thranduil  
was in the vestibule of the Three Doors. Without hesitation and  
undaunted by the spirits dwelling within the abyssal caverns, the King  
reached to his neck and drew forth from beneath his high collar an  
elegantly designed and intricately toothed key, composed of a rarely  
seen alloy of mithril and gold and worn upon a fine chain of the same  
composition. A whispery keening filled the gloom, as the shimmer of the  
tool, warm from its constant contact with the Sinda's flesh, met the  
cool dry atmosphere of the vaults. As he fitted the implement into the  
entryway of the lock securing his gated treasury, the reedy wail  
subsided with a hushing sigh of contented peace. Noiselessly the  
mechanism of springs and tumblers turned and the heavy iron-barred  
barrier swung inward of its own volition. The Woodland King entered  
into his vaults and sealed the way behind him.

"Calad enni togo, gwairth, adisto lîn cairdh ym!" (Bring light  
unto me, betrayers; recall your evil deeds!) Thranduil intoned this  
commanding spell and immediately four flames flickered into smoking  
life within small iron braziers ensconced upon the stone walls of the  
tomblike chamber. The King smiled; it always gave him pleasure to see  
this simple magic succeed and he moved deeper into the room.

The cave was tremendous, stretching back several meters beyond the  
reach of the torch-light and descending down even further, for there  
was a great break in the natural rock floor and into this he had set a  
curling ladder of metal steps spiralling deep into the impenetrable  
gloom. There were three levels in the vault and each successive void,  
while smaller than the one above, was just as meticulously appointed.  
Every space was neatly compartmented, sturdy oak shelves reaching from  
ground to ceiling arranged in ranks such as one might expect in a  
library, their contents as rigorously catalogued. Yet no works of  
knowledge or scrolls of lore were herein housed.

Instead, the open cupboards were packed with casks and coffers filled  
with precious objects. Stores of unworked gold and mithril ore were  
stowed at floor level, upon the uppermost planks jewels and uncut  
stones of great size and equal value were sorted by type and grade in  
hinged boxes lined in silk. Ancient weapons and armour reposed in  
clever racks at hand's reach, and open baskets filled with coin of  
silver and gold resided at head height. The wealth of Thranduil was  
legendary, yet few understood the true extent of the Sinda Lord's stash.

He browsed aimlessly among the bins and boxes, poking here and there as  
his thoughts wandered, twirling the elegant key at the end of the  
exquisite chain.

The riches were protected by the three unhoused feär bound to the  
treasury, forestalling entry to any lacking Thranduil's leave, yet  
neither could these cursed remnants of immortality depart the caves'  
environs. These ghosts' existence was a tale of folklore, too; a scary  
story told to elflings that none of the silvans doubted was factual.  
The little ones feared the ephemeral mists and hissing threats while  
their parents worried about who these beings were, what manner of hold  
was upon them, and who had entombed them there. Speculation on the last  
concern covered every option from Melkor himself to Thranduil, and  
those that held to the latter opinion were correct.

Wise in the lore of wandering souls was the son of Oropher,  
knowledgeable beyond the ken of his Sinda forebears and even surpassing  
that of many of the silvan subjects he ruled. Yet for Thranduil there  
was nothing supernatural or mysterious about the power he possessed; it  
was all a result of the Valar and their cowardly retreat from Arda so  
early in its making.

_Their lies and deceits! All they did was for their own glory;  
else they would not have deserted Eru's Children!_

He had accepted the responsibility they had shunned. With that onus, to  
his mind, came the right to make decisions of his choosing apart from  
the will of the Ainur. And he did not prevaricate motives nor pretend  
at compassion for the Lost Ones; all that he did was to avenge the  
House of Oropher and nothing more.

The Noldor, he refelcted, wondered how the Wood Elves' King could have  
for so long a span of time resisted the influence of the Dark One, even  
when Sauron's most devious minions took up residence in Greenwood. They  
would be quite surprised to have the truth. And greater would be their  
distrust of the forest folk, yet unjustly so. The 'magic of the Wood  
Elves' it was called, spoken in hushed and suspicious breaths, but  
Thranduil was no silvan and none that he knew were capable of all that  
he had done, for good or ill. Yet it was not any Sinda that had taught  
him the ways of this power; that news he had learned but recently,  
thanks to the humble carpenter with the ominous name.

His instruction had begun shortly following his mother's death at the  
hands of Orcs. In those days, Oropher's people still dwelled in  
Neldoreth and the lure of the Nauglamír had yet to corrupt  
Thingol. That event would herald his family's migration, just before  
the War of Wrath and the destruction of all those fair lands of green  
trees, but at that time his father was content. When Oropher's wife  
went missing, lost along with most of a large hunting party, none could  
explain it to her youngest child.

She was gone, her body horribly torn and decayed by the time his family  
had at last found it. Thranduil wanted to understand how, if she was  
immortal, this could be. Oropher tried to explain that she was with  
Namo in Mandos, across the Sundering Sea. That prompted another 'why'  
and the grieving father was beyond the limits of his strength to give  
answer. Thranduil's older brother told of rebirth and their mother's  
return to them, some day.

"Eru designed us thus."

"Then we are not immortal; it is a lie. Why would Iluvatar give us  
false knowledge?"

"Such things should not be questioned nor can they be explained."

"That will not suffice!"

How Thranduil had shouted and railed against their stupidity or worse,  
their withholding of vital information from him, judging him either  
unworthy or possessing insufficient intellect to comprehend it!

"I know those tales but have never met one of these re-born elves, have  
you?"

"Nay, gwanur dithen! It does not happen so quickly."

"Why not? What stops them from returning her now, this instant? Have  
not the Valar this power?"

"Daro, Thranduil! Sîdh, hen!" Oropher had pleaded; voice ragged  
and eyes wild. But his son could not stop and there was no peace to be  
had.

How could they not give her back to him? To have called forth all of  
Arda from emptiness and darkness bespoke such gifts. If his Naneth's  
soul was still viable, then let the Ainur reconstruct her body anew.  
Surely this was not so hard a task for those that put on form at will  
as easily as he changed a tunic?

No doubt could there be that immortal existence was comprised of hroa  
and feä; yet few openly questioned the reason for this duality.  
Thranduil had demanded an explanation. Why would the Valar name them  
undying whilst Eru caused this division of substance? To him it was  
quite clear; the Powers had deliberately deceived the Children of the  
Stars, for in this form had the elves awakened and no other. Only if  
the body was subject to death was the separation of the spirit a  
necessity to allow for reincarnation.

"It was not meant so! The Making was marred and this was not the One's  
desire but that of Melkor," spoke the middle son of Oropher.

"Melkor came from Eru; his motives were not hidden. Eru allowed us to  
be rendered breakable. We are not treated like the children of  
Iluvatar, for what father would suffer his offspring to endure such  
horrible fates, knowing he could alter it!"

Oropher had been disturbed by his youngest son's harsh reasoning, but  
no argument could he make against it, for he was too well acquainted  
with the ruination caused by cruel weapons and the vile alterations  
wrought in Melkor's torture chambers.  Thranduil's words had been  
too near his own thought to refute.

Why must these sundered souls, the child had continued, be punished,  
kept from their loved ones and families? For what purpose did Namo hold  
them locked away, imprisoned, when death was hardly the end they had  
sought? Murder was rightly an affront to the Valar but should  
retribution be demanded of the victims?

But Oropher was a warrior not a mystic and had no answer to satisfy his  
son. He had directed the query to his advisors and none had been  
comfortable with revealing such things to an elfling. Many among the  
Teleri held similar concerns. Aman was far away and foreign; from this  
distance, its Lords did indeed look cruel and cold, and the moriquendi  
trusted Namo least of all. Great was the number of feär roaming  
the open fields and dark forests, released by the horrendous acts of  
evil beings upon their flesh or driven by grief of spirit to reject the  
communion of their dual halves, ignoring the summons to be judged.

Yet one among the elders declared the child a prodigy and marked for  
service to just those same unhoused feär. He urged the Sinda Lord  
to send his son as apprentice to a spirit hunter, and this Oropher had  
done. Thus in his thirtieth year Thranduil had been sent to dwell with  
his grandmother's folk in the realm of Region, far from the trees of  
Neldoreth.

From her he learned of the unquenchable endurance of these spirits, the  
raw energy of their unending existence. Thranduil was shown how to  
recognise their presence and soon discovered on his own how to  
distinguish one from another and determine what had caused each to lose  
its carnal half. Before too many years it came to be that he could hear  
them, too, and always were they crying and whispering to him after  
that. Unceasingly they implored and begged, pleaded and cajoled, and  
sometimes threatened.

What they wanted was a place to dwell. The Wandering Souls were not  
happy in their noncorporeal state, longing for substance to reanimate  
that they might carry on with their designs. Some desired for vengeance  
upon those that had destroyed them. Others yearned for a means to  
rejoin loved ones, most of whom feared this ethereal displacement and  
fled in dread if such presence was discerned. Many feär were  
simply weary and wanted nothing more than an end to the torment. For it  
was a torture unaccounted to hear, observe, know and feel all as they  
had before yet be doomed never again to be looked upon in love,  
listened to, touched or recognised by any that had held them once so  
dear. The pain of it was unbearable.

Thranduil had thought he would succumb to madness under this constant  
barrage of demands and pleas. At that time his mentor deemed him ready  
to learn the ways of casting. She taught him the proper spells and  
incantations, where best to deposit such tormented beings, how to  
establish the proper limits of confinement, the means to make the  
binding permanent if so the soul desired, requirements for breaking the  
entombment and who should have the right to do so.

The structure of the world took on new dimensions.

Thus Thranduil understood the nature of Ents and their strangely  
sentient herds. The restless qualities of flowing water became  
explicable, as did the voices of winds and the strong kinship felt  
between the Laiquendi and their wealds. Suddenly, the Girdle of Melian  
was open to his comprehension, and it was not a thing abhorrent to him,  
that wall of linked and merged spirits strung throughout the trees,  
jumbled into an impenetrable force of protection for all the Lost Ones'  
beloved kin within the shelter of Doriath.

And in learning this, Thranduil figured out, without his mentor's aid  
or knowledge, how to bind feär to himself.  In his innocence,  
he did not comprehend that this was what the Valar feared and the  
reason for Namo's keeping.  By such bonds had Melkor joined living  
souls to the perverted flesh of Orcs.

The young one understood the potential power at his command. Melian had  
chosen only those feär strongly connected to the welfare of  
family, ones that wished to prevent their fate from befalling any other  
elf. Thranduil, however, sought out the souls of the vengeful, angry  
ones and tested his newly acquired skills. But he was elfkind, not  
Ainu. Controlling them, he soon discovered, was more difficult than it  
had at first appeared.

One needed their acceptance, and to get it had to offer them something  
in exchange or be able to wield a threat of doom over them. As soon as  
the spirits learned he could do neither, was merely a child, their  
wrath was terrible and he had no peaceful rest. Having a legion of  
infuriated souls bound to him, haunting him night and day, was most  
unpleasant and in desperation he had dispersed his invisible army into  
the willing flow of the River Aros.

After that, his progress halted, for his mentor perceived by his  
questions what he hoped to achieve and attempted to turn his heart away  
from such darkness, as she called it. Thranduil grew impatient and left  
her, for he had no wish to become a spirit hunter in service, but  
instead to be the most dreaded warrior to rise up against Melkor's evil  
legacy since Fingolfin. It amazed him that none had sought to utilise  
their fallen brethren this way before and he swore that, with or  
without aid, he would discover what he needed to achieve his goal.

He returned to his father's lands and took up the life of a warrior,  
for by then he was nearly of age. As the years passed it seemed his  
blood had cooled and he had discarded his youthful desire for  
retaliation upon those who had taken his mother's life, and those who  
had refused to return it. But Thranduil never forgot what he had  
learned nor tired of thinking on how to control the forces he could  
ensnare, seeking always a means to bend them to his will. He derided  
the holy might of the Valar, hiding in fear of one of their own, and  
mocked the glory of the Maiar, scurrying at the beck and call of the  
Powers. In the Ages to come, he alone among the elves scoffed at Rings  
of Power, knowing whence such puissance derived.

Soon enough, the fall of Beleriand was forewarned to Oropher, and he  
assembled as many of his kinfolk as he could influence and set out from  
their homeland forever. It was on that fateful trip and the skirmish  
among the Wood Elves that Thranduil at last had the answer revealed to  
him. He could bind any silvan soul to him and force it to yield to his  
will under two conditions: the Lost One must owe a blood debt and be  
either desirous of remedying it or terrified to face Namo. Among the  
Wood Elves, if the foremost condition applied, usually both of the  
latter were also in effect. The first feä he snared in Greenwood  
belonged to the elf that had felled his cousin.

Still, he had not solved the problem of how he might direct this power  
beyond establishing a protected realm for his people after the manner  
of Melian, and so this he had broached to Oropher. To his  
disappointment, the elder Lord had rejected the idea completely, saying  
the ways of Thingol had lead to the downfall of the Sindar and only the  
silvan folk had existed undisturbed for all the Ages and endured the  
Wars of Beleriand. Oropher was happy to abandon the ideas of wealth and  
power as defined in those times. Besides, he did not believe the might  
of the Maiar was founded in the essence of unhoused feär and  
cautioned Thranduil that such things were far above the skill of the  
First-born to master.

Thranduil was adamant and sought to prove his words, revealing the  
spirit he had tamed to his will. He made the bound ghost move objects  
and write on glass, toppling goblets of wine and groaning to divulge  
its presence. To his surprise and mortification, his brothers had  
scoffed at these 'parlour jokes' and 'jester's tricks' while his father  
had grown pale and demanded the enslaved soul be released at once. His  
youngest son had agreed, and that had been the first and only lie  
Thranduil ever spoke to his father, for he had kept the spirit all  
these many centuries since then.

In practice he returned to duty, training with his warriors and  
complaining against the silvan ways of hiding in the forest. Yet the  
Wood Elves would not reprimand him for Thranduil's soldiers were fierce  
fighters and ventured far among the trees, pursuing Sauron's foes where  
they hid and routing them from the Greenwood. Beyond this, he and his  
troops were gone from the wilderlands for long years and none knew what  
paths they travelled. When they returned it was always in high spirits  
and rich attire, seated on finer steeds than had borne them away,  
bedecked with armour and jewels and laden with wealth. The simple  
forest folk had never seen such noble warriors and called them princes  
and lords, naming Oropher their king because of it.

Oropher approved none of this. Everytime his son arrived home angry  
words flew between them. He had no wish to be a King upon Arda. He  
heard the gossip trickling in through Dale and Erebor that claimed  
Thranduil sought adventures but only if he could profit by them. The  
might of the Sinda army was for hire, a disreputable career in his  
mind, for there should be no price demanded to free those in evil's  
thrall.

Thranduil saw no dishonour in his actions, for he had rid many  
oppressed lands from the dread of trolls, goblins, Orc hordes, and evil  
Men. If the peoples of those regions wished to share with him the  
stolen wealth the tyrants had amassed, why was this unseemly? How else  
was he to pay his way and reward his warriors for such risks? How could  
he otherwise afford the price charged by the dwarves for their service  
in rendering metals into weapons? And, though he did not speak of this,  
how else could he buy the silence of the Naugrim when he cast souls  
into the molten metal of blades and shields as protection against all  
manner of Darkness?

The disagreements between them were unbearable to Thranduil, who had  
only hoped to prove to his father the benefit he could provide, while  
Oropher feared his son's successes were due to an unseen force at his  
beck and call. In this he was far from truth, for Thranduil had no  
desire to corrupt living bodies for his captured spirits to possess.  
But the distraught father could not see this. In his inner heart, he  
thought Thranduil was becoming tainted with the poison of power-lust, a  
vile disease for which he knew not the cure. In his despair for the  
darkening of his youngest's feä he turned even more to the ways of  
the silvan folk and rejected the wealth Thranduil sought to bestow upon  
him.

Well it all came to a bitter end, for Oropher answered the call to arms  
when Sauron boldly flaunted his power at the close of the Second Age.  
Yet the Sinda Lord and his oldest sons refused to take up the armour or  
the swords Thranduil had made for them, imbued with the protection of  
living essence such that no arrow could penetrate nor any steel dent  
it. They were suspicious of his sudden gifts, as though he would bring  
them harm, and his heart was sore for this. In desperation Thranduil  
had counselled against Oropher's frontal assault, to be silenced by the  
scathing reprimands of his brothers naming him disloyal and a coward.  
Thranduil would have struck them down but for the hurt this would have  
caused his sire.

As they charged forth from among the gathered host of elves and Men,  
Thranduil called on many souls to guard his father and the Wood Elves.  
Thus he learned that his hold over them was less than a strand of silk  
before a storm's gale, and the might of Sauron could not be held back  
that way. What could houseless feär do in the face of such  
concentrated evil? Nothing. In horror he had beheld the demise of his  
brothers and father while he and his troops remained untouched, for  
their armour was enchanted and withstood the attack.

It had availed him naught, the knowledge he possessed. His mentor had  
been right those long centuries past. The gift was not designed to  
yield might and power but only to grant peace and comfort. He had not  
avenged his mother and he had lost Oropher and his brothers also.

He had failed.

He understood now why the Wood Elves' ways repulsed him; all of their  
religion and customs and laws centred on the sanctity of these  
individual souls and the need to protect and aid them either to find  
the way to Mandos in dignity and honour or become immersed within  
Tawar. He had accorded them only his scorn, contempt, and condemnation.  
That day he had added hatred and rage.  
   
In his sorrow and grief and guilt for the loss of his father, indeed  
his entire family, Thranduil had cursed the dead that had not aided his  
father along with the warriors that had lost their lives at Oropher's  
side. Every one of them he had named betrayers, commanding their return  
to Greenwood, sinking most into the Forest River to do in death what  
they had failed to do in life. Others he sent into the trees, to shield  
the Greenwood's pathways from discovery by outsiders.

And three he cast into the gates and locks of his stronghold's vaults,  
setting upon them a binding spell that could only be removed by those  
bearing the heritage of Oropher in their blood.

Thus began the reign of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm.

He scowled, slipping the chain with the key back around his neck,  
disregarding the distant, miserable railing of the spirits as he moved  
through the chamber and started down the steps, calling for light as  
descended.  He could not undo his wrongs but he would accept the  
responsibility for them. He must focus on Taurant and the future of his  
Realm.  Thranduil's fingers glided over the smooth cold iron of  
the handrail, poured from the same metal that had generated the  
enchanted doors.

He had designed the form of the gates while a dwarf craftsman had  
devised the clever lock and key. Had any Sindarin elf seen the eerie  
incandescent glow of iron boiling in smelting vats?  Had any  
observed as the ores were blended and purified, endured the scorching  
heat that singed hair and the noxious smells that affronted lungs?  
Certainly no silvan had. Thranduil had done so with careful and eager  
scrutiny.

His plans had been so certain then, the future clearer than gravel  
viewed through crystalline water in a shallow stream. Thranduil would  
restore the esteem of his father's House. This would take time. An  
Elven King required hidden halls, noble courts, valiant armies, and  
heirs.  To supply the first, a host of dwarven miners he had hired  
to delve a mountain fortress and fashion the metal for its portals,  
offering in payment whatever precious gems or veins of ore might be  
uncovered. The second was ready to hand, established by Oropher and  
Iarwain.  His Sindar warriors would rebuild their forces, and for  
heirs he had chosen Ningloriel.

He had believed for long centuries after their marriage that she was  
the instrument chosen by the Valar to punish his blasphemy, heresy, and  
wilful pride.

_Indeed, until this evening I thought myself the persecuted  
one.  But Namo and Vairë are far more subtle and devious than  
I credited them to be.  They mean to torment my children and have  
me observe their suffering, helpless to aid them. Once more, the Powers  
choose to exact restitution from the innocent._  

And Thranduil's sins were dreadful and many, but the last surpassed  
them all.

When the metal-smith had poured out the thick orange lava of the molten  
metal into the moulds, Thranduil had dodged the showers of sparks and  
hissed under a stinging spatter of misty fire.  Before the liquid  
could freeze he spoke one last time a spell of casting, imprisoning the  
three remaining souls captured at Dagorlad. With that he had sealed  
away the tragedy of his past to safeguard his offspring's future, or so  
he had thought.

That final sorcery had cost him a full third of his amassed fortune as  
payment for the wily dwarf's silence. This was Grôl, who would  
later emigrate with Thráin I to Erebor. He had come at the  
summons of the Sinda Lord, bringing his best stone cutters,  
jewel-smiths, and metal-rights out of the Blue Mountains with  
him.  Much had been promised them of the riches in Orod Im'elaidh  
but in fact little of value had been discovered, barely enough to cover  
the dwarves' expenses.  Now Grôl would be paid ere his  
people departed.

Thranduil relented rather than have his deed told beyond his borders,  
for Grôl had seen the malice in the King's heart when this act  
was done, and held it like a dagger to his throat.

Three souls he had bound to the gates. One belonged to the silvan that  
had slain his cousin all those long years ago; it passed into the  
substance of the iron bars.  The other two were his brothers in  
life and the fate he had reserved for them was the harshest, for they  
had counselled his father to ride to his death and cautioned him to  
reject the armour that would have spared him. One half of each feä  
he had sealed into the machinery of the locks, and the remainder was  
frozen within the key about his neck.


	65. Galadhrim ar Brannon Ûbrand

### **Galadhrim ar Brannon Ûbrand (The Galadhrim and the Ignoble Lord)**

It was less an apartment than a studio. _And a gallery! _Orophin could not be still and was inspecting the huge room minutely, smiling his elusive smile that was more a suggestion of that expression bound within his dark green eyes than any arrangement of facial muscles. The Galadhrim had not journeyed from their home to visit Erestor in Imladris in over three centuries and not once had they been within these chambers. Previously, the seneschal had inhabited a stately wing on the east corner of the dwelling's third story. Though Erestor had remarked on his request for new quarters at the time the change was made, Orophin had not quite imagined this drastic a shift from opulence to spartan utility. _And disordered mess!_ The Lorien warrior was fascinated in spite of the dire situation.

Orophin moved slowly from one painting to the next, seeing more than the brushstrokes and the subtle colours, beyond the composition and play of light and shadow within the canvas. Each one of the works was a glimpse inside the artist's thoughts and feelings, captured over the course of the creation of the picture. More than a fair portion of the seneschal's works was of the Lorien couple. Orophin felt as if he was meeting Erestor for the first time, all over again, and it just made his heart swell in joy before cramping in worry the next instant.

The paintings and drawings covered every available vertical surface from floor to ceiling, stood propped against supports upon the few tables, the mantle, and some even obscured books in the elegant mahogany shelving flanking either side of the ample fireplace. Any horizontal plane, including the floor, was layered with sketchbooks, pallets stained in overlapping smears of dried colours, wooden slats for making frames, cleaning rags, and rolls of sturdy fabric waiting to be stretched smooth and prepared to receive the visual imprint of the seneschal's soul. 

Beyond this creative clutter, the rooms were lovely in arrangement yet sparse in furnishings. The walls facing out to the valley were open. A colonnade of slender pillars, each one decorated with a scrolling wave design, allowed the lawns to march right up to the room. Indeed, a doe and two rabbits were having breakfast just beyond these columns, nibbling at the dew-covered grass and clover. No draperies obscured the view or filtered the sunlight and two large easels were situated to take advantage of the natural illumination.

Other than these utilitarian objects, a small grouping of comfortable chairs clustered close to the hearth, a low square table between them. There was an over-sized worktable, a sideboard that held a selection of wine and assorted glassware, and an odd chair or three buried under piles of papers and books. The voluminous disarray was the principle sign that the rooms were someone's living quarters. Two doorways led off this main compartment, presumably to a bedroom and a bathing chamber.

Orophin peeked inside these briefly, pleased to find them neat and tidy, but was drawn back to the easels. Each held a work in progress and it was immediately obvious from the height of the canvases that Erestor remained on his feet while he worked. One painting presented a seascape that brought to mind no place the worthy warden had ever imagined. The ocean depicted was writhing in storm and the entire picture was dark and angry.

Orophin shivered.

He moved to examine the other painting, a watercolour portrait of an elf child and its mother. The work was a delightful rendition of maternal devotion and pride. With a start he realised he knew the pair, for this was the wife of one of his warriors and their small daughter.

"'Beth, come and see!" he called softly and turned to her.

Dambethnîn looked over and smiled from where she was standing, rummaging amid the desk's jumble of assorted brushes, jars of pigments, a mortar and pestle, cleaning solvents and a multitude of small, stained, ceramic bowls in which the paints were mixed with various media for use. She joined her mate and murmured an appreciative sigh as Orophin enfolded her in a protective embrace. She hid away the filmy overlay of longing that glazed her amber eyes as she peered into the painted, laughing ones of the elfling, grateful for her husband's comforting squeeze around her waist. They had not been blessed with offspring though for centuries they had tried. Together they exhaled their sorrow and turned to Glorfindel.

"Thank you for bringing us here," said Dambethnîn.

"Aye, we feel better all ready," added her mate.

Glorfindel smiled and nodded, joining them to admire the painting. "Erestor is quite gifted. He did a painting for me of my parents and our home in Gondolin. I cherish it."

They both smiled at that and allowed their host to lead them over to the fireplace, newly lit and blazing cheerfully. They all sat down and in near unison drew deep breaths to prepare for the discussion, the Galadhrim needing to shore up wobbly courage while Glorfindel sought to free his mind of anger and find a way to reveal enough without breaking his promise.

The Vanyarin warrior had done just as his Lord commanded, taken their guests to suitable accommodations. _What could be more appropriate than their bond-mate's apartments within the Last Homely House?_ He almost smirked save for the serious nature of the circumstances and the evident distress of the Lorien couple as they tried to make themselves easy in the rooms. Glorfindel was certain this was not what Elrond had meant.

"As I said, I will answer whatever questions I can, but I must tell you plainly that I have been constrained under my oath to Manwë and the House of the Mariner not to disclose anything of a personal nature told to me by Lord Elrond," he said.

"I see," said Orophin, though clearly he did not.

"Whatever you can explain will be more than we understand now, and we will be satisfied," added Dambethnîn graciously. "Please, Lord Glorfindel, is Erestor safe among the Wood Elves?"

"It is my hope that he will not come to harm there. He has made contact with Legolas and it is my understanding the two areclose," Glorfindel knew the seneschal's arrangement, but was nonetheless uncomfortable being the bearer of such tidings. He watched as the pair exchanged similar, brilliant devilish flashes of white teeth.

"That is a great relief!"

"We feared he was in the dungeons!"

Glorfindel could not help grinning a bit or overcome the sudden surge of envy that commandeered his heart for a moment.

"Nay, after much discussion and re-reading the official document, we have all decided, that is Galdor, Lindir and myself, that Thranduil has not the wish to punish Erestor so much as to humiliate Elrond.

"I do not wish to mislead you, however; Erestor stayed behind in one of the woodsmen's villages when Elrond left. He was with Radagast but the outcast prince had fled into the trees under great duress. It is my belief that Erestor would try and go after him."

"So he could be lost amid the wild darkness of that shadowed realm?" Dambethnîn trembled with her frustration and fear. "As soon as I am convinced he will not be imprisoned I must confront the threat of losing him to Mirkwood's curse!"

"Let us not hasten to that assumption, beloved," pleaded Orophin. "What prompted the Wood Elf's flight? Please do not withhold anything even if it may seem uncharitable toward our mate. We know Erestor well and while he is not perfect neither is he cruel. Whatever happened he would not have stayed behind under such impossible conditions unless he felt some responsibility and hoped to correct the misdeed, whether real or imagined."

Before Glorfindel could reply a brief rap came upon the door and Dambethnîn disengaged from her husband to answer it. She held open the door and invited Elladan and Elrohir inside.

"We are sorry for the intrusion, but feel the situation may be better understood if we all share what we have learned," said Elrohir, his voice coated with a bitter sadness that made the Lorien pair flinch and the Balrog slayer scowl.

"Aye, please join us," said Orophin and the twins looked around a moment before spying a couple of straight chairs abutting the wall, each supporting a completed canvas. They set those carefully aside and hefted the chairs up, plunking them down before the grate, and seated themselves. Elrohir straddled the chair with his arms across the back while Elladan took a more traditional posture. 

"Please go on, Glorfindel. Do you understand what prompted the decision to go to Mirkwood?" Orophin asked.

"I do, yet I am forced to remain silent on the truth. The official response is that Elrond hoped to enlist Legolas as an informant regarding Thranduil's many possessions. He has long believed the Elven King harbours Isildur's Bane within his vaults, though the Sinda Lord is probably ignorant of possessing the malignant talisman."

Orophin inhaled a startled lungful. "I admit the idea has crossed my mind, but it is one I have feared to explore fully. I am not surprised Elrond would want to do so."

"You present a noble reason to employ subterfuge, therefore I must assume the truth is ignoble," spoke Dambethnîn sagely.

"My opinion on the matter is in concurrence with yours," continued Glorfindel with a cautious glance at Elrond's sons. They were frowning and silent and he suspected they were communicating internally. He realised that, for them to come seeking his counsel, their father had not been honest and this made his ire toward Elrond rise anew. Before he could express it the brothers reached accord and Elladan spoke.

"It is time to share what we surmise, then. Glorfindel, does your oath prevent you from confirming or denying our suppositions?"

"Nay, I am bound only to withhold revelation of personal information I have received either from Elrond's mouth or by witnessing thebehaviour."

"Very well," Elrohir sighed. "We have been told a most extraordinary tale. Adar said that Erestor is smitten with the fallen prince and remained in Mirkwood to be with him. He also said Legolas has entrapped Erestor into betraying our realm."

"That is a lie," Glorfindel was saddened and dismayed, his response low, laced with disappointment.

"He cannot believe that!" said Dambethnîn.

"I was inclined to find fault with the Woodland King, yet mayhap he has not over reacted after all. Elrond's disavowal of a kinsman is unheard of in our times. His indictment of my beloved is a personal affront," Orophin was obviously struggling to keep his remarks civil, understanding where the twins' loyalties must remain.

"We agree in all that you say and fear we already understand the truth," groaned Elladan. "It is Adar who is guilty of dishonourable conduct."

"Not toward Imladris directly but encompassing his family and Erestor," added Elrohir, "and Ningloriel's child. Is this close to the reality?"

"It is," said Glorfindel. "The Galadhrim asked me why Erestor remained in Mirkwood and it was due to an unintentional betrayal of his own. This I can explain without violating my vow, for it involves only our seneschal and the unfortunate silvan warrior. Erestor unwittingly unveiled a most disturbing secret to Legolas regarding his first love. It seems the elf in question was also Ningloriel's lover, and may be the outcast's own father."

Elrohir and Elladan gasped in shock, for some of this they had heard but under a different guise and with significant facts undisclosed.

"Adar told us Legolas left them, not that he was driven by such horrendous news. He intimated that the Wood Elf acted as a lure to draw Erestor into the stronghold, and that this is how Thranduil came to learn of the plot." Elladan's voice was cold and empty. Glorfindel just shook his head.

"It was his denouncement of Erestor that initiated our suspicion regarding Ada's story, yet never would I have conjured up such an abominable truth." Elrohir's words were choked with sorrow for the fate of the outcast. _Elbereth! What kind of life has Legolas had?_

"Aye, we could not believe Erestor capable of dissolving his bond," Elladan met Orophin's eyes. _A most unwholesome one to be sure, and alien to us._

"I understand now why our Penraun is in Mirkwood. He unleashed this woe upon the former prince and hopes to help him survive the blow," Orophin whispered and Dambethnîn nodded. They were enmeshed within each other's arms and clung tightly together.

"We must go to Erestor, for he will think he is unworthy of our love lest we grant forgiveness. I will not have him maligned by his Lord from afar while suffering under severe self-recriminations, wondering what we will do," hissed Dambethnîn.

"Aye, we will go as quickly as we may," agreed her mate.

For several minutes the four elves ruminated in silence on the sad events engulfing them, filled with pity for Legolas and admiration for Erestor that grew in proportion to their mounting anger over Elrond's half-lies. Elladan and Elrohir now felt they needed to understand it all and were fast becoming gloomy and morose.

"There is more," Elladan spoke. "Though you have stated you cannot admit it, at least say 'yea or nay' to our summation." His face, a resolute contrivance of emotionless distance, projected the request to the re-born warrior, who inclined his head in assent.

"Ada said such vile things about Legolas. He is filled with rage and hatred, but more so with feelings he fears to admit," Elrohir's words ended with a choked swallow and Elladan rested a hand atop his brother's head, calmly stroking the ebony locks.

"He spoke of taking Legolas as his lover, and that Erestor has done so as well," the older twin took up the tale. "We have come to the conclusion that it is Adar who is obsessed with the outcast. What say you to that, Glorfindel?"

"I say that I am deeply saddened for you to have come to such realisation in this way. It was my hope that Elrond would unburden his soul openly to his sons." The proud warrior came close to tears to behold the undisguised anguish in the twins' eyes. To suspect was one thing but to have their fears confirmed was clearly a terrible shock. With it came complete comprehension of their father's downfall, and Glorfindel hated being the one to have inflicted the injury.

"I never thought I would see my father revealed a coward!" Elrohir let his fury burst out. "He should have told us, why did he not?"

"He fears to lose your love," answered Dambethnîn compassionately. "He was not intending for you to find out, much less to discover his secret this way."

"It matters not," Elrohir shook his head and got up, pacing the room, so much like Elrond in manner that Glorfindel's stomach wrenched. "All of it was a lie. He went there for Legolas, by his own words he admits this! He hoped only to possess the banished elf, withheld his true identity so Legolas would not realise who was seducing him." He could not seem to stop the words from streaming out of him_. _"They vied for him!" The loathing in his tone was mirrored in his twin's countenance.

__

I think I hate Ada just now!

Aye, but we love him also.

Elladan rose and joined Elrohir, halting his restless wandering. They found themselves before a small painting of their family, completed when they were little more than a century beyond majority and their mother was still with them. Celebrian and Arwen, then an elfling of but twenty-five, were seated on a divan, Elrond and the twins standing behind it. The Elf Lord had one hand resting on each son's shoulder, a proudly possessive touch.

__

Adar loves us, Elrohir.

The picture showed the trio to be of similar stature, equal in strength of body and mind, but the seneschal had somehow managed to put all the wisdom of the Ages lived into Elrond's grey eyes. There was no doubting who was Lord of Imladris. Yet Erestor had also captured that particular element of Melian's grace that filled the twins' and set them apart. It amazed Elladan to see this, for he was unable to detect it when he looked upon his reflection either in a glass or his brother's face.

__

Aye, but who is it, loving us? I thought I knew the soul within those eyes. This elf we speak of, this is not Ada, cannot be Ada.

"But they had to perceive that Legolas would suspect Elrond was his father!" gasped Orophin, for they understood the gossip surrounding the affair thoroughly. "Ningloriel complained to Galadriel bitterly concerning the King's accusations."

"Valar! He must see what was done to him now," spoke Dambethnîn. "No wonder Erestor feels so guilty! Ai! I am disappointed in Penraun."

"There is much to forgive if he willingly went along with such a deception," concurred her mate sadly. "The three of us long ago decided Elrond sired Legolas." This remark he directed to Glorfindel, who acknowledged it with a nod.

"We need to find Adar," spoke the older twin, hand firmly gripping the younger's shoulder to preclude his retreat from the room. _You are right; this is not Ada we encounter now, but Elrond of Imladris. Nonetheless, we have already pledged our support._

"That was before we knew this treachery!" Elrohir snapped his answer aloud, and that more than any other indication demonstrated the depth of his distress. _I cannot bear to look at his lying eyes quite yet. _The brothers left through the open archways, striding swiftly across the sward.

__

Then you shall not. Elladan guided him toward the more rugged paths leading into the cliffs and under the falls.

"Will they be alright?" queried Orophin, watching them depart.

"I hope so. They are a great strength to one another, and have survived heart wounds before," answered the Balrog Slayer.

A strident staccato of knuckles on wood resounded through the room and this time Glorfindel answered, suspecting whom it might be.

"Here you are! I have had a difficult time figuring out where you had taken our guests, for you neglected to inform the steward." The Lord of Imladris stood on the threshold trying to project a sort of detached displeasure toward his Master-at-Arms but instead radiated wary uneasiness.

"Forgive me, Lord; I saw no need to disturb Nelhlûn (Bluebell)," Glorfindel returned to his chair, responding with the formal manner he had been compelled to adopt since being placed under the strain of his oath.

Elrond spared him a tight smile and a suggestion of a nod as he moved fully into the room gazing around aimlessly. His brows arched in mild surprise; he had not visited his seneschal's suite in many years, preferring to summon his comrade when needed, and had been unaware of the prolific talent now observed. Elrond's eyes came to rest upon Dambethnîn as his feet halted just outside the comfortable circle of the hearth and its furnishings.

"If these quarters are too painful for you, I will see that you are assigned whatever apartments please you," Elrond turned his sympathetic gaze upon Orophin, clasping his hands before him as he bowed his head sombrely.

"Nay, we are grateful to Glorfindel. This affords a closer connection to Erestor while we are parted," replied Dambethnîn with polite patience as Orophin struggled to hold his tongue and guard his features.

"I can see by your expressions that you have learned something of Erestor's activities," said Elrond nervously, trying to gauge the atmosphere in the room, which was certainly tense.

"We have," Orophin's terse response earned him a quick squeeze of his hand from Dambethnîn and close scrutiny from Rivendell's Lord.

"You have my deepest sympathies," Elrond intoned regally. "Had I imagined for one moment that Erestor would fall under the outcast's spell, never would I have demanded his accompaniment in the enterprise."

"Your sympathy is misplaced," sneered Orophin.

" Spell? Of what do you speak?" queried Dambethnîn brittley.

"Ah! I assumed Glorfindel had informed you. Forgive me for being the herald of such heartache! My seneschal has elected to remain in Mirkwood with the outcast."

"Yes, we know of this," Orophin's words were pitched dangerously low.

"Yet no mention of sorcery has been put forth. Are you telling us Erestor is not in control of his actions?" pressed Dambethnîn.

Elrond shot a swift look to Glorfindel but his glance was met with cool indifference as the Balrog Slayer declined to be included in any of his Lord's plots. The re-born Elda sat back and watched his old friend making an utter fool of himself and did absolutely nothing to deter it.

"I must assume some evil magic to be at work, for I cannot believe Erestor would choose to sunder his bond with you willingly," Elrond hesitantly ventured to say, eyes fixed on his Master-at-Arms.

"There is indeed evil at large for the Keeper of Vilya to vilify his kinsman's character," Orophin's words slithered through the air, a long curling tongue of fire burning away the false pleasantries, uncovering the rotten core of the Elf Lord's intent.

"That is not a thing to be spoken, even within these protected walls!" admonished Elrond sternly and bent his gaze upon the warden, for he was shocked at the implications of this statement. Glorfindel's first response had likewise been to encumber Vilya with blame. 

"You dare slander my beloved?" Dambethnîn was beyond reasoning. "You, you Noldo! How dare you speak of Erestor's faults after what you have done? You do not deserve so fine a friend as Erestor, Elrond Half-Elven!"

"I will not be spoken to thus in my own home!" Elrond looked down upon her with imperious disdain. "You were charged to act as official escort, nothing more, and I owe no apologies to you!"

At that Dambethnîn jumped up and advanced upon her host rapidly until she was standing before him toe-to-toe, the fiery temper behind her nickname displayed in her gleam of outrage. The pair glared in silent challenge.

Behind her Orophin and Glorfindel rose also, but remained where they were for fear of making the situation worse.

"Perhaps that is so, and therefore no explanations will I demand," each sound fell from the Lorien inu's lips, icicles splintering on frozen stone. "Still, I do not retract what I have said. Whatever Erestor's part in this fiasco, yours is one hundred fold worse. Our bond-mate seeks to rectify his errors and thus he need not even ask for our pardon; it is already granted. To whom shall you go to seek forgiveness, Elrond?"

That these words made their mark upon his soul more surely and effectively than any blow could wound the body was evident in the Elf Lord's ghastly expression of incredulous astonishment. He stepped back a pace from the warden and broke his gaze from hers, seeking Glorfindel with open rancour.

"You have violated your oath!" his lips spoke this indictment but the shake of his head denied the words as though his heart already knew some other means had let events escape from his control.

"He has done nothing of the sort!" replied Orophin, incensed to hear the incrimination, before Glorfindel could answer.

"So is it a new habit for you, betraying old and trusted friends?" Dambethnîn ridiculed the High King's Herald. "You hid your sick designs from Galadriel as well. I am under no oath of loyalty to you nor shall I be willing to stay silent to protect you. I will be specific in my report to her upon my return."

"You insolent silvan! How dare you threaten me?" Elrond's voice was raised and his long index finger rose to hover near the warrior's nose. "Who are you to denounce my behaviour, keeping two lovers like some common human harlot!"

At this Dambethnîn's eyes grew wide and she inhaled sharply even as her hand lifted with lightening speed and landed a resounding slap across the Loremaster's cheek. She waited until he turned back from the force of the blow to face her and spat upon him.

Elrond retreated another step, a low growl issuing from his throat as he wiped away the spray of saliva.

"Daro!" shouted Orophin, at his mate's side in a second, an arm winding round her waist, the other hand outstretched before him as though deflecting the Elf Lord's menace. "Far, 'Beth! Do not allow his foul thoughts to infect you." He led her away until they stood before the painting of the seascape. He spoke again, addressing Elrond. "We will do our duty as we define it. That this must include narration of your disgraceful comportment is not the fault of Dambethnîn.

"Yet now you have put yourself within my hands, for your words have insulted the character of my beloved and exhibited your bigotry regarding my people, something you hid rather well previously. A debt you do owe to me and to Erestor for the wrong against our mate," so saying he paused, turning to pass his contemptuous inspection over the Lord he formerly revered as one among the wise.

The Lord of Imladris stared back; his mind swirling with the conflicting senses of affronted superiority and horrified remorse. Had he truly just spoken those words? Where was his dignity gone so suddenly? _Ulmo's balls, I am not going to beg forgiveness of this common tree-dweller! _He shook his head, hoping to clear it, and centuries of diplomatic training came to the fore. He stood straight and bowed formally, right hand pressed over his heart.

"You speak justly, Orophin of Lorien." Elrond said coolly and his eyes found Dambethnîn's. "Forgive my unspeakably coarse remarks, lady. I am not Namo and such matters must be left to his determination."

Dambethnîn's vision narrowed and only Orophin's hold kept her from repeating the earlier assault. This was nothing more than restating the slur while refusing to accept responsibility for making it.

"I will pardon your low words, Lord Elrond, but since you have not asked it of me, I withhold absolution for the insult, given now twice in as many moments."

"Get out," Orophin said bluntly. "Your debt to me remains." With that he led Dambethnîn away through the door to the bedroom, shutting it firmly behind him.

Elrond snorted in contempt and turned, striding over to his friend and councillor. "You have broken faith with me and with Manwë! Do you deny it?" he demanded vehemently and regretted it the next second.

For Glorfindel snatched him by the arms, shoving him toward the entrance roughly, his grip bruising and his glowering rage unchecked. He propelled Elrond through the open door with enough force to send the Elf Lord careening into the wall of the corridor.

"I am not the one betraying trusts this day!" seethed the Vanya noble. "Elladan and Elrohir have been here before you. All that you sought to conceal has been exposed. No patience will you find for further deceptions, not from me, nor from the Galadhrim, and most especially not from the twins!"

"My sons?" Elrond's eyes bulged in horror. "What do you mean? What do they know?"

"Everything. Why do you persist in this manner? I told you clearly how it must be, yet you insist on nursing your injured pride. I warned that I would not support you on such a path. Have you no regard for the harm your selfishness is inflicting on others?"

Elrond did not reply, allowing Glorfindel to take hold of his arm and lead him down the hall in the direction of his study. They proceeded in silence and the Noldo was consumed with heartbreak for the loss of his sons' respect. The reaction of the Galadhrim had been atrocious to endure, but to think of such an attitude directed upon him from Elladan and Elrohir was unbearable.

"What shall I say to them?" he whispered.

"Indeed," glowered Glorfindel, unmoved by these words, having heard them before and learned how easily the remorse generating them could vanish. They reached the Elf Lord's private chambers and only when they were inside did Glorfindel release him. Elrond rubbed his arm absently as he moved to roost in his customary perch by the fireside.

"You have made a terrible mistake, Elrond, and hurt them doubly. Elrohir was ready to leave Imladris. Can you imagine what he is feeling, having been lied to, distrusted, his filial devotion doubted and his honourable compassion for one more unfortunate than himself mocked? All this by his father. I am certain only Elladan's intervention thwarted his departure.

"Your eldest child is no less disturbed though he does not express it so openly. Elladan will be preoccupied with consoling Elrohir and Arwen so as to avoid dealing with you and his anger over this exposé. But why do you ask me for counsel? They are your sons! Tell me, Elrond, what words will you speak?"

The Lord of Imladris gave no response but sat with his head bowed low and his eyes downcast. He could not face his shame.

Glorfindel left him thus, seeking out Galdor and Lindir to arrange for the journey back to Lorien. The sooner the details were attended to the quicker Elrond would be gone from the valley, something the Balrog Slayer never thought he would be so eager to bring about. He almost wished he could be there to see Thranduil mete out justice. But for the immense pain this would cause Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen, Glorfindel would have found the image of Elrond's humiliation most satisfying.


	66. Athrabeth 'oeol

**Athrabeth 'oeol (Dreadful Conversation) **

Nature remained oblivious to the strained atmosphere that had settled  
over the fair valley of Imladris.  The day proved to be as  
glorious an example of autumn weather as the graceful dawn had  
proclaimed. The sky was cloud free, the colour of a flawless beryl and  
seemed to arc higher above the rolling fields than normal, coaxing  
Ariel to wander farther from the sleepy land.  The breeze held a  
hint of warmth from the Southwest and a promise of rain in days ahead.  
The contrast of crimson and gold, tawny tans and brilliant yellows  
against the fading clover and timothy was delightful to the eye. The  
subtle crackling of the drying leaves carpeting the pathways modulated  
the silence of the valley's avian population, diminished due to  
migration for warmer environs in the advent of winter.

Just as Arda seemed to disregard the solemnity marring Rivendell's  
normally joyous serenity, so Elladan and Elrohir took little notice of  
the pleasing seasonal climate. Throughout the morning they had roamed  
the highlands above their home, heedless of the spectacular landscape  
displayed beneath them or the majestic glory of the roaring  
falls.  They were too engrossed in their internal discussion of  
how to handle the unforeseen disclosure of darkness within their  
father.  They found themselves arguing in circles with tempers  
rising and realised no answers would result from the intense mixture of  
shame and guilt they shared.  They needed an outlet for such  
ponderous emotions before facing Elrond a second time.  Elladan  
and Elrohir took to the training grounds behind the stables.

After three hours of sparring to the point of exhaustion during which  
they poured all the excess energy of their angry anguish into their  
struggle, they collapsed in a huddled heap beneath the swaying green  
curtain of a trailing willow and rested in one another's arms.   
Then Elrohir tried to take away his father's responsibility by naming  
the grief of losing Celebrian.  And he sought to bear a part of  
the blame on his own shoulders, saying he should not have gone so often  
on the hunt and left Elrond so steeped in cares.

_Perhaps Adar would not have turned so to Ningloriel if I had tried  
to  
involve myself in the valley's care.  Instead I ran._

But Elladan would not allow that.

_The affair with Ningloriel predated our birth; stalking Orcs is new  
in  
comparison._

Next Elladan sought a means to prevent Arwen from learning the  
devastating truth, for that was foremost in his mind.  He worried  
how she might react and feared to lose her to the Undying Lands.

_How shall she endure the disgrace? No blemish has ever touched her  
and  
she thinks Adar beyond such baseness. Must she learn about his  
infatuation with Legolas?_

And Elrohir had to point out that this was what their Ada had attempted  
with them, to their greater injury.

_There are many others who know and she is wise in the way of  
secrets,  
as was Nana.  We would wait long for forgiveness should we attempt  
to shield her. She would think we do not respect her judgement nor  
value her support._

_Adar only wanted to spare us. Nay, himself also._ Elladan  
suddenly  
realised.

_Aye, yet I am not so sympathetic to his pain._

_Agreed, yet we cannot abandon him.  Remember Miny'ammë's  
words: we must remain united if our family is to survive this trial._

_She does not know about any of this.  The mirror was not an aid  
for she was worried when we left._

_Aye, for the Wood Elf, not Adar. Still, do you believe her counsel  
will  
change when she learns the truth?_

_Nay. We must tell her._

That much decided the twins hastened to the Last Homely House to  
compose a letter, for they had not the gift of mental communication  
except between themselves. This message was dispatched to Lorien on  
falcon's wings, that Galadriel might have the news and prepare Arwen  
for the turmoil to follow.

Once back in their home, they attempted to avoid their father, having  
learned from Glorfindel the events succeeding their departure from  
Erestor's rooms.  Orophin and Dambethnîn did not venture  
from the artist's studio and Nelhlûn sent their meals to them on  
trays. The twins joined them for the evening repast but there was  
little comfort one pair could lend the other.  They quickly ran  
out of things to say. It was apparent to Elladan and Elrohir that the  
Galadhrim wished to be alone and so they took their leave.

With sober intent the twins approached Elrond's study and  
knocked.  No sound resulted, yet they knew he was within based on  
Galdor's assertions. Another tapping was equally ineffective. Elladan  
grimaced at Elrohir's worried eyes and this time took his fist to the  
wooden boards.

"We wish to speak with you, Adar, before the morning's journey," he  
called through the barrier.

Silence.

"I am going to come in anyway, then," warned Elrohir and tried the  
handle only to find it locked.  Now it was he who hammered in fury  
against the portal.  "I am not leaving here until we discuss this,  
Ada!"

At last signs of life emanated from within as they discerned soft  
footfalls striding back and forth across the carpet. Elrohir sighed in  
relief and smiled at his brother; they could wait all night if need be.  
It took a long time for Elrond to grant them entrance but he knew how  
stubborn his sons sometimes were and at last the handle turned and the  
door parted an inch and no more.  Sharing a scowl of irritation  
they pushed aside the barricade and stepped within.

A disturbing sense of dejavu engulfed them as they stood just within  
the room's bounds, yet how different was this encounter than the  
earlier one.  Remembering their fears for their Adar and Erestor,  
their indignation over the Woodland King's charges, the twins had to  
swallow back the sour bile that threatened to dislodge their  
dinner.  They looked upon their father, seated much as he had been  
at dawn.

_Could that have been only hours ago?_

_He looks as if an Age has passed!_

The sons of Elrond were shocked by the Elf Lord's appearance, for his  
colour was as grey as the twilight sky and his eyes duller than  
tarnished silver. The expression thereon was one they had never thought  
to observe upon their father.  The facial muscles were all  
slackened and he stared at them blankly from a hollow and emotionless  
void, empty, defeated.

Elladan hurried to pour out some Miruvor and Elrohir went to close the  
shutters against the breeze that had turned cold and was rushing in  
through the balcony.  A flurry of parchments and scrolls mimicked  
the final dance of the fallen leaves, forming a loose pile of clutter  
where the sofa halted further displacement.  The younger twin  
scooped the papers up and dumped them carelessly upon the desk before  
joining Elladan. Together they approached their father, who had thus  
far refused to acknowledge their presence, and settled on the  
settee.  The oldest pressed the small cup of cordial into Elrond's  
hands.

Slowly Elrond raised his remorseful gaze to meet Elladan's, dreading to  
see the disappointment he was sure would be there.  And it  
was.  With a bitter lurch to his reeling heart he gulped down the  
stimulant and handed back the glass, shifting to see what awaited him  
in Elrohir's eyes.  He had to squeeze his lids tightly together,  
for the younger twin's accusing stare was filled with pain and  
confusion and he could not stand to know he had caused this.

"Why, Ada?" breathed out Elrohir.

Elrond covered his face and groaned.  His son sounded exactly as  
he had when, at fifteen years old, he had witnessed death for the first  
time, clutching the white-muzzled head of his beloved dog to his chest,  
vainly patting the cooling side that no longer rose and fell with  
breath.  There had at least been an answer then; a way to shift  
the blame for his child's hurt onto Iluvatar for designing life so  
elusively.  No such escape was possible this time.

"I do not know, Elrohir.  Glorfindel says it is a sickness of the  
spirit that has affected my mind.  Perhaps this is so."

He answered a different question, for Elrohir wanted only to learn what  
made his father doubt his sons' love so greatly that he could not speak  
truthfully to them. Elladan, however, decided this was as good a tack  
to take as any and began his interrogation.

"What does that mean, Adar," he demanded. "Is it the grieving  
malady?  Is it connected to Ningloriel's departure?"

"You are wise to perceive this. I did not expect to lose her. I did not  
expect to care when I did."

The twins waited, attention fixed on their father's face, clearly  
anticipating more than this, but Elrond added nothing. They exchanged  
their chagrin in swift eye contact.  Elladan cleared his throat.

"Did you love her, than?"

That brought a response. Elrond raised a gaze ablaze with an  
unattractive mixture of contemptuous disgust and outraged incredulity.

"Love that demimonde?  How can you even suggest that?   
Elrohir I might imagine to invent such romantic nonsense, but not you,  
Elladan; never you!" Elrond's mordant tone stung. "I had grown  
accustomed to having her at my beck and call, nothing more."

His sons stared at him.

_I do not like these abrupt shifts in temper!_

_Aye, one moment penitent the next outraged._

"There must be more. What has this to do with Legolas?" Elrohir queried  
irritably.

"Everything and nothing. In so many ways it did not matter that it was  
Legolas and yet no other would suffice." Elrond murmured this cryptic  
response and earned a disgruntled sigh from his oldest.

"All right, enough, Adar," he groused. "Be specific. We are to be  
humbled before the entirety of the silvan populace and I want to  
understand the reason for it."

"As long as the child was Ningloriel's it mattered not who it was. I  
did not care about Legolas; I did not even know Legolas.  The  
archer, as an individual, was immaterial. That she only bore the one  
child made it all so much easier, the outcome so perfect!"

"Perfect? That is not how I would describe this situation," snarled  
Elladan. "Never mind." He raised a hand to silence the predictable  
negation. "Why was the seduction of this ambiguous offspring necessary?"

"Aye, could you not find someone else to, to satisfy this,  
these…needs?" Elrohir shifted uncomfortably, not used to asking about  
his father's personal habits in this manner.

"No, Elrohir, no one else would do.  Legolas was born for one  
purpose alone. He was given into my hands as an instrument of revenge  
against the House of Oropher," the Elf Lord said seriously.

That stunned Elladan and Elrohir into silence both internally and  
vocally. They regained the unspoken ability first.

_That is irrational. The Valar would never allow it._

_He cannot truly think this._

_If he does then it is madness we are dealing with._

"What sort of vengeance.  I do not understand; you assured us  
Legolas is not of your seed." Elrohir's voice was unsteady as he spoke,  
for he earnestly hoped this part of his father's earlier speech had not  
been a lie. He was unprepared for the ugly snort of laughter the remark  
provoked from Elrond's lungs and startled.

"True! I merely wished for Thranduil to believe so. Vairë put in  
my hands the means to destroy his idyllic little world, the key to  
undermining the dynasty that foolish Sinda hopes to establish: Legolas.  
Ningloriel was exceptionally helpful as well; refusing ever to lie with  
her husband once the child was born. How that must have torn at  
Thranduil's soul, having already named the bastard his heir!" Elrond  
chuckled unpleasantly.

"What of Legolas' soul, Ada?" Elladan rejoined. "You took your revenge  
upon an innocent."

Elrond seemed surprised to hear this sentence spoken from his eldest's  
lips and peered at him closely.

"Elladan, I have just told you, there was no thought given to the  
archer at all much less to cause him suffering. I assumed his mother  
would shield him from Thranduil. And you cannot blame me for the  
perfidy of her other paramour.

"If you seek redress for wrongs upon the outcast Wood Elf then search  
among his household, not yours! Should that not be sufficient for your  
sense of justice, turn your eyes to Valinor and take up your case with  
Manwë."

"Nay. You cannot shrug it off so casually. You speak of events  
centuries past and we are asking why you chose to seek out Legolas,  
wilfully mislead him, and use him for his mother's replacement. Why do  
you not answer?" Elrohir cried in frustration.

"You evade our questions by pointing to the faults of others. I am  
truly disgusted that any elf endured the kind of abuses Legolas' life  
entailed, but I am not here to speak of Ningloriel's maternal  
shortcomings or her guardsman's predilection for incest," Elladan was  
on his feet pacing to expel his energetic fury. He did not fail to note  
that these words provoked a shudder through his father's body. "Yes,  
think about it, Adar. What if someone you trusted had done this thing  
to Arwen?"

"How can you speak such thoughts even hypothetically?" Elrond stood  
also and advanced upon his eldest, cheeks rapidly darkening as his rage  
increased.

"How could you do it?" shouted Elladan. "Ningloriel trusted you, did  
she not?" His father froze under the vehemence of the outburst.

"What do you mean?"

"Explain it to me, Adar. How could you get hard and take pleasure from  
someone that way? Were you fucking a concept or an elf?"

"Do not be crude! Everything changed after I saw him. You would not  
understand someone like Legolas. He is used to different ways."

"Somehow I do not think you are referring to the more esoteric aspects  
of silvan culture," was Elladan's sardonic retort.

"I do not wish to understand," said Elrohir sadly.

"Aye, you want to go on pretending Legolas is an innocent child!"  
Elrond turned abruptly to his younger son. "He is depraved and  
perverted. I do not wonder you evade the truth, for even I found it  
disturbing."

"It did not deter you from availing yourself of these unspecified,  
unusual appetites," remarked Elladan.

"That is enough!"

"Nay it is not even marginally sufficient," Elrohir said. "You refuse  
to enlighten us as to what drove you to choose such a course. Instead  
you want to make Legolas responsible for your actions and admonish me  
for trying to see what may be good over what may have become twisted.

"I am not a child, yet why should maturity be marked by a loss of  
compassion, exchanging hope for bitterness? Why must you excuse your  
sexual predation by pointing to others that committed the same sin  
before you? What you did with Legolas has nothing to do with even the  
most basic reasons to initiate a physical union."

"You are wrong in that, gwador, for this is about the desire for power,  
or more correctly the desire to feel powerful, and in that pursuit sex  
is a common weapon," replied Elladan.

"Aye, I just did not contemplate my father would be playing those  
games."

A thick silence blanketed the room then, for it was perhaps more  
surprising for the twins to learn of the deep insecurities their father  
must harbour than to consider he might engage in less traditional forms  
of carnal intercourse. As for Elrond, it was nothing less than  
harrowing to have his inner soul exposed and dissected, commented upon  
and condemned by his children.

He stared from one to the other, disbelief once more paramount upon his  
features, defiance diminishing under the cold realisation that what  
they would now attribute to his character was worse than the crimes he  
had actually committed. His shoulders slumped and he felt Elladan take  
his arm, tugging, and allowed himself to be led back to the fireside.  
He collapsed into his chair in ruin.

Elladan returned to the sideboard and this time brought them all a  
serving of Miruvor. With a heavy sigh he resumed his seat and glanced  
at his brother.

_I am sorry._

Elrohir sipped the cordial slowly._ For what?_

_Pressing him to this point._

_No matter. Yet I am weary of this, for he refuses to answer._

"I realise you are talking to each other so you may as well speak  
aloud," Elrond mumbled in aggravation.

"I said this arguing exhausts me and still you will not account for  
what is happening," snapped Elrohir. "Admit it, Ada. You are enthralled  
with the Wood Elf."

"In Elbereth's name, how could it happen? What is it that has reduced  
you to this state of inexplicable instability of character and spirit?  
Valar, you left Erestor there!"

"Does he look like her? Is that the attraction?"

"Aye, you have hit upon it, Elrohir. He must favour Ningloriel in  
appearance but sunk low, isolated, condemned and exiled, vulnerable to  
false kindness and lying tongues, open to punishment. It is not  
Thranduil Adar sought revenge against but Ningloriel."

"Fine! Have it your way, I sought Legolas and revenged myself on both  
the Sinda upstart and his whoring queen. Satisfied?" Elrond stood and  
yelled so suddenly that Elrohir jumped and Elladan rose also. But the  
noble Lord was not finished. "I set out to use him from the beginning!"  
he hissed, furious to be forced to such admissions.

"He is nothing, worthless! Yet you would let him stand between your  
loyalty to your family, to your father!" He stalked to the long  
windowed doors closed against the deepening night and stared out. Only  
the room's interior met his sight and he looked upon the disturbing  
image of his sons, completely bereft in bafflement and fear, reflected  
in the glass.

"How can you doubt our devotion?" Elrohir's ragged voice rang out. "We  
are here, attempting to deal with this disgrace rationally. We are  
trying to give you the opportunity to explain yourself…"

"Explain myself?" Elrond roared and wheeled to stare at his younger son  
in outrage. "I do not need to justify my actions to you or anyone else!  
I am positively infuriated that my own sons stand here within our home,  
convicting me of the darkest crimes possible!"

"What do you expect? You have told us nothing but lies and shifted  
blame onto an innocent!" Elladan shouted back.

"I expect my sons to uphold whatever I choose to reveal, unquestioning  
and resolute in their fidelity to our family and our Realm! I deserve  
no less from my children."

"I know not what you deserve, but we have not harmed you!" Elladan  
strode across the room to confront his father. "As your sons, we have  
certain presumptions as well. Enduring these blatant misrepresentations  
of your deeds is not among them."

"Nor would I have imagined my Adar would then badger me for questioning  
such deviations," added Elrohir. "I feel as though I do not know who  
you are.  You do not sound at all like my Adar," the younger twin  
said in bewilderment.

"Well I am more than your Adar.  I am Elrond Peredhel, too. And  
how would you know anything of me, Elrohir?  You have perceived  
only what you and your siblings needed, beheld the leadership that  
others demanded.  Does that selfless dedication not warrant some  
appreciation? Elrond of Imladris will not be belittled in this manner!"

"What would you have then, Elrond of Imladris, your sons at your side  
or the heirs to this Realm? As the former we will lend our aid and  
share in any punishment due.  As the latter we will let you suffer  
Thranduil's dungeons if that is what amity requires!"

"Nay, nay, Elladan, this is wrong!" Elrohir got up so quickly the chair  
overturned. "I could never do that!  I cannot separate myself  
thus, son or Lord.  Please do not say such things!" He hastened to  
Elladan as he spoke, pulled his brother back and forced him to sit upon  
the sofa, sinking down next to him.

Elrond was white and round eyed as he looked at Elladan's cold and  
hardened visage, shaken to have his first born even suggest this option  
existed.  To hear him speak of abandoning his father to the black  
death of incarceration was staggering to his mind and wrenched open in  
his soul a new wound over those still festering from long centuries  
past.

"This cannot be happening," whispered Elrohir in despair and leaned his  
head on his brother's shoulder. _I want my Ada back, Elladan! I want  
our  
family restored!_

_Perhaps it has all been a dream, brother, and we are waking to the  
reality now.  This is our father._

"Did you want him to die so she would never know what you did? Did you  
hope to resume your affair once you sailed West?" asked Elrohir  
quietly. "Would you console her in her grief?" The very thought made  
the younger twin's gut convulse.

"Nay, I had no wish for him to meet such a fate.  You cannot  
believe me so cold, Elrohir! Instead, I would have claimed Legolas for  
my mate rather than leave him to suffer. The day I found him locked in  
Erestor's embrace I had hoped to confess my intentions. He made his  
choice."

"So it is covetous jealousy that moved your heart to renounce your  
friend and abandon Erestor to Eru alone knows what fate," Elladan  
concluded.

"Aye, it is true.  I have wronged Erestor. His honour will be  
restored and I will suffer the consequences for this foolish endeavour  
alone." Elrond tried to placate his eldest. 

"Noble words, but empty in the absence of genuine contrition,"  
chastised Elrohir.  He was lost and could not tell anymore when to  
trust his father's voice and when to suspect subterfuge.  The  
bitter barking laugh that fell from Elrond's lips did not encourage him.

"You sound remarkably like Glorfindel," remarked the Elf Lord with a  
shake of his head and an unpleasantly chilly smile. He returned to the  
fireside and righted the upturned armchair, settling into it to try and  
resolve the conflict, to win back his sons. _How can they express  
such  
empathy for the outcast and the seneschal while none is spared for me?_

"I wish you meant that as a compliment; instead it stings like a  
reproof," mumbled the younger twin.

"It is a good trait, honesty, and I do not mean to fault you for  
it.  I have no wish to refuse responsibility for my errors,  
Elrohir, but it does gall me that no one must answer for the wrongs  
done to me."

"Speak of these crimes, Ada, and I will demand justice for you!"  
implored Elrohir.

"And what say you, Elladan?  Would you avenge my wounds and seek  
compensation?"

"Already I have stated this very thing," Elladan's heart was yet frozen  
in wrath.  "You heap further slurs upon me while I know that I am  
not one who has wronged you. This is but another way to divert the path  
of our discourse." _By Ulmo, there must be a way to get through to  
Adar!_

"No matter the number of insults and injuries you may be prepared to  
list, neither is Legolas among those who owe you any debts. If his  
heart has chosen Erestor, then Vairë has done your killing for  
you.  Erestor has not renounced his mates and Legolas is but a  
diversion for him. It would seem that elf is truly condemned to a cruel  
fate."

"Aye, have you no pity for Legolas, Ada? Valar!" Elrohir continued. "It  
is too horrible to bear thinking of, to face such a vile Judgement  
alone, left to perish in the wilderness. Into that void you insinuated  
yourself and our philandering seneschal. Explain to me how the elf  
warranted such a sentence. I can only pray he has not succumbed to  
grief for that would place the stain of his blood upon our family for  
eternity." _I cannot endure another pointless round of this  
contention!  
Perhaps he does not even know the answers himself._

Another interval of discontented quiescence began as Elrond considered  
these comments and guessed at the unspoken ones. There was no denying  
the possibility of his sons' suppositions becoming reality. Likewise he  
could not pretend ignorance of the depth of misery such considerations  
were inflicting upon his children. It was exactly as Glorfindel had  
predicted. Elrohir was far past his threshold of endurance for despair,  
leaning on his brother in limp wretchedness. Elladan busied himself  
with bolstering his brother's courage, an arm wrapped over his  
shoulder, cheek resting on the crown of onyx tresses.

_That is a grievous debt indeed. Legolas' life was cursed from the  
moment of conception, but it is I who have brought the archer's doom  
upon my own. No matter their opinion of me, they have not earned such  
harsh retribution._

"Peace," Elrond held up his hands, extending them toward his younger  
son halfway before he noticed the slight recoil, the stiff tightening  
of Elladan's shoulders as he protectively drew Elrohir closer.   
Elrond let his hands fall back to his lap and studied them closely.  
What would he not endure to seal up this chasm between them?

"Peace, I have wronged you both.  Forgive me, Elrohir, for  
burdening you with my regrettable loss of honour.  Elladan, I  
would never force you to make so hard a choice between your duty to me  
and that owed to our people.  What retribution must be made shall  
not touch my children nor shall Imladris suffer for my errors."

"How can you say those words? Your crimes have already laden our family  
with torment and all of Imladris with shame. That being the case, I  
suggest we consider what penalties may result from your actions. Has  
Galdor learned anything of silvan law regarding such transgressions?"  
Elladan was unsatisfied with such a paltry apology, but he was aware of  
Elrohir's limits. No more of their father's falsehoods and slanders  
would the younger twin tolerate, and if Elrohir fled then Elladan must  
follow, even if such flight took them straight into Thranduil's  
stronghold.

Elrohir stirred and lifted himself up straight once again, raising  
solemnly determined midnight eyes to his father's dusky twilight depths.

"Yes, that must be determined if possible. Yet before we move forward  
in this discussion I must speak my heart. You fear to lose our love for  
you, thus Dambethnîn excused your omissions and overt  
misrepresentation of facts. I will accept that as the only answer to be  
had from you, and that not even from your own lips.

"Yet everything will become known, and I would much prefer to hear the  
account in full, from you, rather than standing beside you as Thranduil  
tells it, listening as Radagast adds what he witnessed, absorbing  
Erestor's rendition of events. I despair of ever hearing Legolas'  
voice, for how could anyone survive the revelations of which we have  
learned? We are condemned to bear the burden of his demise and I cannot  
judge what sort of compensation we can render for such…"

"Nay, Elrohir, his grief was there long before I came upon him.   
If he fades beneath it, there is no fault upon the House of  
Eärendil," Elrond interrupted, spontaneously reaching over and  
laying his hand upon his son's knee.

Elrohir stared at his father in disbelief a second. "Do I understand  
you correctly? You did this thing to an elf already suffering from  
grieving sickness?" He stood, roughly shoving Elrond's fingers off him.

"Elrohir…" Elrond rose and grabbed onto his son's wrist desperate to  
hold him there for all the signs were apparent: his younger son was  
about to storm from the room, from the valley, and perhaps from his  
life.

"I would never forego my love for you, Ada. Nothing can undo the long  
centuries of devoted affection you have shown to me and Elladan and  
Arwen. In all my years alive I have held you in high esteem and not  
because I falsely believed you perfect but rather that you conducted  
yourself honourably and treated others fairly.

"Wrongs should be owned without dissembling and every means sought to  
correct them. These words you said to me when I was but an elfling and  
I have tried to live by them. Was all of that a farce? How could a  
healer wound a dying elf? Yet though you admit to such an unspeakable  
thing you refuse to accept responsibility. In the trials to come, how  
am I to stand beside someone I do not respect, Ada?"

The import of this statement settled over the close air in the elegant  
study with all the gravity of a landslide engulfing unsuspecting  
travellers journeying through Caradhras. From such violence recovery  
was seldom achieved and Elrond's heart thundered in protest as his mind  
struggled to surmount the impossible and claw free of the sentence just  
pronounced. _He will oppose me; or worse, he will go to Thranduil  
and  
seek to remove this blemish from our noble lineage himself. Where one  
goes, the other must be alongside. I will lose them both._

"Aye. I see how it is for you, Elrohir. Believe me at least when I say  
this is not what I intended. I chose to punish Legolas for his mother's  
infidelity and desertion. I took advantage of his circumstances exactly  
as you have both stated, I admit it to you openly.

"Yet something happened between us and I could not control it. I could  
not even understand it! He found a way inside my soul, saw things no  
one has ever imagined being there. Not even your mother had the  
willingness to look upon those old wounds much less ease them," Elrond  
tightened his hold on his son, this time for his own comfort, and  
swallowed, searching Elrohir's dark expression for any sign of  
acceptance.

"Go on, Adar," Elladan interjected quickly and stood up to flank his  
brother, one hand upon Elrohir's back, the other stretching forward to  
enclose his father's where it encircled the younger twin's arm. "What  
did you do?"

"I had no idea how to respond to something so unforeseen, especially  
from someone I was determined to scorn. I found I had to choose between  
two extremes. I must either love him or despise him. I was enraged by  
it! How could he make me face a choice like that? I barely knew him at  
all and he just, he just…" Elrond faltered, pressing a hand over his  
eyes as his head dropped. Could he really say this?

"What, Ada? Please!" Elrohir pleaded.

_Elrohir, begging!_ Elrond ground his teeth and shut his eyes  
against  
this vision. He heaved a deep breath and opened them, focusing on the  
floor and the three sets of boots aligned in a semblance of a circle.  
_All the same size,_ he mused in abstraction. Another sigh  
followed the  
compression of Elladan's hand upon his and he willed himself to  
continue.

"Legolas consoled me. Even after I pried inside his damaged heart and  
flung his worst fears in his face. I brought his grieving to a  
conscious level he was not prepared for while he allowed me to express  
mine aloud for the first time in Ages. He offered me the comfort of his  
body and the sympathy of his soul. He understood we suffered the same  
disease, but I rejected his compassion as pity. I could not bring  
myself to accept him as an equal; I had to teach him his place, his  
value. When I was done with the lesson, I let Erestor have him.

"And now I find I cannot endure it! Legolas should have been mine, for  
do I not deserve that kind of devotion? He would have done anything to  
please me, of that I have no doubt. Have I not earned the right to  
command that level of obedience? I have done everything in my power to  
ensure the happiness and prosperity of my family, my Realm. Long have I  
served those I love. Am I so wrong to want the same subservience  
rendered to me?"

Elrond had to stop because he found himself unable to formulate words  
through the constricting tension suddenly surrounding his larynx. In  
horror he realised he was on the edge of a complete breakdown, much as  
he had experienced in Legolas' arms on that high flet amid the  
Greenwood's canopy. The Elf Lord could not command his mind to prevent  
replaying the memory of the fallen archer's soothing song, and Elrond  
broke.

Instantly his sons drew him down onto the sofa, encircling their father  
in a tight embrace as all three sobbed uncontrollably.

Elrond cried bitterly, realising what he had sacrificed for the sake of  
his revenge, for he could have possessed Legolas entirely. The archer's  
gift of accepting trust would have enabled Elrond to finally reveal the  
choking torture of his riven soul. Legolas was no healer, but his open  
heart would have granted a safe refuge, a haven where the Elf Lord  
could discard his demons and recover.

Elladan and Elrohir wept for their father's sorrow and confusion, his  
unhealed hurts and broken spirit, hidden from them before this moment.  
They shuddered in relief to have the truth out in the open at last and  
grieved for the love he had denied himself. They cried for their  
family's shame and the dishonour upon their House. They wailed against  
the storm that must disrupt their sister's pristine world and shatter  
her idealised image of the perfect father. And they mourned the loss of  
Legolas, who for so long had occupied a place in their hearts if not in  
their family.

"What are we to do now, Ada?" asked Elrohir through his sorrow. "How do  
we make this right?"


	67. Celeborn Hortha an Eringalen

A/N: this chapter is for Dís, who loves dwarves and encouraged me to find a way to work them in. I did! Also, one must not get too upset regarding the pace of these elven horses. I gave them some extra oomph, considering Shadowfax ran at top speed non-stop from Edoras to Gondor. My elven horses gallop at Triple Crown velocity, which is round 27 mph.

Celeborn Hortha an Eringalen (Celeborn Races for Greenwood)

It was one hundred and sixty-seven leagues from the serenity of Caras Galadhon to Ennyn Velig (the Great Gates) of Thranduil's citadel deep within the cover of the Greenwood's canopy. The distance could be traversed on horse in three days if rider and mount pressed for every ounce of speed and endurance the pair could conjure up and stopped for only short rest breaks. Such was the way of woodland messengers travelling the harrowing distances between the elven realms. These brave and hardy couriers usually rode in teams of two, each carrying identical posts so that should one succumb to the evil of Orcs or wargs or bandits then the other might yet succeed. The Mirkwood Messengers were renowned to be the swiftest, cleverest, and most daring elves living in Middle-earth, and their steeds were bred to match this temperament. The very air about them was redolent with the romantic mystique of these dashing, debonair cavaliers.

There was nothing these warriors would not attempt and they prided themselves on never failing to get through with their cargo. Inu or Anu (female or male), the Athedrainyn (Border Crossers) revelled in the excitement of the chase and the thrill of straying so near to the bounds of survival. Indeed, in spite of the grim nature of their duties and the high probability of mortality or imprisonment in Dol Guldur, these elves were some of the most jovial to breathe the air. Athedrainyn sang and danced, laughed and played, loved and lived with exuberance unmatched among elf-kind employed in other trades. So much so that it had passed into common lore among all the free peoples that to 'ride like Athedrainyn' was both a compliment of one's endurance and an admonishment against excess.

Thranduil's Athedrainyn boasted the fastest speeds and shortest times for completing the journey from the postern by the Sentinel to the steps of Celeborn's talan in Lorien: just under three days. The host that departed from the Lord's home in Caras Galadhon two days after the sons of Elrond left for Imladris could not hope to maintain such a pace nor would they try.

Seldom did the Lord of the Golden Wood venture forth from beneath the Mellyrn. Since the disastrous victory of the Last Alliance, he had travelled out of the woods only to attend the births of his grandchildren in Imladris and to escort his daughter to Mithlond when life became unbearable for her. Her departure had left him filled with sorrow yet he could not depart Middle-earth to follow Celebrian over sea. His heart told him, even had Galadriel's Mirror not, that his intervention would be required before the time of the elves was done.

And he could not leave Arwen while her doom was undecided.

Arda needed Lothlorien and the hidden refuge could not exist without its Lord, for while Galadriel wore the Ring of Water the Golden Wood had been growing long ages before Nenya's creation. The Galadhrim respected the Lady's foresight and magic, but their Lord was accepted as one of them, moriquendi, Teleri, born beneath the stars and amid the trees of Middle-earth. Celeborn the Wise was nothing less than their King in all but title. Whatever he asked of them, even should it be impossible to manage, yet would the Galadhrim find means to accomplish the task.

Celeborn kept his folk close, guarding the remainder of his people from the ills of Sauron's growing strength, concealing the numbers of Lothlorien's warriors, encouraging the misconception of the lofty Galadhrim hiding behind their shielded weald. A steady stream of cloaked and stealthy Yet not too stealthy! silvan wayfarers passed West to Imladris or the Grey Havens, seen by mortals and Sauron's spies alike, promoting the notion that the Galadhrim were abandoning Middle-earth in droves. If these same travellers were more secretive and went unremarked on their return journeys, that was no less than should be expected of Celeborn's messengers. Unlike the brash and bold Athedrainyn of Greenwood, Lorien's scouts and couriers relied on subterfuge and artifice to complete their perilous missions. It would not do to apprise Sauron of the might of Lothlorien's army too soon.

Still, the unprecedented charges arising from Mirkwood's ruler could not be ignored nor could the Lord of the Mellyrn Taur (Forest of Mallorn Trees) stand by and let such a fissure yawn betwixt the already estranged elven realms. The Darkness would have too sweet a triumph in gloating over that. Surely, the Wraiths had sent word to Mordor of the troubles stirring in the northern wilds. Thranduil's world seemed on the verge of collapse, an invitation for Sauron to reinforce the strength of Dol Guldur by taking the mountain stronghold. Thus, Celeborn deemed the moment had arrived to foster solidarity and in so doing direct the renegade Maia away from another force in the north rapidly increasing in stature and experience. For the Lord of the Golden Wood knew the identity of Isildur's Heir and his soul was already mourning the bond his grandchild would forge with this Man. Thranduil has concocted a most appropriately complex distraction.

Celeborn rode forth.

The company from Lothlorien was a sight to behold, glorious and grand, fearsome and majestic, enveloped in an aura of vibrant power and deadly purpose. Secrecy and stealth were abandoned and the Galadhrim were openly revealed as formidable foes of Darkness. The silvan archers were seated upon magnificent and deadly war-horses, four abreast in ranks of nine, tall-backed and proud, determination shining from their far-seeing eyes and resolve apparent in the set of their shoulders and their serious demeanour. No song fell from the grimly sealed lips nor did idle conversation break the silence of this troop. Only the resounding thunder of the stallions' hooves mingled with the jangling ring of the horses' mithril gaiters, for the steeds were bedecked after the fashion of Nirmë and Namië (Elladan and Elrohir's horses).

The warriors did not wear traditional grey elven travelling cloaks but capes of silver satin trimmed in a wide border of crimson, the colours of the Lord's House, for he was of the line of Thingol and a cousin to the fallen king. Some believed the red hue was meant as a mark of remembrance to all the life lost by the hands of Galadriel at Alqualonde, that her debt was forgiven yet not forgotten, but to this thought none dared give voice in Celeborn's presence.

Worthy war bows the Galadhrim bore across their shoulders and quivers full of bolts, fletched in green, yellow, red or brown, were strapped upon their backs. Their garments were not the soft unobtrusive colour of twilit mist worn beneath the Mellyrn's leaves but rather a distinctive combination of black leggings under tunics of pure white embroidered in silver. Over these, leather jerkins dyed darker than the depths of a starless night, embossed with the emblem of a Mallorn, protected vital organs. Their black leather boots were knee length and sturdy enough for long marches afoot, for the elves were prepared for any potential outcome. No helms covered the warriors' hair as it streamed in the wind of their passing, every shade from flaxen to coal displayed, nor did metal guard their bodies. They were content that elven senses would alert them of approaching danger long before harm could reach them, well within the range of their arrows.

Except for beribboned manes and the leg protection, the chargers permitted only a rope of hithlain round their whithers for toting two more bundles of arrows, a pack of provisions and a water-skin. This might seem a meagre kit to supply so dangerous a mission, but the elves planned to make use of the resources available along the route rather than encumber the horses with more baggage. Besides, the trip should take no more than five days, barring trouble, and six if they ran into Orcs.

Celeborn fully expected to encounter the foul creatures, for it was impossible to sneak past Dol Guldur, nor had he any intention of skulking by cringing in fear and dread. If the Galadhrim must leave their protected lands, then let the enemy cower, quaking and wary, wondering what warranted this unexpected foray into the wounded world, for the proud warriors did not present a trifling force.

Choices for the trek's itinerary were limited to three: straight across the Great River and under the eaves of Mirkwood, thence to force a way past Dol Guldur and reach the dwellings of the woodsmen and Thranduil's realm beyond. That was less an option than a demand for passage to Mandos. Or, the Galadhrim might travel north along the eastern borders of the forest following the River Running and thus to the Forest Road. Yet those lands were barren and sustenance for the stallions insufficient. Alternately, the host could traverse the broad valley of the Anduin past the Gladden Fields and enter the Sinda's lands at the Forest Gate. The last was the way agreed upon between the Lord, his Lady, and their Marchwarden, for should trouble seek them allies could be found among the woodsmen and the beornings.

The battalion numbered thirty-six and among the silvan folk of Lorien rode seven of the wayward soldiers decommissioned from the Greenwood's forces. Their citizenship had been revoked and they were to return to their native lands forthwith or depart for Valinor. Galadriel was not one to disregard the warning of her liquid oracle and had called these refugees in from their stations to face her questioning and bear her scrutiny.

Some fled rather than undergo this interrogation of the soul, fearful of the reprisals their guilty hearts would earn. These left Lorien and were met with never again by the Galadhrim. Of the remainder, two fell at once on their knees and pleaded mercy, revealing all they had witnessed of the Chastisement and the part they had played. This pair had truly repented for once removed from the influence of their Shadowed realm the peace of Lorien had worked a change within their hearts.

The last few denied fault and one was insolent enough to say it was expected for one kin-slayer to defend another. To this Galadriel had remarked that hands once bloodied would not fear to deepen the stain if cause was given. That elf thus regretted his hasty insult, for alone among his fellows he was sent away weaponless and must depend upon their friendship to defend him should need arise, for none of the Galadhrim would forgive the slur against their Lady. His comrades in crime were no comfort to him, for little honour was to be found among these twisted, bitter elves and they would each protect their own hides before aiding another.

After gleaning the disturbing reality of the Wood Elves practices, the Lord and Lady's objective in seeking audience with the Sinda King altered somewhat. Neither was as much concerned over alleviating Elrond's disgrace as they were determined to aid the cast off heir of the Woodland Realm. Elrond, after all, was an Elven Lord and had the entirety of Imladris to back and support him, as well as three adoring children that would never falter in defending him. Elrohir had put it succinctly: Legolas was alone.

Now Galadriel did not reveal any of these findings or the resultant decisions to Elladan and Elrohir. Had the brothers understood the combined information from her vision and the renegade Wood Elves, they would not have been denied the opportunity to accompany their grandfather and assist the outcast prince. To her husband she readily relayed all that her investigation yielded of Legolas' unfortunate circumstances, and Celeborn was no less shocked than she to discover such tortures enacted against an elf by his own people.

"The pestilence of Dol Guldur increases. My kinsman requires our help, even if he cannot perceive this of his own accord," the Lord remarked of Thranduil.

"It has been thus since the Last Alliance. I fear you will find the malady does not originate from the black spire of the Wraiths, my love." Galadriel countered sadly.

"What have you seen?"

"Nothing that you have not felt."

At these words Celeborn scowled but could not deny their truth. He had long worried over the increasingly xenophobic mood of the Sinda King and was fully aware of Thranduil's purported use of dark magic to govern his country. Like Glorfindel, Celeborn had come to hope that Ningloriel's departure would result in a new degree of stability for the woodland leader. The heralded birth of the new heir bespoke some movement along that encouraging path, yet the news of Legolas' vile treatment opposed the idea. Still, Celeborn was not one to allow assumptions and gossip to rule his thoughts, and he held his heart and mind open. He would let his cousin speak of these things before judgement was passed.

"What shall you do?" his wife enquired, following the trail of his thinking.

"The silvan folk are not foolish," Celeborn sighed. "I shall not intervene should they depose him, nor will I encourage any uprising. In these times it would be best for Thranduil to remain in command, for the strength of his warriors and his resolve against the Shadow are beyond question."

"But there is the matter of the Ring."

"Do you think it is there?" He knew she did not, nor did he. This was Saruman and Elrond's folly and sprang from their disregard of the Wood Elves and the view that Thranduil was incapable of fending off the power of Sauron for so long unaided.

"And Legolas?" Galadriel did not bother to answer her husband, shrugging to admit her agreement instead, and focused on the disinherited elf.

"Of this I cannot say, for to bring him here bodes ill for him, so your Mirror warns. We do not know what place he holds within these charges against Elrond or whether he is even aware of them. Legolas could be lost already, or far from aid within the wilds of the southern woods, or worse, prisoner in Dol Guldur.

"And if none of that is true and I find him within the stronghold, still I cannot impose my laws upon these people of the Greenwood. They are free and this is the way they have chosen. Shall I force them to give up customs that have been in place since the First Age? Shall Lorien extend her borders across the Anduin?"

"Nay." Galadriel shook her head and smiled. "I see what your heart desires and I pray you will succeed. If you do not, what then shall you do, my love?" She asked her husband again, for she was not about to let him pretend he had answered the question she had posed. Her cool blue eyes twinkled as they sought his serious stormy grey ones and were rewarded to watch them clear.

Celeborn's soft laughter flowed between them and he reached for her hand, carrying it to his lips and then against his cheek where he held it, smiling back.

"I will not fail. Surely you can sense my determination, Beloved! Go and check your precious Mirror if you doubt my resolve. I will have nothing less than Thranduil's acknowledgement of his first-born child." He chided with a shake of his head.

"Of course I would never doubt you! You are more stubborn than Elwë and Dior put together. Still, if Thranduil proves both harder of head and heart, then mayhap the archer would take refuge in Mithlond."

Celeborn snorted at her jibe and squeezed her fingers before letting them loose, his smile more serious and his eyes darkening with turmoil again.

"Yet, who is to say the young one is not most obstinate of all? He is half-Sinda and the half that is not sprang from the most intractable silvan inu I have ever met. I fear he will not willingly leave his Greenwood, not to seek safety for his person at any rate."

"Have you been dipping in my fountain?"

A hearty laugh followed this cheeky query and Celeborn swept his beloved into his arms. "I need not the waters of your Mirror to imagine the combination of Oropher's temperament and Ningloriel's rebellious determination! Indeed, Legolas must be strong to endure what has befallen him. I would salvage that elf; he is a worthy cousin regardless of the condemnation of the Judgement."

"Hmm. I am pleased to hear you say so, and must thank the trees for keeping you updated on their protector's status, even if you did not share it with me."

"Ai! I cannot help it if the Noldor lack the gift of speech with the forest. Besides, I had not need to reveal what you already knew."

"Nay. The Mirror does not show me what Legolas' future holds, and I fear your trees have only reported their worry and love, their insistence of the Wood Elf's innocence."

"It is true. The fact that they whisper of him always, however, is not insignificant," Celeborn's words were tinged in sorrow and frustration, for indeed the noble trees surrounding him had often begged assistance for the Greenwood's champion, and he had been bound to refuse.

"You have suffered," Galadriel was genuinely surprised. Her husband had hidden this well or she had been pre-occupied with Sauron's Ring Both and his concerns had slipped past her notice. "Unable to help a kinsman, one whom you felt both in need and wronged by his own. Gohenna nin."

"Sîdh, there is nothing you could have done that would not entail posing an objection to their sovereign laws. In Thranduil's mind, that would be equivalent to an act of aggression. Even he does not interfere with their belief system."

"Oh, but he manipulates it when it suits him," she growled. "How does he count that right and this enslavement?" She held up Nenya and the flash within the stone matched the spark deep in the Lady's cerulean gaze.

Celeborn merely raised his brows askance and she relented. It was an argument he simply refused to enjoin with her, as there was no resolution possible. He was not Thranduil nor could he control the Sinda King. The fact that some part of her wished to do so, Celeborn would not countenance discussing. Thus the topic dropped and the couple spent no more time worrying on the journey ahead, relishing the hours remaining between them against the separation the dawn would bring.

At minuial the entourage threaded single file among the towering trees to the ford of the Nimrodel, the pace no more than a lazy jog, and the first encampment found them on the opposite bank of the Great River under the oblique glare of the Wraith's citadel. The break was for the benefit of the horses, for the next leg would demand a hard gallop for many hours to get them to the Gladden Fields.

No rest did the warriors take that night, for the site of so bold a company of armed elves was certain to entice Mordor's servants from their pinnacle of dread. The assault came two hours after sundown and the Galadhrim fired arrow after arrow into the advancing glamhoth until the grey glimmer of Arien's advent tinged the air. The vile demons were forced to retreat under the shaded canopy of their dark woods.

It came as no surprise to Celeborn when Haldir reported the desertion of the unrepentant renegades sometime during the evening.

They mounted and set a gruelling pace. By annûn (sunset) on the second day, while Elladan and Elrohir stood by the study door waiting for their father to unlock his heart, the Galadhrim made camp at the crux of the reed-choked River Gladden with its wide, shallow wetlands and the sluggish Anduin.

The elves took the offensive and made the first strike of the anticipated fight, entering under the eaves of the woods to aid the small colony of humans dwelling there. A fourth of his troops Haldir left to safeguard a merchant's caravan set up for trade with the beornings and the woodsmen. The remainder joined forces with the able Men, who were discovered to be inexplicably competent archers and sword fighters, though their gear was coarse and their blades no doubt gleaned from fallen foes in battles past. The combined assault scattered the Orcs and the Galadhrim heard for the first time the agonised screams of the victims of Legolas' traps.

Not a single casualty resulted among the impromptu allies thanks to the silvan archers.

The woodsmen shook the solemn elves' hands warmly in gratitude and astonished Celeborn by demanding to include two of their citizens, veterans of Erebor that immigrated from Laketown thereafter, within the First-born's delegation. They wished to speak out at their atheling's trial and help to lift the ban. The good people assumed this to be the reason for such a formidable platoon of foreign elves to enter the Greenwood, a thing never seen in any of their lifetimes. The hearing was news to the noble Lord and he agreed readily once the identity of their prince was made clear. Celeborn was more eager than before to hasten his journey's completion.

Yet a greater shock awaited the elven Lord's return to his encampment, for there his warriors had fought a fierce battle that had included two of the Wraiths. That was not so unexpected, but the merchant's participation in the skirmish, along with his entire entourage, was. These were dwarves from the Iron Mountains and not since Erebor had they fought alongside the First-born.

For the Galadhrim the experience was even further removed in remembrance, the battles for Eregion being the last time the silvan folk of the Golden Wood had shared the same side as the Naugrim. The memory of the demon loosed from Moria was nearer and if their appreciation of these unexpected allies was a bit grudging, that was an instinctive response. Logically, the elves understood that the Balrog's release had been unintentional, yet their hearts still grieved for loved ones lost to the aftermath of dwarven greed. But they kept silent on this, following the example of their Lord, and if the elves were distant and cool towards their new comrades, the mortals could not deem it other than the natural manner of the eldar.

The dwarves were eager to relate the encounter with Sauron's minions and everyone who had not been there gathered close to listen.

"The Lesser Evils," intoned one of the woodsmen with a grim nod that his fellow mimicked as the merchants shared their tale. But the elves were perplexed.

"What is that?" Haldir looked from one Man to the other, finally resting his sight on Celeborn, who shrugged.

"Bloody Wraiths!" bellowed the merchant, shaking his mattock at the sky. He murmured something in his own tongue, which made his cohorts laugh, and spat.

Haldir bristled, suspecting the remark was probably something along the lines of 'ignorant tree rats', but held his peace when Celeborn firmly placed a hand upon his shoulder, a huge forced smile adorning his features. The Marchwarden imitated the fixed expression and returned attention to the conversation.

"Aye, that is how our Tawarwaith calls them," added the other forest dweller.

"Shadow-slaves, can't come out one without the other and only run about at the Chief's orders. Tirno almost had that one's Ring off, by Varda!" the first chortled delightedly.

"That sounds like a tale worthy of telling," Celeborn grinned as many of his comrades voiced agreement, for they had found the dwarven fighters worthy and it just felt right, all of them being free folk, to be standing together against the Shadow's advance.

But Haldir was not enamoured of the notion of actually sharing their camp and their food with these representatives of Durin's race, regardless of their valorous participation in the fighting. He scowled.

"First, I would hear from whence you folk of Aulë originate. Are you kin to the Naugrim of Moria?" he demanded.

A tension immediately filled the air and in the silence surrounding it the consistent chirping of frogs in the meers behind them became pronounced. Subtly, the elves separated themselves from the five dwarves and the two humans edged away from the confrontation.

The representatives of Aulë's children drew closer together, sharing serious expressions. They conversed quietly among themselves in their secret speech for a moment and then the eldest stepped forward. 

"I am Brôr daughter of Grôr, at your service," she stated formally and bowed low. "My grandfather was Frôr, third cousin to Ders who was wife to Kref, a resident of Khazadum. These two are my younger brothers, Treg and Tuhm." As she spoke their names each one bounced forward and bowed with an 'at your service'. Treg was the one with the mattock. "Here is Brêh my son and his wife Masz.

"We hail from the place known to you as the Blue Mountains and have for long years dwelled amid Dain's folk in the Iron Mountains. Never have any of us lived in Moria, nor did any of my kin delve the deeps therein. Yet, if you have grievance against Durin's Race for the tragedy of that time, know that our losses were greater than the immortals'."

On hearing this Haldir was angry, for nothing could be more severe than the deaths of the First-born at the unleashing of the Balrog, among whom his parents were numbered. Before he could speak, Celeborn intervened.

"Shall we compare the destruction of one realm against another, counting up hurts and deaths while the true culprit sits back and delights in our foolishness?" he demanded quietly. His eyes met each of the dwarves in turn and they could not hold so stern a gaze, though it was neither accusing nor threatening. "Nay, we stand here in this place where once evil stole away victory from the free folk just as we had claimed it, and at terrible price." The Men averted their eyes now, for it was of Isildur the immortal spoke. "Let us not repeat the error, for we have once more bested the Darkness this night, small though the numbers defeated were. We shall not fight one another nor argue over wrongs this same evil has foisted upon us by treachery and lies."

And Haldir lowered his angry visage, for it was true the elves had inadvertently aided Sauron also, even if those were not silvan people but Noldor. Everyone was loath to speak after the Lord's words, and the Marchwarden realised they were waiting for his response. He grimaced, for he had brought this on himself, lifted his head and sighed, sharing with Celeborn a rueful expression of mirthless self-mockery. He was suddenly quite glad his brothers were not present to witness his humiliation. The Lorien warrior drew a deep breath.

"Lord Celeborn is justly called wise. I am pleased to offer gratitude for the assistance of the axes of Durin's folk this night," he managed to say the words smoothly and made a dignified half-bow as well. 

It was enough. The dwarves nodded acceptance and the Men exhaled mightily, a heartfelt 'Thank Elbereth!' whispered into the air brought a sprinkle of chuckles from both elves and dwarves. The unusual assembly settled down around the campfire for the remaining hours of night. The merchants shared a cask of ale and the First-born quickly secured a buck to roast and soon the humble meal was underway. The Galadhrim heard the whole story of the Day of the Heaving Ground and how Tirno had faced down the Master of Dol Guldur, wounded and with but a single arrow to shoot.

As it turned out, Treg and Tuhm had been at Erebor and knew the humans well, and likewise demanded to join in the party once the destination and purpose were known. That Celeborn found incomprehensible.

"I am not certain if that is wise," he stated. "Why would you wish to participate in this hearing? The Wood Elves have not been friendly to your people for many centuries."

"You were not at Erebor. The Wood Elves as a lot maybe are not much use to us. However, this particular warrior showed skill and acted honourably," said Treg evasively.

"You mean he gives you the chance to embarrass Thranduil in his own court!" laughed one of the woodsmen, shaking his head.

"Aye, you will back anyone who opposes the Wood Elves' King," agreed the other but he did not find humour in the thought. He was already caught between the Wraiths and the Wood Elves and had no desire to add dwarves to the mix.

"It is a dangerous game, baiting Thranduil," cautioned Celeborn. "I will not bring any with me that might jeopardise my goal. Your revenge upon the Sinda Lord will needs be done without my protection."

"What is your goal, noble Lord?" queried Tuhm. "Mine is not to seek revenge, for though Thorin was King under the Mountain I know also that much the dragon stole once belonged to Thranduil. I did not go to Erebor to dispute over gold and would have agreed willingly to terms with the Men and elves."

"Truly? Forgive me if I seem sceptical of your goodwill, Master Tuhm," intoned Celeborn dryly. "Yet I will share my hope with you nonetheless. The warrior we are discussing is Thranduil's son and I intend to reunite them. It does not serve our people for Greenwood to fall to Darkness, and Legolas' disgrace has divided the woodland folk."

"Other stories abound concerning the elf's sire," commented Treg indelicately and Haldir shot him a deadly glare.

"Of which we care not," Brôr hastened to add.

"The point being he is a worthy warrior and should be honoured as such," Tuhm continued and gave his brother a warning scowl.

Tales of the Woodland King's former dealings among dwarves were legend, and not a few had made nice fortunes trading with the Sinda Lord in centuries past. It was the profit to be had that sparked Tuhm's interest. As a merchant of jewels and metalworking, he must use the woodsmen as his distributors, selling to them what the Wood Elves needed. The humans then re-sold the goods and kept the profits. The dwarf to reopen commerce with Thranduil directly would become wealthy indeed.

"And it would not benefit Durin's folk for Mirkwood to become even darker than it is," he concluded.

"Aye, the Wood Elves keep Sauron's attention from turning to the Iron Mountains," sneered Haldir.

"And from Lorien," countered Treg.

"Far! Enough!" Celeborn's voice rose just enough to command silence. He reflected on this unusual request of the Naugrim, yet could not find good cause to allow them to take part in his enterprise. The dwarf was not lying but he was not revealing his true purpose completely. The woodsmen's case was different, for Mirkwood was their home and they openly claimed Legolas as their prince. Celeborn shook his head and frowned.

"Nay, I cannot sanction your entry to the Woodland Realm for I am not the Lord of those lands. Should you come under the eaves you will be at Thranduil's mercy. Only upon the Forest Road may the Naugrim pass through the Greenwood; this you know.

"No messenger have you sent nor heralds nor emissaries from your King to beg audience with the Elven Ruler. Your presence would add instability to an already volatile situation. I will not take you into my company." He rose from his place by the fire and pulled Haldir along with him, and the dwarves understood the subject was closed.

The merchants were not angry, for it had been but a chance encounter and there was nothing at stake or honour sullied by the refusal. The Lord of Lorien's reasons were logical and the dwarves accepted the denial with minimal grumbling, settling down to sleep as the last hour of Ithil's tour commenced. The elves had departed before they woke.

Tbc.


	68. Minuial o Rhîw

Minuial o Rhîw (Winter's Dawn)

The first freeze of the season of fuin aind (the long nights) smote the realm of Imladris with silent ferocity. This was not the gauzy glazing of frost on trees' tops or edging of ferns in the meadows. No faint shimmery coating of frozen dew draped the reeds and grasses at the banks of the sluggish river's bounds. It was not a sense of appreciative awe for winter's austere majesty that swathed the vale of the Bruinen with soundless tranquillity, muting even the boisterous stream's companionable chatter. It was shock.

In the passage of meagre hours, topsoil and mulch had transformed into a fair semblance of stone, unyielding to the pressure of hoof or paw or booted foot. No cheerful crunch of leafy litter made brittle by winter's breath would soften the impact of locomotion. The earth protested the early loss of summer's warmth, uplifting and breaking as water crystallised and demanded more space, forming small jagged ridges that zigged across the heaths and downs, a haphazard array of dendrites mimicking the path of the frozen subsoil moisture.

That temperate, balmy southern breeze from yesterday's dawn had vanished. The atmosphere was heavy with grey-bottomed clouds yet utterly still as if the breath of Arda was parched by thirst and could spare no effort of motion. The air was so cold it hurt to inhale; like breathing a million minute needles that lodged in the sensitive linings of the nostrils and throat. The smell of it was bitter, tainted with the metallic elements of the blood rushing to fill capillaries at the nasal extremity and prevent the tissue's demise by ice. Eyes likewise braced against the assault of such frigid conditions; all but closing to forestall the hungry air from snatching away the tears that hurried to coat the narrow strip of exposed sight. Ears at least could be covered by hair and hood.

It was difficult to surmise which effect of the brutal chill was responsible for the sharp distinction of every sound: the increase of vital flow to the ears or the motionless air? The less noted articulations of life became accented, suddenly the theme of the waking world's melody rather than notes within the undertone. The spread and rustle of a sparrow's wings as it took flight from a shrub might have been the flapping concussion of a hundred starlings rising from the branches of an oak. The crackling of a thistle's stem under the soft tread of a hare's foot could easily pass for the sundering of limb from trunk. Such tenuous vibrations of the inert ether carried easily to elven perception.

Perhaps the lack of other sounds magnifies the noises of nature this day. Mayhap the nearness to autumn's mellow mood makes this early bite of rhîw's (winter's) teeth sink to the marrow. 

Elladan shivered. He stood upon the balcony overlooking the gardens his mother had graced with her beauty and serenity all the years she had dwelled within this sheltered abode. There was a bent-willow fan-backed chair beneath the low spreading arms of an old apple tree visible at the far corner of the yard.

Her 'reading spot' she would say and bid us join her there.

He breathed deeply of the barbed, incisive air and filled his lungs, feeling the icy quills pierce every corner of his being, and resented the cloud of warm, misted water that rushed out as he exhaled. Glad to be in the extravagant comfort of the Last Homely House, rather than some sombre camp in the wilds of Eriador, Celebrian's first-born studied the pattern of the bedded plants and landscaped swards, trying to find a key to her mind within it.

It occurred to him that just as he had failed to truly see his father, so he might have been blind to his Naneth's reality all these many centuries of timeless existence. He respired in discontent; the answer eluded him for all surety regarding his family had disintegrated in the night.

All save the unfailing presence of Elrohir at my side and in my soul.

Elladan did not need to hear movement to know his brother now stood behind him, leaning upon the opened doors' frame, arms hugging round his body against the slicing severity of the glacial weather.

Did she miss the Mellyrn whilst she resided here? I wonder.

Nay, she loved this place. She was happy in Imladris.

Or did we merely think thus because she so willed it?

Does not matter for they are one and the same. Our contentment was her delight, always.

Elrohir smiled when his brother turned, grinning the exact same expression of amusement Elladan wore for having reversed their roles. He stepped back into the study, confident that Elladan would follow, and went to the fireside to ring for refreshment. The soft click of the balcony door closing confirmed his faith. Stirring the ashy coals, he added in fresh kindling and wood and soon the fire was rejuvenated, its rosy heat quickly banishing the nerve-numbing temperature from the room. A burdened suspiration alerted him to his brother's location by the untidy desk and Elrohir went to join him.

There had been no rest for them through the dark hours following the exhausting exchange with Elrond, though they longed for retreat to the solitude of their suite for at least a quiet hour or two. Their father had retired to his bedroom just before dawn, drained after his emotional outpouring and beyond ability to strategize over the inquiry awaiting him in Mirkwood. The twins had encouraged him to relax and restore his strength for the journey's rigours but stayed within the private office rather than secure the same comfort for each other. It was not clear to them if they were guarding the door, expecting him to seek escape without their knowledge, or if they were simply too melancholy to muster enough motivation to move from the study. 

A quick inspection of the room as a whole reinforced the queasy sense of disorientation, for the disruption of meticulous organisation eloquently expressed the tattered disarray of their father's soul. A stack of books lay in clumsy conjunction to the table's sturdy legs, shoved from the surface to land by gravity's placement rather than any individual's design. Two dispatch cases rested against the wall just beside the shut door, their bulky solidity and buckled down hasps accusing neglect of the contents within. A cloak was draped heedlessly upon a chair beneath an elegant rack of gilded hooks, cast in the shapes of stags' horns, mounted on the wall. The rich material dripped off the seat and pooled in a lush lump of wool-lined fur. Upon the desk reposed the jumbled pile of scrolls, documents, and letters dumped the previous night by Elrohir.

Elladan was sifting through them, automatically sorting and categorising the various papers. It was in this very room that the whole mess had been exposed by his simple perusal of the accumulating correspondence. He sent Elrohir a lopsided smirk over his shoulder.

And I thought I was being helpful, relieving some of Glorfindel's burdens with both Adar and Erestor gone. 

Well it was helpful. You did not cause this to come about, gwanun.

An audible gasp flew from Elladan's lips and brought Elrohir closer to see what had instigated the involuntary action. Together they stared at the parchment the elder brother held in his shaking hand, speechless.

The paper was small, a leaf torn from a book or journal, the ragged edge curled up and frayed. There was no writing save for initials and the date, indicating a lapse of two months from its generation to the present. The content was a drawing, a posterior perspective nude of an elf stretched out in repose upon a rumpled blanket.

"Elbereth!" Elladan whispered aloud, his finger tracing over the form on the page.

The detail was exquisite yet unsettling for it left no question concerning the brutality this unfortunate being had suffered. Every scar was accurately depicted. The elf's hair was in horrible disarray. The position of arms and legs bespoke collapse rather than restful ease, for somehow Erestor had captured the deep fatigue wrought by anguished grief. Elladan held nothing less than the seneschal's sketch of the archer rendered on the morning after his brutal joining with their father.

"Legolas," Elrohir said in miserable tones of helpless defeat. Elladan only nodded.

The page had a scatter of discoloured droplets strewn across the lower edge and one marred the clean design of the advisor's work. Instinctively, Elrohir reached over and applied his thumbnail, scraping it off; thinking it was probably wax. The instant he broke the surface of the dried smear both brothers cried an inarticulate exclamation of abhorrence and Elladan dropped the paper to the desk in disgust.

Disturbing the stain had released the unmistakable scent of semen.

The twins' eyes met, confirming each other's recognition of the donor's identity, then simultaneously swivelled back to the carefully inked figure. The paper lay askew within the random disposition of the desk's contents, half curled, and in the faintly dancing firelight the image was imbued with an erotic sense of trembling movement.

Abruptly, Elrohir strode to the window and glared over the barren landscape. Elladan was there in a second, right hand finding its accustomed place on his brother's left shoulder, and together they stared out into the dawn as heavy, lead-hued precipitation fell from the heavens.

It was sleeting in Rivendell.

North of the headwaters of the Bruinen in the Hithaeglir, one hundred leagues on eagle's wings from the Last Homely House over mountains and bottom lands, the same dawn shown upon a darker world that yet was brighter than the rolling hills and heaths enjoying Vilya's preservation. The brisk climate was even harsher at the higher elevations of the Greenwood's arboreal forest, tucked between the Grey and the Misty Mountains. The clouds brushed the towering tops of fir, pine and cedar. The peaks of the highest cliffs were obscured in the thick white flurry of small, dense snow crystals pelting down upon the weald. Before the sky had been light an hour, every tree was dusted with the pristine flakes.

Stirred to wakeful jubilation, the elves in the secluded talan of the ancient oak in the heart of the lovers' maze snuggled closer and burrowed deeper under down-stuffed quilts, savouring the heat of fused feär and entwined limbs. The Tawarwaith and the seneschal had been sequestered away from the cares and intrigues of the outer world for four glorious nights and three exquisite days, cocooned in the growing strength of their new-formed bond, indulging the sensual delights of joined mates. Yet this dawn would be the last spent so removed from the population and they must return to face friends and family, to share the joy of their union's foundation with those that would be most pleased to see it.

Or horrified and determined to ruin it!

Erestor could not help dreading the reaction from the carpenter and Aragorn, neither of whom were likely to find his claim upon Legolas healthy for the archer. The wizards' opinions would probably be negative also based on Aiwendil's earlier comments and the dark looks sent by Mithrandir throughout the trial.

At least the healer and the youngling approve.

He shifted and hugged Pen-rhovan closer, dragging the covers completely over their heads as the snow made its way through the forest canopy and breached the complacent comfort of their cosy nest with its tiny star-shaped icicles.

"It is snowing," he whispered.

"Aye. Will you open the awning?" Legolas replied.

"I do not know how to work it."

"What do you mean? You managed with the Bench well enough. This is a simple rope and pulley mechanism."

"Well I know not where the thing is kept."

"Valar! It is just above and to either side of this nest! You simply do not wish to get cold."

"True, and I do not see why we should bother with it. Not much snow is likely to get through the branches here."

"There is a rather large opening in the limbs directly over the hammock. The coverings and pillows will be soaked through in minutes!"

"Why do you not get up and set it, then? I am unused to these swaying heights."

"Ai! You are impossible!" Legolas grumbled and made certain to shake all the covers off, ensuring his mate's exposure to the chill anyway, and stepped on Berenaur's middle as he rose to open the protective cover rolled up tight against the old tree's trunk.

Erestor let a soft 'ooph' escape his lungs as his lover made use of his stomach for a step stool, but had to smile nonetheless. Legolas was balanced on tip-toe as he reached for the ropes and unfurled the tightly woven silk awning, his naked body quickly turning a soft rose as it met the cold air, his stiff erection jutting out invitingly just arm's length from the seneschal's face. Erestor really did not care about the precipitation and reached up, taking firm hold of the rigid penis and tugging gently to coax Pen-rhovan back down.

"Ai! You are impossible!" Legolas repeated, laughing as he wriggled appreciatively and gazed down upon his dark-haired lover's dancing eyes. He hastened to complete his task, grunting as Berenaur gave a hardier pull on his protruding organ, and let himself be guided into straddling the Noldo's waist. The tight grip left him and arms encircled his shoulders, dragging him into full contact, and he sighed in contentment, resettling to rest his cheek against Berenaur's chest.

The advisor's fingers delved into his hair, now lightly beaded with the glitter of melted snow, traced the contours of his ear, gently raised his chin so they could gaze upon one another. 

Legolas could not stop smiling and Erestor had never seen his eyes so bright, so free of pain and sadness, and that made his own grin stretch impossibly wide. They could not look upon anything beyond each other's faces and found therein everything required and more than either had ever hoped or dreamed would be granted them. By the consummation of their eternal commitment, the contemptible circumstances that had brought them together had evolved into blessings from the Valar, and the wounds each had singly borne so many centuries were healed in the forging of their immutable bond.

"Alae! Gwedhim, Legolas," (Behold! We are bound, Legolas.) Erestor's voice hushed out this glad announcement, even as it did each time he returned from reverie to find the wild elf in his arms. He claimed his new mate's mouth tenderly. One hand disappeared amongst the golden mane while the other tweaked a cheek of the archer's lean and slightly sticky arse. 

Legolas let him control the kiss, revelling in the comfort of complete possession, compliant to the whims of his heart's master. "Aye, gwedhim," he repeated, panting softly, when his lips were relinquished for the necessity of breathing. "Man si, Berenaur?" (What now, Berenaur?)

It was a purely facetious question, however, as his sparkling lapis eyes transmitted his avid agreement with the rapid escalation of their desire.

"Si thelon le pathro, groth nûr ar sigilen land", (Now I intend to fill you, delving deep with my long blade.) Erestor answered anyway, leering lasciviously as he rolled to turn them on their sides and secured his hold on Pen-rhovan firmly, pivoting his pelvis to rub their erections together, dipping his head to taste the mark of ownership adorning the Tawarwaith's neck. He threw one leg up around the wild elf's hips for good measure and rocked harder as Legolas' salient penis shifted and seated in the juncture of thigh and groin. They both ground out a lusty moan. 

"Oh, aye, caro, caro!" (Oh, yes, do it, do it!) Legolas crooned and leaned into the suction upon his throat, head tilted over and eyes shut, to encourage the mouth's progress upon his body. A strong shudder convulsed him when Berenaur quickly shifted and sucked the tip of his ear. He wailed, shoving his penis into the Noldo's wiry pubic curls, longing for a tight, warm hole to accept it.

"Le echedithon addolad, lavel lîn lhewig erui." (I will make you come again, licking your ear alone.), boasted Erestor with a smirk.

Legolas' eyes shot open and with determined effort he pushed Berenaur onto his back, giggling at the surprised yelp this forced from the Noldo. 

"Nay! Le garithon sennui!" (Nay! I shall have you instead!), he countered, fairly swarming over the prone body to get at the seneschal's cock, lapping and licking with a hot pink tongue before gulping it down. One hand worked the base of the engorged organ, stroking and pumping in steady counterpoint to the lavish attention bestowed by voracious lips upon the naked head and its wide flared rim. Legolas cupped the heavy scrotum and ever so carefully squeezed. He laughed around the dense column of flesh trapped beneath his tongue as Berenaur shouted and squirmed.

The seneschal could have reversed their roles. He could have demanded the dominant position and willingly would Legolas yield to such a command. Indeed, the archer had surrendered so often and with such whole-hearted abandon that Erestor had increasingly given in to the exhilarating thrill of thoroughly subjugating his partner. Yet he knew how much Legolas delighted in the sensation of being completely encased inside confining heat and constricting pressure, thrusting against the small swell of flesh that drove his lover to frenzy. Legolas quite loved to fuck.

And it was no sacrifice to give in to him, for the younger elf had amply demonstrated that he would undertake anything to ensure his partner's ecstasy. Besides, it was not so much being taken by Legolas as it was granting the silvan another means to fulfil his desperate need to provide satisfaction. It was not at all like Orophin's forceful and demanding penetration, which left no doubt as to which of them was in control. Rather, Legolas was nearly undone just by the initial entry into Erestor's body and almost wept struggling to contain himself long enough to ensure his lover's pleasure first.

So Erestor relaxed, content in the knowledge that he was about to be lifted into dizzying paroxysms of bliss twice. He sighed in delicious salacity as Legolas palpated his balls again. Never letting the hard flesh slip from his mouth, the wild elf then shifted sideways for better leverage and eased the Noldo's thighs apart to prod the small entrance to unadulterated paradise. His finger pressed in and wormed unerringly to the precise spot guaranteed to produce elated passion. Erestor grunted with impatient appreciation.

"Aye, there, Pen-rhovan, there!" he hissed with a whimper, realising he must pull back from the torrid maw with its slick, fiery, massage in order to bear down on the digit inserted inside. "Add another, saes!" he pleaded and felt his rectal muscles stretching as the second finger entered.

Legolas had both hands busy, one employed within Berenaur's arse incessantly rubbing the prostate as the other worked in concert with his teeth and tongue upon the bulging cock deep in his throat. He ached for the seneschal's touch but dared not encourage it, for then he would spend too soon and disappoint them both. He could not suppress a needy whine as Berenaur tugged on his ears with either hand, boosting his head up and down the length of the solid shaft. The seneschal almost pulled him off and then with a howling cry grabbed his hair and yanked back down, shooting a jet of thick and tangy semen over the wild elf's palate.

The archer swallowed, sucked harder, plunged his fingers deeper and growled.

Erestor shrieked and jerked up off the fluffy pile of pillows, flopping back down with a gasping heave to garner air sufficient to prevent passing out, blinding explosions of light dancing through his brain as every nerve in his body resonated with the consuming orgasm.

In the silence that followed, Legolas kissed his way up the advisor's sweaty, quivering body and draped himself over the Noldo, leaning in for a slow, deliberate oral exploration that sampled every centimetre of the gaping, gusting mouth. He delicately kissed each half-closed eye and its dark, curved brow, the long elegant nose and the small dent between puffing nostrils and ardently crimson lips. Legolas stole a lick across both ear tips nestled amid the mussed black hair and laughed to hear the cries of enjoyment this brought forth. He burrowed his nose under the Noldo's jaw and tasted the damply pungent skin where it met the throat, and considered whether to leave a mark of his own there for all to see.

Instantly his hand flew to the site on his neck where the seneschal had been sucking, biting and savouring him for the last three days and four nights. It was tender to the touch there now, a rather exhilarating kind of soreness though, for Legolas had never been marked thus before. He sat up, smiling with lids furled as he cupped his palm around the dark purple zone, feeling heat lift off it and permeate the skin of his hand. A faint red flush overtook his cheeks and ears as he imagined what his friends' reactions would be.

Erestor opened his eyes fully as he felt Legolas' slight weight but substantial warmth leave his chest, found him sitting thus and was paralysed in spellbound admiration of the vision.

The wild elf was settled on his haunches, the slender blade of his penis thrust outward between the bent knees, skin marbled pink with enkindled arousal, lips parted and eyes shut as if enjoying some private dream. His face was tipped up toward the tops of the trees and held at a slight angle as though listening to some pleasing strains of music too muffled by the snow for any but himself to hear. His tangled locks cascaded behind him but for a single thick twist of felted gold that lay upon his left shoulder and draped against the exquisite perfection of toned pectorals, curling at the end to encircle a pertly inviting maroon nipple.

One slim, long-fingered hand overlaid passion's imprint and as Erestor watched, breathless with longing, the other went unerringly to the turgid organ between his thighs, massaging and stroking. With a lurch of his stomach, the seneschal realised he was suddenly quite jealous of those hands, smoothing and petting flesh that was his alone.

In that instant, Legolas' eyes flashed open and the light of his desire shown brightly as he met the Noldo's lust-limned black orbs. He smiled and pounced, landing with a threatening rumble of unsated hunger upon his mate's chest while his unyielding penis jabbed against the seneschal's belly. Pen-rhovan fastened his lips around Berenaur's ready orifice and dipped his tongue in to meet the wet, beckoning muscle. They exchanged curling caresses as hands mirrored their mouths' activity, fondling and touching, kneading and rubbing every spot on each other's bodies discovered to deliver heightened excitement.

Erestor broke the kiss.

"Why do you torment me with this unbearable anticipation?" he demanded softly and was pleased to see the relief and gratitude that broke out on his lover's features. Well he knew that Legolas still found it difficult to ask for this particular favour.

Legolas propped himself up and shimmied across Berenaur's body, grinning as this provoked an involuntary twitch in his mate's groin, to reach over the side of the suspended hammock. The thoughtful creators of the bonding bed had worked a clever net bag that was attached within easy reach of distracted, aroused mating elves. The little pouch was large enough to hold a vial or two of scented and soothing oils, a packet of herbs good both for easing the sting of any bruising or abrasions and, when chewed, extending pleasure and sustaining libido. Usually a bottle of clear water and a soft silk cloth or two completed the contents.

Fishing around blindly with his fingers, as his lips found themselves too near Berenaur's dark brown right nipple to ignore thus preventing visual inspection, Legolas could not seem to locate what he so desperately needed. He frowned and relinquished his hold on the tantalising hump of sensitised nerves as his mate groused in disappointment. Their eyes met; the archer's clearly expressing a combination of worry and frustration.

"What?" asked Erestor, reaching out to pinch an alluringly reddened ear tip poking through the disarray of golden hair.

"Ai! Oh! I cannot find it," Legolas jerked under the contact and dipped his head at once to resume his feasting, flicking the rising node with his nearly drooling tongue. "You shall just have to," he continued between licks, "finish me some other way instead."

This was not what the advisor wished to hear, having looked forward to their coupling and the satisfying vigour of Legolas' cock bringing him to rapturous ejaculation a second time. He took a handful of the unruly tresses and pulled the eager mouth off him.

"Nay, I think not! You will not have me just because there is no oil with which to coat this precious instrument?" he teased, squeezing hard on the archer's engorged shaft.

"Aye, you know I will not risk any hurt to you," Legolas bucked and moaned in his lover's hold but his words rang with the timbre of finality.

"I did not say you should. There are other means to ensure you are slick enough to glide right in."

Legolas barely had time to react to the sultry silk of the seneschal's seductive words before he was thrown over to his back as Berenaur braced against his thighs and began laving his cock with a soppy red tongue. When the heat and moisture of the talented mouth engulfed him completely, Legolas sang out an appreciative shout, wriggling under the firm pressure of his lover's weight, unable to thrust up into the tantalising stimulation.

Erestor was sorely tempted to continue until he extracted the bittersweet essence of Pen-rhovan's release. He was fully erect again and the sensation of this elf squirming under his hands, completely at his mercy, begging for completion, was enough to steal away reason and resolve. Unbidden, two fingers found and exploited the tightly cinctured entrance into the searing constriction of Legolas' arse. In and out he plunged the digits as his lover writhed, calling his name over and over until even this degenerated into incoherent groaning.

It was not until Legolas wrapped his free leg up high around his back and pressed hard that Erestor came back to himself and stopped, liberating the archer's column, dark and spit smeared, as he pulled his fingers free of the rhythmic clenching of the scarred passage. The limb across his shoulders fell limply to the bed as he sat back. Chest heaving dramatically as he sought to calm his raging desire to impale the younger elf in one fast, forceful thrust, he met Legolas' disoriented, questioning gaze.

"I think that is quite slippery enough now," he huffed out with effort, eyes shifting back to take in the sight of the fully primed penis.

Excitement coursed through Legolas as he hurriedly reversed their placement, turning Berenaur to his side and bending the upper leg at the knee to expose the concealed opening. He scarcely registered the seneschal propping himself up on an elbow and grabbing the leg to pull it closer to his chest and out of the way. The very sight of the small, flexing annulus was enough to drive him into a frenzy of delight and he bent over, lavishing the tender skin with dabbing laps, just as Berenaur had done for him, before driving the flexible tongue inside. Berenaur's cries of enjoyment were sufficient to encourage him to probe deeper, preparing the seneschal with these preliminary thrusts.

"Valar! Enough, I am ready! Please!" Erestor complained and pushed back on the penetrating muscle, impatient for his lover's flesh to claim him.

Legolas complied, settling himself on hands and knees as he shifted to bring his penis in line with the anal aperture. He caught and held his mate's gaze as he drove slowly inside but stopped, throwing his head back and trembling all over as he felt his foreskin peeled back when the channel's rippling contractions gripped him, drawing him deeper.

"Berenaur," he murmured between heavy breaths, "it is like…like…nothing I have ever known," he stammered, unable to compare the experience to any other, for no sensation was this pleasurable and comforting at the same time. Eagerly he rocked forward and shoved his cock earnestly, angling for the small zone; the sensual centre he knew was there. He struck it with unerring accuracy and smiled to hear Berenaur's call of approbation.

"Again, Pen-rhovan; harder this time," he commanded and Legolas obeyed.

Back and forth he pivoted with steadily increasing speed and power, spurred on by the seneschal's passionately guttural cries and the raging need to touch his lover's soul and release the fullness of his adoring gratitude for the love he had been given. Legolas spared a glance at Berenaur's face and found the advisor watching him in lubricious fascination. His heart blazed up and he drilled in farther in order to move his body near enough to claim the Noldo's lips. Berenaur's hand reached around and gripped the nape of his neck, yanking him closer, insinuating his slithery tongue down the back of his throat. Clumsily, Legolas balanced on one arm as his thrusting became more erratic and he closed his freed fist around the seneschal's cock, working frantically to bring them both to completion at the same instant.

He was successful and they only dimly heard each other's triumphant howls as they spent their semen simultaneously; Legolas coating the Noldo's bowels with the warmly viscous extrusion while Berenaur's seed ran like a flow of sweet, heated cream over his clutching fingers. Their mouths disengaged and Legolas collapsed into Berenaur's open arms, his twitching cock still inside as the organ relaxed and softened. Neither could speak for being out of breath and just held one another in contented peace as their euphoria settled into the serenity of culmination.

It was a few minutes before Erestor realised the dampness collecting on his chest was not the result of their combined perspiration. A shuddery heave followed by a wheezy sniff alerted him that Legolas was spilling tears freely. Immediately but carefully the seneschal repositioned himself so he could hold Legolas close, lift his chin to have a look at him, and keep the lovely genitalia ensconced within his backside, for the contact gave the archer great comfort, he knew.

"Ai, ai! What is amiss?" he cried softly, for Legolas' eyes were brimming over in distress, and Erestor kissed the liquid streaks as they made their way down flushed cheeks.

"I do not wish to go from here, ever!" came the shaky and somewhat petulant reply as Legolas tried to bury his face against his lover's neck again.

Berenaur let him and snuggled closer, smoothing a comforting hand over the tangled mane and crooning reassurance as he did. But then a terrible thought jolted through him and his heart pounded for a second in fear.

"You regret our binding?" he queried in anxious dismay.

"Nay!" came the instantaneous and startled exclamation as Legolas lifted his head to look upon the Noldo. "I just do not want anything to change, yet as soon as we leave this talan, everything will."

"Ah, Pen-rhovan!" Erestor laughed in relief and tightened his arms around the younger elf. "You are wrong. It is not this dawn that ushers in change nor the outer world that has been altered. It is you and I; we have been transformed. This happened the night we agreed to come here. Nothing can steal our bond away from us if we cherish it and rely upon one another for strength."

Legolas was quiet as he thought on this and sighed as he accepted the explanation, trying to silence the doubts and warnings singing through his thoughts. His tears subsided and were replaced by steely resolve glinting through the shining remnant of his apprehensive imaginings. 

"I pray that you are right," Legolas answered him finally, "for I do not wish to be parted from you." He leaned up to kiss the seneschal's gently smiling lips and returned the expression when the embrace ended.

"I find that I love you, Berenaur son of Damand, Lord of the House of the Swan's Wing, noble warrior and citizen of Gondolin, and my mate for all time even beyond the changing of the world."


	69. Mereth Bardolel

Mereth Bardolel (The Homecoming Party)

Now the snow was an unexpected obstacle to Fearfaron, Gladhadithen and Lindalcon, for they had not thought to have such bitterly frigid climatic conditions arrive so soon in the season. Their plans for Legolas' bonding party were severely impinged, for they had decided to use the old overgrown clearing that had been their friend's haunt in his young years to host the celebration.

Over the course of the new couple's romantic interlude, the healer and the Councillor's apprentice had been working diligently to clean up the little glade and make it festive and inviting. All the weedy, disordered shrubs and grasses had been trimmed back or removed. The gangly saplings had each been transplanted to other sites, since they were dormant for the winter anyway. All except the little oak that Legolas had graced with his touch. This one remained, for it was growing close to the stump of the ancient beech that had been so cruelly cut down in years past. For the Wood Elves, a stripling in such close conjunction to a lost elder of the weald was called the daughter of the fallen tree, regardless if the species was different, and none would seek to displace such rejuvenation.

Gladhadithen understood some of the vale's history and significance to the archer but did not realise what had ultimately transpired there. She only comprehended that this was one of the Tawarwaith's refuges and that more than any other place it had served for a home. Indeed, in one of the trees ringing the meadow's margins was a painfully cramped and simple talan, with absolutely no comforts of any kind other than a dilapidated awning that had disintegrated as soon as it was unfurled. The healer dragged Fearfaron to the spot and he physcally cringed to see the poor quality of this abode's construction.

"This was before I taught him about wood and structure," he had asserted defensively, concerned Gladhadithen might imagine he had helped Legolas craft this deplorable bit of rotting, twisted branches bound together with rope and wedged within the crux of the tall tree's divided trunk.

The healer and Lindalcon had both laughed at that and were pleased to see the carpenter become interested in their efforts. The Spirit Hunter had been decidedly morose and taciturn ever since he found out that the two had arranged for Legolas and Erestor to spend four nights in the bonding talan. The three had argued stridently that first night, for Fearfaron had been awaiting Legolas' return, thinking the Noldo only wished to make peace with the Tawarwaith for contributing so greatly to his distress and anguish. Fearfaron was convinced his ion edwen (second son) was too vulnerable to exercise good judgement when deciding with whom to share his body while the foreign elf had already admitted he was unable to act honourably and refrain from satisfying his urges at Legolas' expense.

Gladhadithen countered that she had seen more of the seneschal's true nature than had the carpenter and disclosed the events that took place in the stables.

As far as Lindalcon was concerned, he was convinced this liaison was the perfect solution to Legolas' troubling dreams. The brothers had been standing side by side when the Noldo stepped between them and Thranduil's wrath, and that action was enough to overrule any doubts he might have entertained. Only someone devoted to his heart-brother would court the King's rage so blatantly, especially when Erestor was already in a precarious position as a trespassing spy. Hearing of the sound punishment the Imladrian had administered to the deceitful guardsman underscored the young elf's decision to support Legolas' choice any way he could.

"We are going to provide Legolas this short reprieve from sorrow. Has he not earned it?" he defiantly interrupted the carpenter's ongoing tirade against the healer's lack of wisdom. 

This had silenced Fearfaron momentarily. While he still had misgivings, what Lindalcon said was true and the youth's only desire was the same as his own: to accord Legolas some measure of happiness.

"Of course he has!" the carpenter retorted. "But have you figured out what we are to do when the Noldo leaves him, Lindalcon? Have you an answer for that?" Fearfaron could not help bring this, his greatest dread, to the fore. 

"Nay, I do not," Lindalcon frowned as he spoke and sighed. "Yet perhaps that will not happen. The seneschal does not wear any rings on his hands, have you not noticed this? If he is bound to someone else then why does he not bear the proper signs?"

"Who can say? They are Noldor; I know not what customs are practised among them."

"Well Aragorn says his mates are not Noldor, they are silvan elves of the Galadhrim. They would demand such outward tokens of his fidelity."

"From what I have overheard between the Grey wizard and the Brown, the Noldo does not include this concept within his set of values."

"We cannot hope to judge his character prior to our meeting him here and observing his manner toward Legolas. In this I have no reservations; Erestor has put aside his interests to aid our Tawarwaith. It is likely he will even face banishment as a traitor to his Realm for what he does now. The situation with these other mates will have to be sorted out between the three of them later," Gladhadithen had interjected her thoughts.

"Sorted out?" Fearfaron nearly shouted.

"Aye, that is between Erestor and those Lorien elves to decide. We need not concern ourselves with that just now."

"Yet we all may guess how this will end for Legolas. Why would the seneschal abandon an arrangement he has found satisfactory for several centuries?"

"He may not have to do so. Mayhap they will not object."

"Mayhap! Perhaps! It is Legolas' feä that is in the balance with those tenuous hopes!" the furious father fumed.

"There is Mithrandir as well. He will not let Legolas succumb to grief; he has sworn it," Lindalcon reminded.

"Ai! The wizard's claim! Legolas has got tangled up in an unsolvable riddle," mourned Fearfaron.

"You are ranting over facts, mellon vrûn (old friend), and while your worries are understandable they do not serve to clarifying this dilemma," the healer responded with compassion. She realised the carpenter only wished he had somehow been able to prevent the train of events that had brought his adopted child to such a convoluted impasse.

For several minutes the three were silent while Fearfaron assimilated these words. As he searched his heart he had to admit he was pleased that Legolas had freely chosen an elf, even if that selection was a foreign Lord of dubious reputation. This was a level of independence the carpenter had thought removed from his foster-son once Mithrandir's infusion of vital substance had been accomplished. Still, the wild warrior's predicament was definitely more irregular than any he had ever heard recounted.

"Why must it be so complex; Legolas needs stability and permanence, a lover who will be constant," he sighed.

"Fearfaron, you have given him stability and continuity; he needs a mate for something rather less abstract!" laughed Gladhadithen.

"Can they even bond under these conditions? They hardly know each other," he listed his second qualifying apprehension. "Legolas does not begin to understand what is involved in such things."

"Do not expect us to heed these ridiculous statements! He most certainly is aware of the traditions of our people, more than most in some respects," she railed back.

"Nay, he thinks he is bound to Malthen and even you cannot deny that!" Fearfaron's voice was raised and he turned from the healer, intending to leave the clearing and have no part of their plans. "This can only lead to more heartache for Legolas. You are both wrong to encourage it."

"I do refute it! He realises he does not belong to the corpsman. After the hearing closed, did he wish to speak with Maltahondo or even ask me what had happened to him? Nay, his eyes were for Erestor only," said Gladhadithen gently. "If he returns to us and senses your anger that will only serve to exacerbate the insecurity he must feel. Should he turn from the Noldo now, whence shall he go? To Mithrandir?"

That struck a sore spot, as the healer knew it would, and the carpenter halted, shaking his head, arms folded tightly around his chest.

"Legolas is willing to take this risk to his heart and after all it is his. There is nothing you can do to alter that. Will you support him or oppose him?" she pressed.

"Such a simple thing, Fearfaron, and it will give him so much joy! He wants Erestor and the Noldo cares for him; is this so terrible?" Lindalcon had heard enough of the bickering. "We are going to treat them as if they had spent a year in courtship, pretend the required gifts have been presented to one another, act as if Erestor formally petitioned you for the opportunity to win Legolas' heart. We will throw them the traditional Bardolel Mereth (Homecoming Party) when the bonding is done, and if you do not help it will hurt Legolas more than I care to think about!"

That last notion had been the critical element for Fearfaron. He would approve no activity that would cause his adopted child pain if he could knowingly prevent it. And there was likewise nothing he would not attempt if its accomplishment would lessen Legolas' burden of grief and grant instead peaceful contentment. The carpenter heaved a deep lungful of disconsolation and blew back out a rather noisy capitulating sough, adding a curt nod of his head in the healer's direction.

"That has to go," he stated, vision locking on the crude shelter high in the branches above them.

Lindalcon flashed Gladhadithen a smile, the healer gave the carpenter's arm an encouraging squeeze, and the trio set to work on the lowly thicket that moment under the faltering twinkle of the cloud-hazed stars.

By the following dawn, Fearfaron had enlisted the aid of two elves in building a suitable domicile for Legolas and as soon as word spread that the Tawarwaith would be settling in the glen with his new mate, donations of all sorts of materials and supplies began to accumulate. Everything, from linens and bedding to dishes and a wrought iron brazier for warmth, was brought forth by smiling elves eager to do what they could to make life easier for the former outcast. Furs and rugs, netting for steamy summer nights and rich silk velvet curtains to enclose the bed during winter's onslaught, tables and seats, a diminutive settee upholstered in red satin and embroidered with forest scenes in gold, pillows and pots.

Indeed, any item required to ensure a proper domestic environment found its way to the weedy meadow. Every bit of it came from someone's home or workroom and the generosity of the silvans was overwhelming. It was clear none of the folk of the woods believed their Tirno should endure further hardship or banishment.

Of course as excitement over the activity grew news of the goings on reached Aragorn, Aiwendil, and Mithrandir. Just past midday the three had marched down to the coomb, easily finding the locale due to the virtually continuous flow of elves coming and going, carrying and fetching. There they had stared at the spectacle of Gladhadithen ordering the renovation's progress more like a captain of the guard than a healer as Lindalcon directed the deployment of the ever-increasing stash of goods and resources. As soon as he had sighted the human and the wizards, he called out hoping to enlist their aid.

"Aragorn! What took you three so long? We have little time and much to do," he laughed at their mystified expressions as they looked around at the bustling bodies, busy hands, and laughing faces of the elves employed in the labour.

"What is all this? A day ago the Wood Elves openly condemned Legolas for his 'indiscretions' with foreign elves and now everyone wants to behave as though none of that unpleasantness transpired," fussed Gandalf gruffly as his fiery eyes nearly disappeared beneath his furrowed brows.

Each and every elf ceased what they were doing and turned to the Istar, their eyes serious and remorseful as they regarded him.

"We were wrong to doubt Legolas," one elleth spoke up contritely.

"And some of us never did," another elf added firmly.

"Consider this undertaking our attempt at restitution, meagre though it may be," a Sinda warrior added quietly.

"Meagre indeed," mumbled the Grey Pilgrim, as he sent a smouldering glare at the carpenter high in the boughs above their heads. "You approve of this farce, Fearfaron?"

"Our intent is not false!" sang out a petite silvan inu before the carpenter could reply. She wiped her soil-grimed hands against her apron, converged upon the wizard's position, and stared up into his menacing glower with cool resolve. It was none other than Ben'waith, Meril's confidante on the palace staff. "We are here to offer whatever assistance we can to ensure a cosy sanctuary for Legolas and his mate. It is not enough to undo the wrongs of the past, but it is a start."

"Absolutely appropriate and I heartily agree with you!" exclaimed Radagast and rubbed his hands together gleefully. "What do you need us to do?"

With that endorsement the work details resumed their tasks and the dale filled with the murmur of voices, the slice of scythes cutting grass and trimming shrubs, the dull concussion of spades digging under roots. From the limbs above the rasping grate of saws and planes shaping wood blended with the clackering thump of hammers and the soft singing of the Spirit Hunter. The Brown Wizard took from Ben'waith a list of items known to be dear to Legolas that had been packed away upon his exile. Aiwendil scuttled off to the stronghold to retrieve these objects, calling for Mithrandir and the mortal to join him.

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged gloomy glances, feeling it was perhaps premature to plan such festivities with the Judgement yet to be rescinded, but then the Man shrugged and allowed the jubilant atmosphere to sink into his soul as a smile broke out on his features.

"I think it is useless to defy them, Gandalf; we may as well do our part." He gave the wizard an encouraging slap on the back and followed Radagast out of the croft.

The Istar sighed and peered one last time into Gladhadithen's challenging countenance before relenting. Really, he had little to complain of other than the fickleness of the forest citizens.

During the first night of the Tawarwaith's bonding, the wizard had faced his hidden attraction for the outcast and admitted to Aiwendil that his motives for assisting Legolas had in part involved the desire to create a reciprocal attachment in the outcast elf. Aragorn and Radagast had pointed out the selfishness of the Maia's designs and the necessity for concealing these unrequited cravings from Legolas' discovery. Neither of his friends, however, had been aware of how far across the boundaries of decency the wizard had gone, for he had used his link with Legolas to invade the privacy of the nascent couple's most intimate moments early in the night. Gandalf had taken himself to the base of the oak tree that held the lovers' nest and there indulged his newly awakened lust. 

Erestor's efforts to lift Legolas from his state of grief and despair, to free him from the hold of Maltahondo's false love, had thoroughly shamed the Istar. Though both the human and the wizard had harboured strong reservations concerning Erestor's fitness as a mate for the Tawarwaith, Mithrandir could not doubt the seneschal's sincerity any longer. When the pair had lapsed into exhausted sleep midway through the evening, the wizard had closed his connection to the wild elf's mind, ensuring the sacramental secrecy of the moment of bonding, and determined never to abuse the archer's trust again.

And I shall have to instruct Legolas in the means to prevent others from voyeurism of this nature.

His thinking had been of Elrond, gifted in mind-speak, learning of the outcast's new talent and manipulating it for his own pleasure. But the disturbing remnant of a salty sea breeze had wafted through the wizard's consciousness almost the next instant. Mithrandir did not like how easily he had gained admittance to the wild elf's brain. It was obvious the Tawarwaith's affinity with the Spirit of the Greenwood gave him a natural ability in this area of which he was not even aware. Additionally, it had probably never occurred to Legolas that anyone would be interested in exploring what went on in his mind. Nor had that idea entered my thoughts until now.

Resolved to address the issue at the first opportunity, the Maia had gathered his wits, cleaned himself up, and returned to the stronghold and the consolation of non-judgemental succour from his friends. He had explained to the Man and the Maia what Erestor was attempting to do and they had both pledged to back the seneschal's efforts unfailingly, even to the point of convincing Legolas to leave the Greenwood and abide in Lorien if the Judgement was lifted. None of them had considered that the Wood Elves would turn out to be so considerate or willing to try and make the wild elf feel welcome among them. 

With a bemused shake of his head, Gandalf's features had at last creased up in a pleased smile as he had exited the glen to assist Aragorn and his fellow wizard in their assigned chore. That had been sunrise of the day Elladan and Elrohir, Orophin and Dambethnîn had left Lorien for Imladris. 

By the frosty dawn of the fourth day, as Celeborn and his entourage galloped toward the Forest Gate, while the twins were overcome with sick despair for the depth of their father's obsession, in the Greenwood all was ready for the Tawarwaith and his soul's companion to commence their eternally united futures. Lindalcon, the healer, and the carpenter stood at the entrance to the reclaimed dell, wrapped up in thick fur-lined cloaks to keep the snow from saturating them in sub-zero dampness.

"Bloody Vairë!" hissed Lindalcon.

"I am rather tired of folks blaming her for every single thing that goes wrong," grumped Gladhadithen. "What has fate to do with the weather? Has it never occurred to you that just as Mithrandir was sent here to aid us, so some of Melkor's lesser disciples remain to plague Arda in things both great and small?"

"Indeed, I had never thought of it quite that way," admitted Fearfaron with a sharp laugh.

"Well, then, Angband take the devils perverting the works of Ulmo and Manwë this day!" the young elf amended his curse.

"Never mind, we can yet salvage the festivities," encouraged the carpenter. "Lindalcon, you make sure that our newly bonded couple is distracted. I will see Legolas first and then while he is headed back to the nest, you will escort the Noldo to me. No doubt they are both stewing over what I will say to Erestor," Fearfaron chuckled smugly.

Lindalcon's mouth split in a huge grin. "Ah, that might present a problem. You see, I discovered Legolas' clothes at the bottom of the tree and…"

"You were in the maze?" Gladhadithen sounded appalled.

"His clothes? All of them?" parroted the carpenter, smiling as his scandalised mind presented vivid images of why and how the garments were discarded.

"And the seneschal's boots, too," Lindalcon shrugged as he chortled over his prank. "I have everything stowed away safe and snug in the trunk up there." He pointed to the talan, secure from the elements beneath its watertight awnings and closely drawn curtains.

"Why leave the boots?" wondered Gladhadithen aloud.

"It is of no concern; we can embarrass them by insisting on an explanation once everyone has arrived and the party is going well," Fearfaron answered. "This joke of yours will neatly fit into our plans. I am confident Legolas will leave the nest first in order to forage for clothing from his room in my talan. I will keep him busy so you can take the seneschal something to wear and a cloak and guide him out of the maze," he appointed this duty to the young councillor in training.

"Gladhadithen, you are to intercept our Tawarwaith on his way back and while I make the Noldo squirm for a few minutes, you explain to Legolas that Lindalcon will bring his mate along in due time. Encourage him to bathe and relax, and make sure there is sufficient heat at the baths!"

"Right, and that they are unoccupied as well," she giggled, "for, if our pair are like other new couples, the lovers may require more than one dousing!"

"While they are both getting all freshened up, Mithrandir, Aiwendil, and Aragorn can light bonfires to ward off the cold here," continued the carpenter.

"Fearfaron and I will put up some canopies to keep the snow out of the food," Lindalcon volunteered.

"And then Ben'waith and I will begin setting out the banquet," the healer concluded their plotting.

"Excellent! Actually, this will not be so bad at all; the snow is rather lovely," beamed the delighted foster-father. Once he had got over his worries for Legolas' wellbeing and decided to make the best of it, he found he was quite enjoying the role of the proud parent again. Not since Annaldír's bonding over two thousand years ago had he partaken in such an enjoyable enterprise. He gazed wistfully at the talan he had rushed to build. "You do not suppose he suspects any of this, do you? And is the home large enough for them?"

"How would he ever imagine all this was going on?" the healer reassured and gave the Spirit Hunter a quick hug.

"Aye, and Legolas is a warrior, not one for elaborate dwellings," reminded Lindalcon. "That is more space than he is used to now, I am certain. And there are just the two of them anyway; how much room do they need?"

Fearfaron sighed blissfully and smiled at his cohorts. In silent accord they parted to attend their various jobs, leaving the glade to be transformed in the quiet of the falling snow.


	70. Legolas Nestannen

Legolas Nestannen (Legolas Healed)

Lindalcon waited at the entrance to the maze, sadly noting that the blossoming bromeliads were encased in white fluff and likely to be ruined by the time Anor reappeared to melt away the frozen encrustation. He shifted from foot to foot, stamping his bear-hide mukluks to increase the circulation down to his toes. Valtamar's son did not like the cold much and tucked his hands down inside the folds of his woollen cape after tugging the fox-fur trimmed hood closer over his eyes. He scanned the pathway carefully for any sign of the svelte form of the archer and then turned to inspect the limbs above in case his brother decided to take the more lofty route. Lindalcon sighed in impatient irritation.

What is taking so long? Legolas is an early riser.

No sooner had he asked himself this than he laughed aloud at the risqué subaudition and his vivacious imagination provided the answer in graphic detail. He grinned delightedly, hoping he was correct and the two lovers were indeed enjoying a last episode of bliss in the secluded talan. His thoughts turned then to his own future and how soon it would be before he met the one who would share his soul. Thus far, he had met numerous ellyth that stirred his blood, yet none had seemed to judge his presence noteworthy much less returned the interest. He exhaled his frustrated confusion.

Am I so unattractive? What am I doing wrong? Is it because of my status after Adar's death?

These were things he would once have taken to his Naneth, pouring out his fears and insecurities before her calmly serene attention, confident of receiving the wisdom he needed and reassurance that there was nothing lacking in him. Now, he found he could not imagine trusting her with any of his heart's concerns, and this truth overwhelmed him with sorrow anew. Lindalcon twisted the pain into anger and kicked at the tree sheltering him from the snow. The offended evergreen responded by dropping a branchfull of the accumulated precipitation upon his head.

"Elbereth's Tits!" he shouted as he shook the frigid load from his cloak. The pack holding an overcoat for Legolas and clothing for Erestor was also buried so he hastened to dig it free, brushing away the milky mantle before it melted and seeped inside. "Úcerin nauthad sui Gladdie câr; Vairë na torog vaug!" (I do not think as Gladdie does; Vairë is a tyrannous troll!) Lindalcon glunched in vexation. Almost immediately bright laughter sounded from the way ahead and the youth looked up to behold Legolas bounding toward him.

"Legolas!" Lindalcon called out as his brother leaped upon him, toppling them both to the frozen ground. "Ai! You will get us soaked! Off me, you rogue!"

"You are the troublemaker!" scolded the wild elf. He jumped up and offered a hand to assist Lindalcon and more merriment bubbled out as he was yanked into a strangling embrace. "Maligning Vairë and the kind healer who is Naneth Edwen (second mother) to me. And what have you done with my things?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Lindalcon dissembled through his gloating giggles. "Is something missing, Legolas? Did you misplace every stitch of clothing you were wearing when last I beheld you? However did that happen? Perhaps we should inform Iarwain that there is a thief among the population."

He released his hold and stepped back to take in the sight of the Tawarwaith. Legolas' feet were bare and his hair was loose around his shoulders, the seneschal's leggings and tunic, both of which were much too large, cinched around his narrow waist. If not for the leather belt, the pants, rolled up at the hems to prevent tripping on them, would no doubt slip down into the powdery duff. Legolas was clutching tightly to the front of the tunic to prevent it from sliding off his shoulder and smiling hugely in spite of the cold, which had reddened the tip of his nose and chapped his cheeks.

But what made the younger elf catch and hold his breath was the change in the archer's eyes. From the depths of clear ultramarine shone the expected fiery gleam of strength, the stubborn boldness and insurmountable determination to survive, so vital a component of his character; these were certainly still there. The deeply ingrained sadness, the dull tarnish of hopelessness invading the intelligent spirit, these were vanished. No longer did the tormented glaze of isolation and loneliness jade the clarity of the vibrant orbs. The bereft and torn remnants of the shattered soul could be seen renewed, knitted together in the unmistakable spark of new life granted by the full expression of the seneschal's love, equally returned by the wild elf's spirit.

Legolas let him look as long as he wished and self-consciously endured the scrutiny, for truthfully he needed this objective confirmation of the unique sensation filling his entire being. Was it real? Was he bound to Berenaur?

Lindalcon's inspection ended and he exhaled with gleeful satisfaction as the two acknowledged each other once more, eyes meeting, mouths breaking into even larger smiles. He caught Legolas close and held him tight, laughing in relieved gladness. They separated and there was no need to speak of what was so sacred and so obvious.

"Aye, a robber, a sneaking criminal snooping about in private quarters, lifting what does not belong to him!" Legolas chastened, referring back to the jest, but his exuberant expression betrayed pure joy over the joke, for such pranks were traditional between brothers during bonding rites. Legolas had never hoped to have such antics to grouse over.

"And when have the Wood Elves ever used the base of a tree for quarters?" Lindalcon smirked back and enjoyed the rapid rise of colour that turned his friend's ears red and the sheepish grin just materialising as Legolas averted his face. Lindalcon's gaze took all this in as it swept over the ridiculously clad form, ending at the exposed toes. The digits looked decidedly too blue for healthy skin and the youth exclaimed in dismay.

"Oh Valar! I forgot to bring shoes." He reached into the pack and shook out the cloak, throwing it around Legolas' shoulders and fastening it securely. "Sorry! Hurry to Fearfaron; he is waiting for you."

"Alright," the wild elf pulled the hood over his head and clasped Lindalcon to his heart swiftly. "We shall talk later, then. Hannad, tôr dithen! (Thanks, little brother!)," he whispered and sped away to conceal the teary exultation overflowing from his soul.

Legolas raced down the empty trail, too worried over what Fearfaron would say to notice the discreet glimpses of indulgently smiling faces peeking from behind curtained talans above. Everyone in the city was now involved in the drama and wanted a first look at their Tawarwaith and his mate as they emerged, freshly bonded and eternally united, from the concealing maze. Not a few of the folk became concerned to observe their champion alone and running with desperate speed for his foster-father's abode. As is so often the case where gossip is involved, the negative view was the first taken and talk commenced denouncing the Noldo for apostasy. A growing number of elves began making their way to the stronghold, searching for the false-hearted rake. Of this none of the principals in the events were aware.

As Lindalcon had predicted, Fearfaron was indeed awaiting his adopted son, standing at the very edge of his talan as he watched for Legolas to appear. He fidgeted and paced, rearranged the tray of fruit, goblets, and a flagon of wine set upon his small oval dining table. He strode inside to his bedchamber only to stalk back out the next instant, having forgotten what he went to retrieve. He moved to the brazier and added more fuel, stirring the embers, and re-fluffed the pillows scattered on the floor. Standing straight again, he returned to stare out into the woods. Overwrought with fears, Fearfaron tried to prepare himself for whatever outcome transpired. Yet reason dictated that the bonding had gone well or Legolas would have sought him out immediately.

Except how is he to judge if everything proceeded correctly?

Fearfaron groaned dismally and prayed he would not find the warrior more depressed and woebegone than before. He berated himself for not making clear to Legolas the signs that would indicate a bond was forming. He was certain no one had ever discussed such things with him openly and now the carpenter must include himself in the number that had neglected the wild elf's instruction. It was difficult, his conscience consoled, to speak of anything intimate in nature with Legolas, so ingrained was the conditioning to keep secret his desires. For probably the thousandth time, the carpenter cursed Malthen vilely and added in Thranduil and Ningloriel as well.

And let me not forget the contribution from the Lord of Imladris and his faithful seneschal!

Try as he might, the Spirit Hunter could not completely get past the facts of Erestor's initial intent for travelling to the Greenwood and his current arrangement as part of a loosely-bound lover's triad. So laxly joined was he that his mates cared not if he bedded a veritable host of other elves, of both genders, all of them very much younger than the Noldo, according to Mithrandir and Aiwendil.

Still, in spite of their early objections, the Istari were now thoroughly supportive of the Imladrian's actions. What exactly had generated this reversal they had not been willing to detail, but the human was equally convinced. Admittedly, the advisor from Imladris had deported himself honourably throughout the hearing. This gave Fearfaron hope that Legolas' love would not be forsaken a second time.

For if Legolas gives his heart again only to have it rejected how shall he survive this? But if he is not spurned, what sort of love will be granted him in return? Legolas does not know how to judge whether he is being used or treasured. Mayhap the Noldo is incapable of devotion on that level.

Lindalcon had astutely pointed out the seneschal's lack of outward evidence of commitment to the Galadhrim warriors that supposedly held his heart. Yet if his bond with them did prove strong and true, how would he be able to include Legolas without seeking their knowledge and approval? Fearfaron sighed loudly, realising he was allowing his thoughts to run in circles with the only effect that of increasing his dread. Just when he had talked himself into believing Erestor would prove faithless, Legolas arrived, tearing around the curve of the track on the ground below as though a troop of Yrch pursued him.

"Ada!" he called and, scrambling up the rope ladder, vaulted through the trap door and cast himself into Fearfaron's arms, clinging so hard the grip pained the humble carpenter's sides.

Fearfaron squeezed back, alarmed, for his fosterling was shuddering with sobs and wailing plaintively, the words lost in the gulping gasps and hiccups as tears dampened his neck.

"Ai! Legolas, Legolas! Has he harmed you? Speak!" The talan builder could not bear this and his rage fired up instantly as he guided his second son over to the warmth of the brazier and sat with him upon the cushions arranged there before the grate. "Hush, be calm," he soothed gently and pushed back the hood to stroke the golden mane affectionately. "Tell me what has happened."

Under his adopted father's kindly touch Legolas did relax and gradually regained command of his voice. He nuzzled against the lanky elf's shoulder and sighed deeply, gathering his nerve to repeat himself, firmly resolved not to dissolve into weeping this time.

"He loves me, Ada! Berenaur loves me. And I, I love him also. We are bound, Ada, one to another," he managed though his voice wavered and the force of the emotion threatened to overcome his will and send fresh tears cascading down his cheeks.

Fearfaron sat him back at arms' length and searched the gleam in Legolas' watery blue gaze. What he found made him gasp one second and shout for joy the next as he snatched the long-suffering elf back against his chest, rocking him and laughing and crying together, completely muffling whatever the Tawarwaith was trying to say. For some minutes they just sat thus, allowing the wonder of it to envelop them, finding they needed no words after all. When the tears slowed to a trickle, Fearfaron disengaged again and studied this new Legolas, whole and complete at last, and positively wallowed in the peaceful contentment emanating from him.

"You are not angry, are you?" pleaded Legolas to his father's surprise. "Or disappointed?"

"Angry? Not with you, though I admit my trust in the seneschal's intentions has been thinner than  
stands of oaks rooted in a flood plain. I cannot remain displeased in the reflection of your joy, however. After I see for myself that the same light that now fills your eyes abides in his soul also, I will be satisfied. Besides, at least he is an elf."

"What else would he be?" Legolas' face betrayed his bewilderment.

"A wizard!" Fearfaron blurted. "Mithrandir's gift of sustaining essence seemed suspect to me. I feared he would use this link to enthral your heart."

"Nay, he does not view me with that sort of interest, I am certain, for he is Istar and to such the body is not essential but rather a material manifestation for our benefit, that we need not be discomfited by his ghostly nature."

"Perhaps. Nonetheless, I feared you would be enchanted by the glory of Aman clinging so thickly about him. Nor can you deny that he has a claim upon you."

"Aye, Ada, I owe Mithrandir my life. I would never have lasted on the journey back to you without his aid. He is part of me, yes, but it is more like my connection with Tawar." Legolas was finally able to understand the tension he had noted between the two parental figures in his life and sighed. "Valar, I could have resolved this had one of you said something to me!" he fussed.

"Peace, ion edwen, this I know. We did not want to add to your burdens, that is all. And it is decided now anyway, is it not? For Mithrandir's timely assistance I am eternally grateful nor do I mean to blacken your friend and benefactor's character. And as to disappointment over this bonding, how could I be dissatisfied when you come to me renewed and jubilant?"

"Well, I did not seek your counsel, and I have not been properly courted or betrothed, nor have I given…"

"Ai Valar! None of that matters when I look upon you now!" assured Fearfaron, shaking Legolas a little and smiling. "You are an adult, after all, and need not seek anyone's permission to join your feä with another's."

Legolas' grin was unlike any expression the carpenter had ever imagined him capable of forming, so giddy with ease and delight was the countenance presented.

"My happiness is complete, then!" he said. "I could not have abided your displeasure over this and, though I did not say so to Berenaur, I would not remain by his side if you opposed the match."

Fearfaron's brows rose to his hairline to hear this and he chuckled as he shook his head. "That is too drastic a decision and one you would be incapable of adhering to! Even so, I will insist this Noldo wear a ring of your choosing and for you to wear his."

Legolas' mouth fell open and the carpenter nearly fell over in laughter to observe this state of amazed and stupefied shock.

"But, he does not wear…Berenaur has no rings…I have not asked him about this! Why are you laughing?" he stuttered and Fearfaron at once ceased, for there was real terror there.

"You worry about the Galadhrim?" he queried compassionately and Legolas swallowed before nodding quickly and dropping his gaze to the hands in his lap. Fearfaron did likewise and found the fingers writhing in entwined distress. He covered them with his right hand, lifted Legolas' chin with his left, and softly kissed his son's forehead.

"Nay, do not concern yourself over them. That is a matter to be settled between Erestor and his mates. This is not an issue for you to embrace," he said, staring into the cobalt gaze, alight with the fire of the newly kindled bond, and smiled to realise he had just repeated the healer's reassurance.

"But I am one of his mates now, also," Legolas shook his head and leaned in against the steady support of the carpenter's shoulder. "I fear he will not be able to give me much of his time," he whispered this, the possibility that threatened to gnaw away his just-found joy, desperate for his Ada to refute the notion out of hand.

And Fearfaron heard the plea and wrapped strong arms protectively about the Tawarwaith's slender shoulders. "Put the thought aside," he commanded. "I will speak of this with Erestor and learn what we may expect. Whatever he may reveal, I can assert that he has given himself to you; it is clear for all to see if they but spare a glance at you. Indeed, perhaps it is for the Galadhrim we must be concerned!"

"Aye, I do worry for that, too," complained Legolas. "I do not wish to be the cause for any sorrow to find them, for they have done no wrong to me, or to Berenaur either from his own words."

"I understand, Legolas, but you must guard against this encroaching guilt or it will stunt the development of the bond you have forged. Trust in me, we will find a way to work out the details. Now, I heard that you are in need of clothing, is this so? What is this costume you have donned?" he teased, hoping to turn his son's thoughts away from fears that could not be easily allayed. He stood, pulling Legolas up with him, and shoved open the cloak, forehead frowning while lips disclosed his mirth, to examine the ill-fitting apparel. He chuckled at Legolas' embarrassed blush suffusing smiling features.

"That is Lindalcon's doing!"

"Oh? He assured me he found all your clothes, and Erestor's boots, dumped at the foot of some tree somewhere, with neither of you in sight. I am certain he only meant to prevent the items from getting torn and dirty."

"Ai! I will pay him back during his bonding rites."

"I am sure of that, and I plan to assist you! For the moment, however, I think a wash and fresh garments will make everything right. I have prepared the necessities in advance and all you need to do is collect your mate and find your way to the baths." So saying Fearfaron reached for a hefty pack near the trunk of the tree and handed it to Legolas, draping the hood back over the forest champion's tresses and leading him to the ladder. "Off you go, then; I will wait for you and Erestor to return here."

Legolas turned to leave but stopped and dropped the satchel, grabbing Fearfaron up in a quick hug followed by a kiss on the cheek. "Hannad, Ada," he said and clutching up the bag, disappeared through the opening in a flash of gold as the hood of the cloak fell back. He was racing again, singing a hymn to Tawar as he went, and Fearfaron smiled delightedly to hear it, bursting into laughter as he spotted Gladhadithen leap from the branches and go sprinting in his wake.


	71. Loss Talt bo Iûl

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

Loss Talt bo Iûl (Snow Falling on Embers)

"Ah! for the morning, fresh and bright,  
and the western sky streaked gold and blue.

"Come Arien bring your flaming light  
that I may gaze upon my love so pure and true.

"Oh! I shall take my lover's hand to hold  
as we walk midst the leaves of green.

"And I shall keep my heart-mate near as each new day unfolds.  
And ever shall the love we share wax full and fair and keen.

"Ah! My lover's hair is soft and long and every silken strand  
falls gently over milky skin that quivers 'neath my touch.

"And my love has eyes alight with passion's fire,  
lips that taste of sweet mulled wine,

"And ears tipped red with desire's blush  
and all of this is mine.

"Heart and mind, flesh and breath, soul to soul as one   
through years un-numbered, through time uncounted,  
we shall love 'til the Music is done."

So sang Lindalcon, making the verses up as he went, strolling along the snow-powdered path toward the centre of the maze, the lilting melody meant to forewarn the solitary occupant of the ancient oak tree but also allowing expression of his joyous delight in his brother's happiness. And the hopefulness of the moment eased his concerns for his own heart, for if Legolas could find love even with the cruelty of the Judgement upon him, then surely there was an elf in existence willing to join eternally with Lindalcon.

I shall walk this trail with my beloved some day. I will sing to her this song on that day.

No longer did the early freeze trouble him and his high spirits could not be crushed by any bitterness or sorrow. The loss of his father and the anguish of the nightmarish visions of the Battle of Erebor belonged to another world. Valtamar's son felt practically omnipotent for initiating his remedy of the Tawarwaith's broken and battered soul, for it was he who had broached the idea to Gladhadithen. Supplying the catalyst for the bond's formation gave him certain rights, in his estimation, that included free reign to harass his new law-brother mercilessly with jokes, pranks, and general mayhem and disorder designed to embarrass and humiliate the noble elf.

And also to instil a fearful respect for the consequences he will face should he ever cause Legolas so much as an instant of heartache!

Lindalcon reached the feet of doron-iaur (ancient oak), a gnarled and tangled mass of exposed roots, some as thick as the girth of lesser tree's trunks, and paused to lift his sight up into the canopy. There he could just discern the silhouette of an elf's head and shoulders leaning out beyond the ledge of the flet to see who had come calling. Lindalcon smirked up at him.

"Are you presentable, Noldo?" he shouted through cupped hands toward the platform.

The figure retreated from the edge, spewing forth a verbal barrage of obscenities and curses, all of which explicitly described numerous suggestions for mating habits and suitable partners the annoying trickster might employ for said acts, pronounced with enough venom to cause the old tree to cringe.

"When you get up here, nogotheg (dwarflet), I will…"

"Nay, do not dare speak it else I shall leave you to fend for yourself. How are you planning to get out of the talan without the help of a skilled climber, orc ûlren (smelly orc)?"

"Hah, Legolas shall return soon. Ego! (Be off!) You are not needed here, amlug rein (dragon droppings)."

"Actually, my brother is on his way to the baths. He will soon be enjoying a nice hot soak and is expecting me to guide you there, torog alhand (stupid troll)."

More cursing and swearing ensued as well as the clatter of wooden furniture being shoved around as a means of expelling excessive frustration, but Lindalcon merely laughed and leaped into the branches. Though he was not nearly as adept in this environment as Legolas, for few elves were, he made the journey easily enough and with a grunt heaved the pack onto the floor before lifting himself over the rim of the smooth, flake-filmed boards. He stood and glanced around the setting, noting the overturned chair near the broad wall of the oak's boll, and finally faced the dark haired, naked Noldo Lord seated on the bench by the table.

"Do you not find the temperature just a mite too frosty for such complete exposure of your body, or perhaps this is some morning ritual inherent to Imladris of which I am ignorant?" Lindalcon giggled as he ducked aside, dodging the small wooden cup Erestor cast at his head.

"So droll, so entertaining! I wonder that you are not employed among Thranduil's court minstrels," snarled the seneschal. Erestor got up and retrieved the bag, carrying it to the table to inspect the contents. He made an inarticulate yet expressive snort of half-approval, half-suspicion as he pulled out a clean dry pair of moss green suede leggings. "These had better fit. I am not parading through the city in clothes Legolas outgrew a millennium ago just to amuse you."

"You did not mind him leaving here in your garments, looking ridiculous trying to keep the tunic shut and the pants from falling off." Lindalcon watched as Erestor held the leggings up to his body and peered down to see if they would be long enough. The Imladrian sent him a glittering glower as he half-turned and bent to step into them. The younger elf gave his form an appraising inspection; the long black locks cascaded forward and revealed the thin curving line of the old scar upon Erestor's back.

"Aye, but for some reason Legolas was absolutely delighted to find that you had stolen his clothing. I have never seen him cavort around like that before and it was most endearing," the seneschal smiled as he recalled the sight. Legolas had descended to gather his clothes and returned empty handed, hair all sparkly with clinging crystals, grinning so wide his molars were visible, and had bounced across the room to fling himself into the seneschal's embrace.

"He barely restrained himself from clapping!" Erestor, however, could not check a chuckle over it; he hopped a little to steady his balance whilst sliding his left leg into the pants. "Legolas insisted on the arrangements and I could not deny him his fun." He was aware of Lindalcon's scrutiny and was untroubled. In fact, he more or less expected it. The advisor was well put together and quite proud of his physique.

"Your interest is understandable, but I am afraid I must squash your hopes. I am already taken."

"Really? Well thank you for being so frank but are you quite certain Legolas would approve of you discussing such intimate details of your bonding with his younger brother?" Lindalcon was moving before he finished and just evaded impact with a large pewter pitcher before it sailed beyond the bounds of the flet, bumping and scraping down through the limbs.

"You are horrid!" fumed Erestor.

"And you are vain!"

"Nay, do not deny it; you were staring."

"I was trying to understand what Legolas sees in you that so rouses his blood. You do not look different from other males to me."

"And males do not stir your passions?" Erestor had finished tying up the leggings and returned to the pack, drawing out a fine nut-brown silk shirt and a warm woollen tunic of fawn coloured cloth. "I assure you, were you not limited in your appreciation of sexuality, I would indeed stand out from any other masculine specimen you might hope to encounter." Lindalcon's braying guffaw deflated the Noldo's self-regard a little but he hid the discomfort by pulling the shirt over his head.

"Ai Valar! How can Legolas abide your conceit?" the youth jeered.

"He tolerates me well, Lindalcon, quite well indeed." Now it was the older elf scoffing, for the truth of that statement could not be denied.

"That is because he loves you," spoke Lindalcon quietly, all joking vanished from his voice, and it was the seneschal's eyes he sought to study now.

Erestor sobered up at once and met the searching gaze squarely, hearing the serious concern within the young elf's tone. He did not want these fears to linger among those that served as Legolas' family.

"Be at peace, Lindalcon, for I return his love and cherish the gift of his heart. I know what you have been told of me is to your thinking dishonourable, but all of that is past."

Lindalcon held the Imladrian's eyes and searched beseechingly, hoping for these words to be true ones. Yet Erestor was correct; his reputation was not very flattering to his morals, and there was no dramatic alteration of the seneschal's soul visible. Legolas' brother stared; there seemed to be a brighter gleam, perhaps a lessening of the tight control over the shielded feä, but Erestor's demeanour was little changed from that displayed four days ago. Lindalcon was not satisfied.

"Are you saying to me that you will be constant? Do you mean that you will be faithful to Legolas?" he demanded in a pitch concurrently expressive of circumspect optimism and foreboding menace.

"I do mean it. I am through with seeking out casual partners to ease my loneliness. What has been lacking in me Legolas supplies."

Lindalcon frowned slightly but nodded. He wanted to believe and even felt in his soul that the Noldo meant every syllable, yet the matter of the Galadhrim remained unanswered. The Councillor's apprentice felt it improper to enquire further into the issue, sensing it was something to be discussed between Fearfaron and Erestor as equals. He watched as the advisor went again to the pack, pulled out the long cloak and began feeling around in the bottom, an expression of annoyance suffusing his visage.

"Where are my boots?" he demanded, and raised stormy features as Valtamar's son started laughing once more. "Hênellon 'ortheb! (Horrible little boy!)" This only increased the volume of the mocking vociferations.

"I am sorry; you will have to go discalced," apologised Lindalcon. "Do not worry, your foot gear is perfectly safe and in reasonably good condition. I believe someone mentioned having them cleaned and oiled and an ugly tear repaired. Now if you are quite ready I will lead you from the heights."

"I am," Erestor said, clasping the cape around his shoulders. "You will take me to Legolas?"

"Nay, to Fearfaron."

In the silence that followed this revelation Lindalcon made his way to the middle of the flet and kicked aside a soft fur rug. There a trap door was disclosed and he bent low to heave it open. As he stood he noted with satisfaction the chagrin on the Noldo's face not to have expected and searched for such a devise. The subsequent scowl verified that Erestor also realised it was of no consequence; he could not very well have left the talan nude and shivering to wander the city in search of Pen-rhovan.

The rope ladder was stored neatly away in the lower cupboard of a small cabinet set against the oak's trunk and Lindalcon fixed it onto iron hooks bolted to the underside of the floor near the opening. As the strong hithlain cord fell away into the space below without a sound, he stepped aside and made a sweeping flourish toward the accommodation with his right arm.

"After you, Lord Erestor."

With a feeling of ominous dread collecting in his gut, the seneschal climbed quickly down the ladder and waited as Lindalcon followed. Together they proceeded from the maze at a brisk pace for the temperature was little improved by the lateness of the morn. They did not converse, each absorbed in his own thoughts, and as with Legolas' earlier passage, the pair did not notice the interest taken by the population as they travelled. Lindalcon halted by the curve in the trail and Erestor faced him, cocking an eyebrow in questioning impatience.

"From here you had best go on alone. When the Spirit Hunter is done with you return to me and I shall take you to Legolas," he almost smiled at the uneasy lines that collected across the older elf's forehead in response to these instructions. He took pity on his law-brother then and reached out to squeeze his biceps in encouragement. "Sîdh (Peace), you and Fearfaron want the same thing: Legolas' happiness."

"Hannad, nogotheg." Erestor smiled and turned from the youth, which was well for otherwise the icy handful of snow, accompanied by a loud wet splat as it struck his back, would have plastered his face instead. He wheeled to return the volley but Lindalcon was disappearing up into the thickly needled limbs of a fir tree and only his taunting laughter was within the Imladrian's reach.

"That is well; have your fun, but I shall find means to repay you in kind. Or worse!" So saying he continued on the walkway and in mere steps found himself at the carpenter's talan where said elf, expression impassive and posture stern, watched him draw near.

"Suilad," the word left Fearfaron's mouth lacking the usual warmth one associated with the term. "Adab nîn, adab lîn. (My house is your house.)" He forced the muscles of his countenance to assemble themselves into a rigid smile as he stood aside and beckoned the Noldo to climb up.

"Mae Govannen, Fearfaron, thavron arod (noble carpenter)," Erestor said and once aloft he bowed politely. "Hannaden 'erin fael suil. (My thanks for the generous welcome.)"

Fearfaron's face revealed nothing but his eyes displayed his amusement at these niceties from the second highest-ranking elf in Imladris. He moved to the table and took a chair there, pouring out a small amount of the wine for them both as the Noldo Lord situated himself in the opposite seat. He handed one of the cups to Erestor and raised his own.

"We shall be done with formalities now, I think. First, however, a traditional toast. Usually given at the announcement of a betrothal. Gwaedh Vell ar Huin Thenid! (Strong Bond and True Hearts!)"

"Aye! Gwaedh Vell ar Huin Thenid!" the seneschal responded with gusto and they both drank.

A short silence followed the replacement of the goblets to the surface as the two regarded one another cautiously. At last Fearfaron allowed a tentative smile, this time a real one, to hover around his grimly set lips, for his ability to read the feä of another elf superseded Lindalcon's significantly. The change in the Noldo was subtle but undeniable. 

"It is true then. You have bonded with him," he spoke mildly but his relief was obvious and he was more than gratified at the tremendous grin that transformed his guest's serious expression.

"Yes, fear not for his heart, I have it safely guarded now, Fearfaron."

"But I cannot help my concerns, for this is not a common occurrence among my people. How has this been possible, for your human friend has stated your spirit was given in trust to two others before Legolas?"

"I am not certain myself, for this is novel in my experience also," Erestor began, frowning as he attempted to form a logical reply that would satisfy Legolas' foster-father. "I understand that is not the answer you need from me, yet there is little more I can supply other than my promise to hold to my vow."

"Nay, it is not enough," complained Fearfaron. "Explain your plans. Will you return to your country and resume your life there as it was before? Where does Legolas fit within your soul, already so crowded?"

"I must go home eventually, though I have no desire to leave the Greenwood yet. As for Pen-bara and Pen-raun, I am no more able to abandon them than I could desert Pen-rhovan."

Fearfaron's brows rose a bit to hear these pet names of which he surmised the last belonged to his adopted son. Still, these assurances were meagre and unsatisfying; the Noldo was holding back.

"Far! (Enough!) We will discuss this plainly or I will hold you deceitful and so inform Legolas. What of your union with the Galadhrim, Erestor?" The Spirit Hunter thumped the table with his fist for emphasis.

"That is a private matter and not one I am willing to trade words over!" the seneschal shot back. "You will have to accept my oath that I will not allow them to cause any discomfort to your son."

"I cannot trust to that! This was the only worry to issue from the Tawarwaith's lips and he does not know how to ask you what is going to happen. What impacts Legolas shall not remain concealed from me for you have not seen fit to talk of this with him! He is beyond dread, torn with guilt while at the same time jealous of the long years' history you have with your other mates. You will tell me the conditions of your arrangement with the Galadhrim."

Erestor stared at the Wood Elf before him and knew there was no way to divert his inquisition. But even more, he was aghast to understand how much a threat his attenuated relationship represented to his new love. Pen-rhovan had appeared jubilantly carefree barring that first night's rigorous soul-bearing.

"Eru's arse. Legolas is good at hiding his doubts. I did not comprehend the depth of his insecurity," he began softly and drew a breath for strength before continuing. "I was not lying when I said I had no idea how the bond betwixt us was made possible. However, perhaps if my love for the Galadhrim is fully disclosed you will see that I am not seeking to evade the truth but rather fearful over what the consequences will be."

"Go on," coaxed the carpenter as the Noldo paused. Another deep sigh preceded Erestor's next words.

"I was born in Gondolin and am of the House of Turgon, a distant cousin of Idril. My mother was the niece of the granddaughter to Angrod, Turgon's cousin. I lost them all, save Idril and her family, when Gondolin fell. My father and older sister ordered me to go and I did. I was to secure escape from the destruction for the remainder of our House. Thus I joined the refugees fleeing with Tuor's family." Erestor stopped and rubbed his eyes, for this was the same tale he had recounted over and over for millennia and Ages, yet it was not the right one.

Fearfaron poured him more wine and pressed him to take it, for it was plain the elf was struggling within his soul for the words required.

"Hannad," whispered Erestor after drinking. The minutes fled away as slowly as the silently twirling flakes descending from the clouds until enough of the seneschal's resolve had accumulated. He began again.

"The truth is I ran. En route to Adaren's compound, I encountered some elves of the House of the Mole in a complete rout and they screamed of the terrors they had seen. They spoke of that section of Gondolin where my folk dwelled as a place of utter destruction, aflame in the breath of fire drakes and all the citizens therein slain, felled by the whips of the Balrogs.

"I turned and fled. It is only because of my cowardice that I ended up among Tuor's warriors. My fear drove me away from the fires and devastation; I spotted the livery of the Swan's Wing and followed those soldiers. That is how I survived the fall of Gondolin and the rest of my family did not."

"Ai! That was a desperate struggle amid chaos, who would not fear the devices of Melkor?" asserted the carpenter, a hand soundly gripping the advisor's shoulder. "Your father would not wish you to needlessly waste your life trying to undo the evil already done. The compound was overrun and your people were destroyed, Erestor."

"That is near to what Legolas told me," Erestor spoke with gratitude and a rueful smile. "Yet, it is not necessarily so. Once among Tuor's troops, I learned of the betrayal of the Mole Clan. Mayhap they lied to me and I could have aided many innocents to safety and freedom, to any fate other than to burn."

"Had you any reason to even suspect that was possible?"

"Nay. None save Idril and Tuor had concerns over Maeglin, for he was nephew to the King and had Turgon's favour. When I arrived in the courtyard of her house, she was fending him off and the Moles were revealed as kinslayers." 

"For whom did you fight then, Erestor? Did you run again? Were you among the betrayers or did you join Tuor's warriors in defending the innocent lives of Idril and Eärendil?"

"I stood and fought for Idril."

"Then you acted nobly and your family would be proud of that. Have you not said Idril was related to you by blood? Were not her people also yours? Indeed, you have served the House of Eärendil since that day, have you not?" Fearfaron waited for the seneschal's confirming nod before he went on.

"Your compunction arose because you saved Tuor's family and could not salvage your own. Yet it was not the wish of your father or your sister to see you perish. Their last moments were victorious for they, too, succeeded in delivering someone from that catastrophe: you. Do not tarnish that triumph with misplaced remorse."

"Legolas said that also. I did not really comprehend this until I met him. He made me understand that good should never be discarded just because evil served as its catalyst. He cannot see it in himself, yet everything he does defines the concept. His life is a disaster but he leaves everything improved in the wake of his passing."

"My eyes are opened; your bond with Legolas was forged in the healing of these old injuries each of you suffered. Yet what has not been explained is how you came to be with the Galadhrim," Fearfaron gently guided this suddenly and surprisingly vulnerable elf back on course.

"The adversity I experienced is similar to that clouding Orophin's past, that is where I am trying to lead you," another sigh escaped Erestor. "And that is where this becomes a confidential subject, for who am I to share with you, one unknown to him, Orophin's woes and the tribulations that mar his innermost feelings?"

"Ah, I see! Very well, that is fair enough. Let me try and relieve you of the burden. Is it close to the mark to state that Orophin is troubled by ideas of guilt and self-doubt similar to those you have suffered?"

"It is, but no more will I say."

"That is enough, for I am cognisant of the events that orphaned the Lorien warden and his brothers. Indeed, I lost relatives in that terrible struggle with Durin's Bane. The three siblings were quite young then and none expected them to be able to prevent the deaths of their loved ones. Thus I deduce that you were of proximal age when the same tragedy struck you."

"You are astute, carpenter!" Erestor's surprise was genuine and he could only stare at this forest elf. It was easy to discern now how his influence had been of aid to Legolas, who was even more reticent over revealing self-perceived flaws and the traumatic events that had spawned them.

"So Orophin recognised himself in you and this drew you together. He accepted you, failings and secrets and flaws notwithstanding," Fearfaron went on. And yet no healing occurred, at least not for Erestor.

"Aye. And we discovered a mutual attraction. Dambethnîn is not blind; she probably foresaw its development before we did. Had she not intervened we would have buried that secret just as thoroughly as the dark despair of our youthful pusillanimity. She was willing to try and what began as diversion grew to be loving union, for all of us."

"Hannad, Erestor, for your honesty. Do not ever doubt the strength of your integrity again, for it required great fortitude to speak of these events with a veritable stranger. I am fully aware you did this for Legolas' peace of mind, and that comforts me.

"Yet there remains the conditions of your bond with the Galadhrim. It has been brought to my attention that you wear no signs of this union. Was no formality granted to your position within the triad?"

Erestor shifted uncomfortably in his chair and fell to fidgeting with the cup still held within his fingers. Here was the part least likely to meet with this upright edhel's approval.

"Yes and no," he began evasively and glanced into the Spirit Hunter's eyes. He found only patience and an open mind revealed there and mustered his mettle to go on. "They are officially bonded and spoke their vows and named the One. Yet I was reluctant to undergo this rite, for it felt like a diminishment of the honour of their union. I did not wish them to be made objects of ridicule or be named deviants." He stopped for Fearfaron was slowly shaking his head.

"That is what you said to them and that is what you tell yourself, yet clearly these reasons are illogical. To me you will say what is true, for I will not have Legolas treated any less than equally in this unique relationship."

The Imladrian noble was silent for several minutes as the silvan craftsman held his gaze and waited. Finally Erestor pulled a grimace of foul proportions and growled in vexation.

"I felt cheated!" he snapped. "Why did I not deserve to be the one and only recipient of such promises and oaths? Orophin found Dambethnîn, now he has me as well. Where is the equanimity in that?" Erestor returned the goblet to the table with such force that the quiet winter air rang with the echo of the loud report.

"So you kept a large measure of your heart and soul free, hoping for Iluvatar to give you such a gift," the Spirit Hunter was actually chuckling, just a little, over his guest's impassioned admission, but his smile was kind and he patted the refugee's hand. "Clever elf! Long have you waited, but not without the comfort needed to sustain you."

"I am…you are not shocked?" Erestor blinked twice as he registered what seemed to be a strangely pleased expression upon the woodland elf's face.

"I have lived millennia, as have you," Fearfaron shrugged. "Your solution to sorrow and lonesomeness is less despicable than others' choices have been. Your Lord comes at once to mind and Maltahondo's treachery is also rooted in yearning for what he could not possess, solely and unconditionally.

"None have been injured by your compromise and it is clear the Lorien elves were never in the dark over your activities. They certainly realise what portion of your heart they hold as well as the places in your feä wherein they are not allowed entry."

"But nay; never have I spoken of this except as I just indicated. They think I belong wholly to them and that it is only for their sake that I do not demand full legitimacy of my station; that it is only for physical release that I share myself with others."

"When in truth you have been seeking your heart's companion in every elf you have pursued. That is what you do not want them to find out, yet I suspect you will discover they are not ignorant of these facts."

Erestor swallowed and this time did not wait for his host to offer the wine. He poured it liberally and filled Fearfaron's glass as well. As soon as he had taken a gulp he realised he was remarkably lightened in spirit and found a smile spreading across his features. He nodded at last to confirm the wily carpenter's conclusion, one that Erestor had hidden even from himself. And if Pen-bara and Pen-raun know, then all will be forgiven. I shall not be disgraced nor shall they.

"And I have been given this blessing in Legolas," he stated. "He is mine alone. I will not do anything to hurt Orophin and Dambethnîn, but neither will I give up Pen-rhovan. If they cannot honour my bond as I respect theirs, then they shall see me no more, much though it will pain me to lose the love and comfort I find with them."

"I am pleased to hear such conviction in your voice. Legolas has granted you sole access to his heart and deserves no less than to hold the foremost place within yours. You are willing, then, to speak your vow once more and place upon his hand your ring? And in turn to bear his token proudly and openly for all to see, evermore?"

Now the seneschal displayed almost the same look of confused amazement that Legolas had showed his father previously, and nearly identical objections sputtered out from Erestor's addled brain.

"This I would do, yet I have no ring to give, nor have I discussed any of this with Pen-rhovan! I know not if he wishes such."

"Such articles can be purchased." Fearfaron waved all that aside with a carefree slap of his hand upon the Noldo's shoulder. "And Legolas, as you may have noticed, is unabashedly romantic. The ring for his beloved I am sure was chosen many centuries ago, but I doubt that is the one he will give to you. Nay, it will be something special and, before you enquire, the answer is 'no'. I have not had time to ask him about this, but am confident his mind is now fully employed on the procuring of this object.

"I will show you a ring you may like, or not, the choice will be left to you. But I would be pleased for you to take the golden band given to Annaldír by his mate, and Legolas would be moved by such an offering. And no matter where you find it, he will wear your pledge upon his finger as willingly as he sports that passion-mark he has been showing off!"

Now Erestor fairly puffed up in pride to hear this and grinned with lascivious verve, thinking of that delicious spot on his Pen-rhovan's elegant throat. He was immediately overcome with the desire to go to him, a sharp stab of pining joined by a jolt of fiery libido raced though his nerves, sending his heart thumping loudly as his breath caught.

A shrewd smile passed over the carpenter's face and he stood, motioning for his guest to do likewise. He draped a companionable arm across Erestor's shoulders as he guided him to the opening in the floorboards.

"This can wait another day. Lindalcon will take you where your soul longs to be," he said happily and was not surprised when the Noldo departed with no more than a hasty farewell and a wave of his hand, not even stopping to beseech the loan of a pair of shoes.


	72. Chapter 72

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK  
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Cared Dengwith (Making Answers)

"I am suspicious of your consort's involvement in the Tragedy of Erebor, that is true. Thus I am determined for the facts to be made absolutely clear for all to comprehend. Only in this way will doubts regarding the Tawarwaith's failings be laid to rest." So spoke Iarwain in mounting trepidation as he sat in rigid readiness upon a mended armchair before Thranduil's mutilated desk in the Sinda's private study. He fully expecting to experience the wrath of the King at any moment. The fact that Talagan was standing behind him blocking the only exit added to his escalating apprehension.

The summons had arrived discreetly the previous tinnu; a small sealed note insinuated within the bulk of the evening's correspondence. Clearly Thranduil wished to ensure their discussion remained clandestine. This had at first given the Councillor a gloating upsurge of victory, for he had interpreted it as an indication of weakness, of capitulation. The loss of the soldier's support had shaken the King greatly; Iarwain had observed this himself. He was anticipating Thranduil's willingness to acknowledge that reduced degree of control and envisioned the monarch petitioning for assistance in salvaging his reign.

The assumption turned out to be inaccurate and instead of treating with the Sinda Lord catering to his vanity Iarwain faced the fearsome warrior reputed to have no compunction over stealing the souls of those that defied his commands. The ancient elda's premature swaggering had dissipated the moment the bolt on the thick oaken door had settled in the jam. 

But Iarwain was not ready to give in for he felt right was on his side. He had thus boldly answered the King's abrupt and unexpected question: 'Are you planning to call forth Meril for questioning when the Council resumes'. He had thought his reply was rather clever, neither confirming nor denying the query, until the King's eyes snatched the conviction right out of his feä. The eldest elder held his breath and staunchly met the forbidding glare of Oropher's son, but nothing happened.

Silence filled every niche and chink in the available air as time spun out into what felt to be an Age yet was surely mere seconds.

Thranduil slowly sat back in his chair and the subtle creaking of the wooden frame seemed ear-splitting in the tombly quiescence of the small chamber. Steadily holding the Councillor's eyes, not a sound did he utter nor a muscle flex. He watched his quarry with all the concentration of a jaguar perched in the branches above a watering hole, assessing the prey at the water's edge below.

Iarwain shifted in his seat and made a throat clearing noise.

Behind him Talagan sniffed and scraped a booted foot upon the floor.

Thranduil might as well have been carved of stone.

"It is of the utmost importance for the welfare of my people that such flaws in character be publicly denounced and the perpetrators expelled from among us," Iarwain knew he was signing his own banishment decree as soon as this sentence left his lips and his frightened visage showed it.

The King's grey-blue orbs darkened and flashed dangerously yet still he did not speak.

"That is to say, should such errors be proved, for certainly Meril was not on the battlefield and could not have actually had a hand in the deeds themselves," the friend of Oromë tried to amend his pious yet injudicious pronouncement.

Thranduil permitted one refined eyebrow to arch the slightest bit.

"Nay, it is more a question of what she actually knew of the plan, and who her accomplice was. This would have to be one of the warriors, and certainly that must be cause for concern to your Majesty."

"The Greenwood's forces are solidly in support of our King and our Tawarwaith," corrected Talagan caustically.

The Elder cringed at the sudden quip from the threatening presence covering his escape and could verily feel the contempt in the warrior's gaze where it bore upon his back. He half-turned in his chair to favour the soldier with what he hoped was a stern non-verbal reprimand.

The captain's impassively blasé expression proclaimed the failure of the tactic.

"Even so, only someone present at Erebor could be at fault. If it is not Legolas then who is to blame?" Iarwain recovered his resolve; he was, after all, an elf that had accompanied Oromë on the hunt. For the entirety of his adult years he had been watching over the Nandor and was not about to relinquish the responsibility.

"What elf had reason to cause such a horrible thing? Who benefited by the death of those specific warriors?" he persisted, turning back to Thranduil. "One alone, and yet she was not even present. Meril was acquainted with all of the soldiers in Talagan's patrol and must have formed an alliance with one of them. Such a vile affiliation must be exposed and the participants held accountable." 

The King played with a jewel-encrusted dagger he liked to use for sharpening quills, twirling it on its pointed tip so the gems winked and flashed in tiny bursts of coloured light. Thranduil smiled rather evilly, as if enjoying a detailed mental image of using it to dismember his current guest.

"There is no accomplice, for the mother of my children was not involved in these unfortunate events in any manner other than as one of the victims. I am shocked that your investigations have not verified this information already, Elder," he ridiculed. "As for the identity of the guilty party, it is not so hard to figure out. I have the culprit in custody even as we speak."

Iarwain's eyes boggled and his lips parted so that he looked rather more like a toad about to chirrup than an ancient and dignified elda.

"You…what…who is it?" he stammered amid Thranduil's foreboding chuckling, an unwholesome vocalisation destitute of mirth but overflowing with bitterness.

"The corpsman, Maltahondo, of course. There is more to him than one might expect and this is not the first dastardly act of which he is guilty. I encourage you to go and question him so as to satisfy your need to 'root out the Shadow's corruption' of the good and noble Danwaith."

It was a dismissal, but the shocked Wood Elf did not register this for a second or two as he tried to assimilate the implications of the Sinda's words.

"Now," hissed Thranduil, leaning forward quickly and fisting the dagger. He jabbed it into the desk's surface so brutally that it remained perpendicular when he released his hold.

Iarwain paled and got up very slowly, never averting his eyes from the King's face, and backed to the door. It was opened for him by Talagan and the shaken Councillor gratefully fled the chamber.

The soldier slammed and secured the heavy oaken boards to ensure their privacy and took the vacated seat before his Lord.

"As you predicted, he is more malleable when separated from his cronies and cohorts," the warrior remarked.

"Aye, and without an audience. Now as long as the foul guardian holds to his word all shall be settled rather quickly. The resumption of the Council will be but a formal recitation for the peoples' benefit."

"Oh, Maltahondo will co-operate!" assured Talagan with a scowl. "The troops want his blood; Iarwain's sentence will be far more agreeable to him."

Thranduil considered this and hoped it would be so. How much he desired an end to this scandalous debacle! Only when the Tawarwaith's fateful Judgement was lifted would he feel able to breathe comfortably, for the squeezing sensation of impending doom lingered in his chest and tainted all thoughts of his beloved Taurant's life.

And only with this threat removed would he be free to concentrate on the arrival and subsequent disgrace of his long-time antagonist, Elrond, Lord of Imladris.

Still some small pleasures to look forward to.

The Sinda Lord had not been idle over the course of days following the close of the Council and his initial questioning of Meril. He had diligently pursued the truth of what had spawned the failure of Talagan's prized sniper at the Battle of Erebor, sparing neither his consort nor the incarcerated soldier from lengthy interrogation.

Maltahondo had cracked fairly quickly, readily admitting to any and every suggestion of guilt in the activities surrounding the falling rocks. He was perhaps influenced into expressing this voluble and all-encompassing contrition by the application of a resilient willow-wood cane upon his back. Thranduil cared not and a sneer curled his lips as he recalled the corpsman's weak will and total breakdown into pleading and begging after a scant day and a half of such treatment.

Legolas endured far worse tortures for twelve years under the chastisement of Ailinyéro. Thranduil recalled this with an unlikely combination of guilt and pride.

As for Meril, she had refused to accept any responsibility, holding to her story and naming Rochendil the murderer by proxy. How he had managed to bring about a rock slide at such an opportune moment she declined to explain, maintaining that since she was not there she was unable to provide any details. Thranduil had made it known to her he did not believe any of it and with genuine sorrow had pointed out the glaring holes in her rendition of the facts. Only silence and wide-eyed tears had met these revelations.

The King had pressed on, determined to have his wife bare her soul and trust him implicitly with the welfare of their children. He told her certain things about his life no one other than Talagan was privy to, and some deeds even his best friend was unaware had been wrought. Thranduil forced her into the basement and the Chamber of the Three Doors. He placed against her palm the key to his brothers' very feär. She had wept in terror as he explained the object's significance.

But even this had not moved her to open her heart. Thranduil could not see how this would appear as a threat, a promise of her own fate should her culpability be proved. She passionately denied her part was anything more than that of seizing an opportunity cast within her grasp. With her husband Lost and a child to raise alone, what elleth would not take advantage of such fortuity? It was no more unjust than exploiting a vein of mithril discovered within a wall of lead.

Meril refused to confess that she had wilfully withheld knowledge from her first husband that surely would have made him wary at the very least. She declined to admit she had owed Rochendil's mate the courtesy of reporting the horse-master's intent to his superior. Meril was adamant in eschewing her dishonourable usurpation of Ningloriel's place among the Danwaith, or her use of the Queen's own son as the vehicle to achieve her elevation of station and rank.

Her obstinate concealment of the truth had hollowed out Thranduil's feä and his love withered up, cut off from the sustaining roots of trust and hope in her that had so rejuvenated his spirit and filled his heart with joy. There was nothing left for him to do except inform her of what would take place and how she was expected to behave. He had moved out of their apartment and re-occupied his old bachelor quarters.

That had been two days ago, while Celeborn was setting forth from Lorien and the twins approached the footbridge over the Rhossoll (Rustling Stream) with the Galadhrim. Now it was the fourth dawn since the close of the Council, and the Lord of Imladris would be departing his borders for Lorien while the Lord of the Golden Wood was about to enter under the eaves of the Wood Elves' Realm at the Forest Gate.

The Sinda Lord planned for the hearing to reconvene on the morrow, for the sooner it was all settled the quicker would peace return to his stronghold. The strain due to the contention between Thranduil and Meril was telling on the infant prince. His bouts of woeful tears continued and Taurant was only at peace when one of them held him close. His sister was not spared either.

Gwilwileth had lost her bright and bubbly smile and no longer made her little word jokes. She had at least ceased the hysterical crying that had so alarmed her father and grew accustomed to her baby brother's distress. The princess accepted the fact that her mother and father must spend every moment attempting to console their son. Neither time nor energy remained for her. What she could not comprehend was her Ada's removal to new rooms so far from hers. She had become a solemn and silent child.

Less than ten years after Ningloriel's departure and the heavy weight of suppressed anger, tension, and distrust that had marked her reign had returned to infect Thranduil's perfect world. The King could imagine her in Valinor plotting with Vairë to ensure his ruin, exacting vengeance for her displacement from power and on behalf her shunned and disgraced elfling.

How bizarre! She was unfaithful and spoiled, selfish and neglectful as a mother, but she did not lie! In all the arguments we had, she never actually denied her affair with Elrond, only that Legolas was his progeny. Valar, what a mind!

Thranduil sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily to help expunge his dark thoughts, returning from his ruminations to respond to his captain's remarks. It was true; the punishment the Council was likely to impose upon the guardsman was nothing in comparison to that which his abuses warranted. 

"And remarkably lighter than the one pronounced for Tirno," added Thranduil aloud. "Why do you suppose that is? Did the old politician want a means to undermine the stability of my reign? Iarwain and his Council were rather quick to confirm the Judgement imposed upon the field of battle."

"Aye," Talagan agreed. "The Judgement was our doing, mellon vrûn (old friend) and the worthy Elder just went along because he did not know what else to do, especially since it seemed to benefit his cause, as you say."

"And I did not stop to wonder at that, for his acquiescence fitted my designs well, too. Strange, how we both were so wrong. Neither of us foresaw the rise of the Tawarwaith from that grisly sentencing."

"Nay, and Iarwain has been as unsuccessful in harnessing this new power as have you in undermining it."

Thranduil scowled at this comment but let it pass; his captain was correct after all.

"Then you do not feel Iarwain is involved in any plot. I confess my instinct thus instructs me as well, yet there is still the possibility he was in collusion with someone." Thranduil massaged his jaw in perplexion. "How Elrond is linked to this I cannot see, other than to acknowledge he has had access to Maltahondo over the many centuries Ningloriel dragged the defiler along to Lorien." The idea had flickered through the King's brain that somehow the Noldo Lord and the corpsman were sharing both the faithless queen and her ill-fated child. A twinge of revulsion swept over him.

"I do not believe there was ever a plan to overthrow the rule your father established," Talagan noted his Lord's discomfort but surmised it was due to his long hatred of the Peredhel. "Elrond would not be accepted among the silvans and he could not know that Legolas had marched to Erebor, or even that Greenwood did so until after the fact," offered Talagan. "It is coincidental that these schemes ran in tandem with Legolas as the common focal point for all parties."

"Mayhap." Thranduil shrugged. "Yet without Erebor none of the rest would have happened." This gave the King less pause than it had Legolas. Still, Thranduil was at least considering the conundrum of the good that was Taurant and Gwilwileth generated by the gruesome deaths of Valtamar, Andamaitë, and Annaldír. But the Sinda had never had much respect for the role of fate or faith in the ultimate harmony of Iluvatar's Music. "What is important is whether or not the Elder will accept the corpsman's confession. Maltahondo's motive for such a treasonous act is the weakest point in our compromise."

"True, yet if he sticks to it and refuses to name Meril then Iarwain cannot openly accuse her without appearing to be seeking some sort of retaliation for Legolas' benefit." Talagan agreed and shifted a bit uncomfortably, for his next words were unpalatable to him, and he knew Thranduil would dislike them with equal vehemence. "If necessary, we could reveal Maltahondo's abuse of the Tawarwaith. Wishing to destroy the only one with knowledge of his crimes, misdeeds that surely would condemn him to exile at the least, is certainly a strong enough inducement to betraying his fellows on the battlefield."

"That I would hold as a last resort." As expected, Thranduil grimaced and shook his head. "I feel an uncanny link between the destiny of my two youngest offspring and the welfare of the Tawarwaith, for without his disgrace never would they have come into being. I am certain he understood this connection long before the thought occurred to me," the King paused, recalling the magical quality of the Tawarwaith's blessing in song on the morning of Taurant's birth.

"Making this misuse of Tirno's heart and body general knowledge may be one blow too many. If he should fade, I dread the consequences to my legacy and Taurant's succession; indeed, to my innocent children's very lives.

"Nay, our goal must be to minimise further distress to the Greenwood's champion, for I have been granted insight into this affinity between the outcast warrior and the nascent prince. I will not permit past errors to manifest upon my true heir's future."

Talagan merely nodded, though he had doubts as to whether the plan as it stood would prove less afflicting to Legolas than revelation of the truth. Yet the King's attitude was a turnabout the captain would fain encourage, having no wish to see Thranduil return to virulent hostility for Tirno. He wondered if his old friend would acknowledge the Tawarwaith openly, but dared not ask.

As for Taurant being the legitimate successor, this none would contest, for Ningloriel had nullified her son's claim by rescinding her bond of matrimony to Thranduil. Mayhap she truly believed Elrond was the father and would claim Legolas. The irony of this thought, in light of the Elf Lord's actions, was galling. Talagan sighed.

"Will you tell Tirno of the arrangements?" he queried.

"That would be difficult," Thranduil's expression reflected his disapproval and disgust, "as he has been whisked away to the bonding night talan by his perverted Noldo lover, incited and assisted by the healer and Meril's eldest."

"This I have heard also," the warrior said as a huge grin spread over his features. "Yet I have also learned the couple will be emerging today. Perhaps this information would be a fitting gift to mark Tirno's new status."

"Are you suggesting," Thranduil spoke in cool tones bearing the heat of warning, "that I go calling on the elf I have denounced and despised all of his days? What makes you think such a visit would be welcomed? He abhors even the dirt I tread over!"

"Hmph!" the King's trusted colleague snorted, undaunted by the threatening undercurrent swirling round Thranduil's words. "What you mean is you will not admit to fault in the situation."

"I am not the one to blame!" thundered the Sinda as he stood and leaned over his desk, palms pressed hard against the scarred surface. "Look across the Hithaeglir to Imladris for the cause of Tirno's disgrace. Or if you need someone closer to criticise, then Ningloriel bears at least as much of the burden as does Elrond. But for her infidelity, none of his deceits would have had any impact!

"Aye, I believed her not for all her protestations that I had sired the whelp. Yet, and I charge you to answer honestly, Talagan; could you have remained immune to the evidence that named the child the Noldo's bastard? You are bonded, though your mate has passed to Mandos; would you hold your tongue and squelch your ire, accepting a son not of your seed if she brazenly presented him to you?"

Talagan was silent, for this was a hard question. It was easy to point to Thranduil and condemn his opprobrious disregard for the elfling growing up in his shadow. His reactions had not been so unexpected given the humiliation Ningloriel's adultery promoted, and the captain probably would have responded much more violently were he in the same situation. The loyal soldier shook his head in dismay.

"Nay, I would not. Indeed, it mattered little enough to me who the Tawarwaith's father was and still I readily sanctioned the Noldo Lord's lie. I am as much at fault as anyone regarding the derision and scorn Legolas was subjected to over the course of his young years." Truthfully, few among the Sindar had believed their Lord fathered the child. And our conduct toward Tirno reflected that plainly. With this Talagan came to a decision.

"I will go pay my respects to the newly bonded couple," he announced purposefully, "and I will carry the news of the pending dismissal of all charges and their accompanying punishments." He smiled as he stared into Thranduil's amazed countenance. "And, as an extra token of goodwill, I think I might present Legolas and Erestor with a bottle or two of Dorwinion." The warrior rose, chuckling over the look on his Lord's features.

"You could tag along," he jibed as he hastened toward the portal and slid back the bolt, "The word about the city is there is to be a grand Mereth Bardolel; I am sure I could sneak you in undetected." He was out the door and shut it with a resounding crash, thus muffling the solid thunk and twang of a dagger embedding in the planks on the interior side of the barrier.

The captain of the King's forces went straight away into the cellars and searched among the collected containers for the best year, the richest flavoured harvest of the prized wine. He triumphantly found the hidden stash, which was dwindling over time, and chose two bottles. Talagan felt almost giddy with delight as he left the dark, dry and dingy confines beneath the pantries and leaped up the stone steps into the kitchens.

From there he strolled outside and through the gardens, coming upon the main entrance to the Chamber of Starlight and immediately was forced to stop, stunned to find himself amid a billowing and discontented sea of elves murmuring and arguing one to another. Talagan spotted the wizards and their human friend exiting from under the graceful colonnade and noted they were also brought up short by the crowd. Indeed, as soon as they were sighted the throng converged in vocal anger upon them.

"Where is he?"

"Aye, bring the scoundrel out; he will not slink off to his distant lands unscathed!"

"How could you allow this, Aiwendil?"

"You have betrayed our Tawarwaith into the hands of a…a…common gigolo!"

These were among the shouts resounding through the courtyard and Talagan could only stare with gaping jaws as the Istari attempted to calm the mob.

"Peace, my good elves!" Aiwendil uplifted his arms, beech wood staff in hand, and entreated. "I am ever Legolas' friend! Of what do you speak?"

"That Noldo Lord!"

"Noldo scum, more like!" These announcements were met with hissing agreement from the crowd.

"Wait, what has happened?" Aragorn asked in worried tones.

"Yes, I thought all were in favour of the bonding of the couple. What has changed your opinions?" demanded Mithrandir, dreading to hear what he most feared had occurred, even though he could not believe it possible after witnessing the seneschal's urgent attempt to heal the soul-shattered Wood Elf.

"Our Tawarwaith fled the bonding talan in bitter tears, racing for his foster father!" one voice shouted.

"Aye, this I witnessed with my own eyes!" another averred.

"He was alone!" a third emphasised.

The Maiar exchanged glances with each other and the Man and all three felt their hearts sink in spite of their earlier convictions of faith in Erestor.

"Where is that betrayer? We will not permit him to abandon Tirno!"

"Peace!" shouted Radagast once more. "Erestor is not in the stronghold. I vow to you, he has not left the bonding talan or your Tawarwaith. There must be some other explanation!"

"And what might that be?" a bitter female voice demanded.

Now the trio of outlanders shared their uncertainty once more, for they had no idea what was going on. However, the mood of the congregation was such that some valid answer must be given, or their Noldo friend would be facing dire consequences once he did emerge from the protection of the maze.

It was at this opportune moment that Lindalcon arrived, seeking the wizards and Aragorn to enlist their aid in lighting the bonfires. Immediately the crowd parted to let him through, shouting questions and demands in equal parts.

"Is Legolas alright?"

"Have you come for Mithrandir's aid again?"

"Speak, son of Valtamar, we have a right to know what is happening to our champion!"

Lindalcon was dumbfounded as these statements flowed around him and he was passed hand to hand toward Legolas' friends collected at the stronghold's entrance. The young elf could not help the upwelling pang of ungracious anger that suffused him, for among these were the elves who had so quickly sought to condemn his brother for taking the Noldor to his bed.

"By Manwë, what is wrong with you lot?" he shouted. "I cannot believe how your minds work!"

"Nay, we saw Tirno leaving the maze alone, young one!"

"Overwrought and shedding tears of woe!"

"Have you see him? Is he well?"

The youth could not remain angry in the face of genuine concern for Legolas' welfare and sighed, understanding their misinterpretation yet still aggravated by their lack of understanding of their feral prince's mannerisms and reactions.

"Ai! If you had ever bothered to notice anything about our Tirno said observations would have revealed that he does not weep when he is sorrowed; he tends to get rather violent when grief is upon him. Legolas only cries when he is overcome with joyous feelings," Lindalcon explained and the throng exhaled a collective and subdued exclamation of relieved comprehension.

Aragorn's brows shot up, for this was very true and he should have realised it himself, having been on the receiving end of just such a virulent response not so long ago. He shared a sheepish smile with Gandalf who mimicked it and shrugged.

"He was alone because I stole all his clothes," the younger brother continued. "So Erestor lent Legolas his in order to run home and fetch other apparel. With appropriate modesty, the Noldo refused to come forth at that specific moment."

Light twitters of laughter flitted about among the group and bright smiles transformed the elves' faces. This was a classic example of brotherly jests on such an occasion taken to a heightened degree of perfection. There was quite a bit of excited speculation on exactly what methods the youth had employed in the venture and what he had witnessed in the process.

"Now how did you manage to make off with all the garments unseen?" Came the predictable query, but the source of the question startled Lindalcon as he turned to face Talagan.

He paused uneasily a moment and turned to Aragorn for guidance. A slight nod and reassuring smile let the younger brother know it was all right to speak to this elf, regarded as the chief perpetrator of Legolas' horrendous fate. This was the one who had pronounced the battlefield Judgement. Had Talagan handled things differently, the Tawarwaith would never have endured the grisly years of tormented despair and wrenching remorse, isolated and abandoned. Legolas has pardoned him, how can I not? Valtamar's son inhaled a deep breath to calm his displeasure.

"That is something the Tawarwaith and his mate will be asked to explain, once a sufficient crowd has gathered," he chortled and boisterous agreement filled the air. He gazed upon the mob with amazed interest and felt the surge in his blood that accompanied the ability to hold so great a multitude at one's command.

They await my every word and respond as I instruct!

Now Lindalcon was not one to miss an opportunity to cause his new law brother a bit of discomfort and this amiable congregation offered a fitting vehicle for a stunning prank that would set the standard for all other bonding rite jokes for millennia to come. A rather wicked grin spread across his features.

"Oh dear," said Aiwendil, "exactly what does that expression forebode, young Lindalcon?"

TBC.


	73. Chapter 73

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

Cast of Feud's Original Characters [And where we are thus far]

The Cast of Extras of Feud:  
Many have asked for a refresher on all the extra's in the story, their names, what they mean, their places in the saga. This seemed like a good idea to me and something I should have done long ago! Here they are, in order of appearance. Also, a brief summation of the facts we do know about Erebor appears at the end. A sort of cheat sheet as we return to the Chamber of Starlight and try to unravel this strange puzzle. And, a re-post of the timeline of the story in regards to canon:  
2941 - Battle of Erebor, Legolas' Judgement  
2953 - Release of Annaldír, Legolas agrees to Gandalf's plan and heads to the Southern Regions of Mirkwood, befriends the woodsmen, meets Aiwendil.  
2956 - Aragorn meets Gandalf (Return of the King, Appendix B, JRR Tolkien)  
2957 - Aragorn begins his years of errantry incognito (same as above)  
2958 - Legolas baits the Nazgul, meets Elrond and Erestor, and meets Aragorn  
Talagan (Harper)  
Sinda Captain of Thranduil's forces. He has been the King's friend since both were children. He knows Thranduil better than anyone else. Born in Neldoreth and immigrated with the Sindar refugees under Oropher's leadership before the sack of Menegroth. Talagan was there at the Last Alliance where his wife and son were killed in combat. So he has a grudge against the Noldor and Men, and he secretly fears Thranduil has condemned his mate and son's souls to eternal entrapment in either the Forest River or the trees of the Greenwood. Thus he is careful about defying his Lord.  
Talagan has a violent temperament and is ruthless; due mostly to his years of fighting with Thranduil in rather tight situations all over Middle-earth prior to the Last Alliance. He helped Thranduil amass a great fortune of wealth and ill-got gains and is rather well off himself.  
It was Talagan who condemned Legolas at Erebor, for he felt the archer had betrayed the great trust placed in him by the captain. Really, Talagan knew he was the one that failed, for he did not properly assess the forces on the ground nor have scouts determine the safety of the ridge behind the sniper's position. The fact that Legolas was already scorned and reviled as Elrond's bastard made him an easy scapegoat for blame. Thus Talagan was spared reprisals and tarnish to his reputation and for a short while the captain gained in the King's esteem for ridding him of the false heir and the faithless queen.  
One of the Lost Warriors, Andamaitë, was a distant cousin to Talagan on his mother's side.  
Maltahondo:(Golden Hearted - Quenya)  
AKA Malthen (Golden - Sindarin)  
The personal guard of Ningloriel and her son, Legolas, and thus served as the archer's corpsman among the troops. His job was to keep the arrows coming and defend the sniper from attack if necessary. Malthen has known Legolas since his birth and for many years served as the elfling's father-figure/older brother.  
Malthen is bound to Ningloriel and her family by a debt of blood that was incurred in the First Age. The ancestor of the guardsman was among the servants of Celegorm who took the sons of Dior and left them to starve in the woods. The Laiquendi found and rescued the princes while pursuing the Noldor betrayers who would do such to innocents. A skirmish ensued and Malthen's ancestor killed one of the Laiquendi, an ancestor to Ningloriel. The survivors were brought to the Greenwood where the Nandor, under Iarwain's leadership, sentenced the guilty elf and all his progeny to servitude of the slain Green Elf and all her progeny. (Iarwain does not play.)  
However, Maltahondo has been in love with Ningloriel for centuries out of time, and was her personal guard from her elfling days, and became her first lover when she was barely past majority. She kept him around and their strange affair continued intermittently whenever the queen was not able to be with her real love, Elrond, until she departed for Aman. She intended for Malthen to join her but he refused at the last moment, returning to Greenwood to try and undo the harm he has caused Legolas.  
For as the child grew, Malthen began to take on more of a supervisory role over Legolas, monitoring every facet of his life when he and Ningloriel were not in Lorien. As Legolas began to mature and entered puberty, he was stunning to look upon, much like his mother, but unlike her was head over heels in love with Malthen. Whether it was spite for Ningloriel's rejection or common lust or some combination of the two, Malthen exploited this youthful infatuation and took Legolas as his lover. Not only was the youth underage, but Malthen also used him to express his increasingly hostile resentment of Ningloriel and the relationship became humiliating and abusive. Of course, this had to be kept secret.  
Thus, when Legolas was finally assigned an active role among the troops as an archer in Talagan's company, Malthen had to end the affair. So to take care of this problem, Malthen enlists an elf he met in Lorien who later immigrated to Greenwood and became associated with Thranduil's court. The elf was actually a Noldo and served as a spy for Elrond's realm. Malthen handed over Legolas to this elf in the hidden glade where he and Legolas had enjoined their trysting. Malthen never touched him sexually again.  
Malthen is the only witness to Legolas' actions at Erebor, as far as anyone knows. Yet he did not defend the archer against Talagan's charges or even try to stop Legolas from attempting suicide. After the public decree of Judgement, Malthen tells Legolas to find a clean death and wait for him in the Halls of Mandos. He leaves him with a lock of his auburn hair that Legolas wore around his ankle during his exile.  
The only thing to his credit is that Malthen does regret what he has done. He gave up his one chance to be with Ningloriel permanently by refusing to go with her to the Undying Lands. He wants to make up for the sins of his past. That is a very tall order.  
Fearfaron (Spirit Hunter)  
Annaldír (Gift of the Trees)  
A talan builder by trade, Fearfaron is the father of one of the Lost Warriors, Annaldír. Fearfaron is the first elf to demand restitution from Legolas during the public sentencing. Fearfaron's wife is in the Undying Lands. He cajoled her into sailing for she was fading from grief. She had miscarried their daughter after a spider attack left her poisoned. This was long before Legolas was born.  
Annaldír was a spearman and died at Erebor trying to decoy the goblin guards. He was a widower, his wife and child both victims of the initial invasion of Amon Lanc when the Necromancer came and built Dol Guldur. After this he moved back home with Fearfaron when not out on patrol or on duty in the barracks. Alone among the other warriors, Annaldír befriended Legolas. He often told Fearfaron about Legolas and the two shared fondness for the archer that was unbeknown to him.  
After the Judgement, Fearfaron required Legolas to assist him in his craft. Legolas was not very adept at it but tried hard and did learn a good deal. He showed great respect for the fallen trees the two salvaged from the forest and thus Fearfaron began to feel a stronger connection to Legolas. At the 12th anniversary of the battle, Legolas was required to return for his monthly chastisement and service to the carpenter. When Ailinyéro's punishment got out of hand, Fearfaron stopped the evil elf and the sick guards from raping Legolas. Fearfaron alerted the Council and the chastisement was revoked, and the oath of celibacy was nullified too. Fearfaron took Legolas back to his home, effectively adopting him on the spot. That same night, Annaldír was Released.  
Fearfaron's name is significant. He serves as Legolas' father and represents the opposite of Thranduil's nature. We know now that Thranduil was capable of manipulating the souls of the dead for his own ends. Thranduil was more than ready to sacrifice Legolas as a means of forcing Ningloriel to his will. But Fearfaron only seeks rest for Annaldír's soul and peace for himself and Legolas. Due to Fearfaron's loving forgiveness, Legolas' spirit is prevented from fading and Annaldír's finds the way to Mandos. Legolas learns to trust Fearfaron and opens up to him, revealing for the first time his relationship with Malthen.  
Meril (Rose)  
Lindalcon (Song of the Sun Ray)  
Valtamar(Good Fortune)  
Valtamar died at Erebor trying to save the life of his comrade, Andamaitë. He was a swordsman and valiant warrior, a devoted father and husband.  
Meril is the oldest daughter and one of four children of a long line of warriors and lost her father in the Last Alliance. Full details below in the summary of the Erebor evidence to date.  
During the public Judgement, Meril invoked an ancient Law as restitution: since Legolas was guilty of taking away Lindalcon's father, then Lindalcon was within rights to claim the title and position of Prince of the Woodland Realm from Legolas. Because of this, she moved into the stronghold palace and ousted Ningloriel, who refused to share her position of power with another, even though she hated Thranduil.  
Though young and suffering from his loss, Lindalcon is not overcome by grief mainly because the tension in the stronghold requires him to be constantly alert. He hates Thranduil, cannot believe his mother has joined with him, and is angry that no one seems to remember his father. Except Legolas and Fearfaron, both of whom become his substitute family. Lindalcon does not believe Legolas caused his father's death, and as he has grown older has been beset by nightmares of the events of the battle. He believes neither he nor his father will find peace until the truth is revealed.  
Because he was hiding in a spot he should not have, he overheard his mother lying to Thranduil about Legolas' visit to his new baby brother. When he revealed this, Legolas then told Lindalcon he suspects that Meril was involved in Erebor somehow. To hear that his mother may have deliberately helped bring bout Valtamar's death nearly breaks Lindalcon, but he survives due to Legolas' love and support and the two become closer than most brothers. Lindalcon boldly defends Legolas against Thranduil's charges and does not desert him even when the archer's illicit involvement with the Noldor is publicly revealed.  
Rochendil (Horse friend)  
Ailinyéro(Pools of Sorrow)  
The husband of Andamaitë, one of the Lost Warriors. He is called Rochendil because he is the horse master for Talagan's company. It is his responsibility to ensure the safety of the horses during battle when the elves are not mounted, as at Erebor. He changed his name to Ailinyéro after the Judgement, where he demanded Legolas swear an oath of celibacy and also that he submit to chastisement. Chastisement was basically sexual torture. He was exiled after Fearfaron stopped these torments on the night of the Judgement's 12th anniversary. He was ordered to sail for the Undying Lands and stand before Manwë for his punishment.  
Gladhadithen (Little Laugh aka Giggle)  
Though we do not learn her name until many chapters later, she is there right from the start, caring for Legolas and arguing with Gandalf. This continues to be her style throughout. No one dares defy her orders, she has treated every elf in the Greenwood at one point or another, seen them all naked, sick and vulnerable. Even Thranduil. If anybody has power, she does and she uses it judiciously and for good. She serves as Legolas', and every one else's, substitute mother. When she steps forward, everyone else steps back and gives her room. Her name was given based on a good friend who reviews when she can and also happens to be something of a healer.  
Ningloriel (Golden Water Lily Maiden)  
Queen of the Woodland Realm and Legolas' mother. Selfish and promiscuous, she has helped ruin her child's life by her ongoing affair with Elrond of Imladris. She despises Thranduil and only seeks a means to become more powerful and influential. She loves Elrond as much as she loves anyone but has kept Maltahondo as her lover also. After the Judgement, when Meril and Lindalcon moved in, she moved out, dissolved her union to Thranduil and tried to get Legolas to go with her to Aman. He refused; she accused him of being selfish and left him anyway, after exacting a promise from Elrond to look after him. Maltahondo abandoned her at the Havens, however, and returned to Greenwood hoping to help Legolas survive.  
Dambethnîn (My Answer) Pen-bara (Fiery One)  
Orophin (?) Pen-Raeg (Bent One)  
For purposes of this story, Dambethnîn and Orophin got to know Erestor sometime after the battle against the Balrog that ravaged Lorien in TA 1980. Based on what Erestor says to Fearfaron, Orophin must have been very young, barely at majority when he and Dambethnîn bonded. Erestor admits he has been with them for several centuries by the time he meets Legolas so it would not have been much after this disaster. Possibly, Galadriel and Celeborn sent some of the Galadhrim to Imladris to recover from their grief and shock and he met them then.  
The two decided to let Erestor join them at Dambethnîn's suggestion. Dambethnîn was given the nickname Pen-bara (Fiery One) and Orophin was called Pen-Raeg (Bent One) by Erestor, who is known to them as Pen-raun (Deviant One). *(NOTE: I have found that some of the chapters say Pen-raug rather than Pen-raeg. I will try to correct these errors. Pen-raug means 'Devilish One'.)* The couple love one another and both love Erestor, as much as he will let them, but he refused to formalise their bond and remains free, seeing them when he can but also prowling after any young eligible elf that catches his eye in Imladris. This Erestor clearly states to Elrond in the chapter 'Pondering Difficulties and a New Course', saying he has never pretended to any formal bonds. Later, he tells Legolas he is bound! (OK, he lied. He did not think he was going to fall for Legolas. He tells all the young elves he seduces the same thing, so they will not endanger their hearts while engaging his lust.)  
Their situation is not clear, for while the couple were definitely worried about what was happening to Erestor; they were not under the impression he had actually given away his heart. This they deemed had been given to them, as much as he was capable of giving. What they will think when they learn of this bonding to the wild elf is up in the air.  
Erestor(Actual meaning unknown)  
Sigiland (Long knife)  
Berenaur (Brave Flame)  
Pen-raun (Deviant One)  
Erestor's many names are just inventions made by the author. Tolkien never gave any translation of what 'Erestor' means and if there is one I have not seen it. So I made up a meaning for that also from the following words: Erui=alone (Er), estë=rest (est), oré=inner heart (or): Alone Rests the Inner Heart. Sigiland is his father name and until the fall of Gondolin this is the name he was known by. Berenaur is his mother name and the one he decides to use once he and Elrond actually meet Legolas who laughs at them for pretending their names are Herdir (male lord) and Rusciphant (old fox). Then Elrond steals the name Erestor because it has just enough prestige to wow the rustic Wood Elf and Erestor uses the name his mother bestowed on him. It is nice Legolas chooses this one to call him, for this helps Erestor heal tremendously. Legolas tells Erestor he was true to this name when standing between Thranduil and him at the council hearing. Due to Legolas, Erestor has won back the right to use this name again without shame.  
Iarwain (The Oldest)  
This elf's true name is lost to time, for this is an ancient awakened at Cuiviénen and has been with the Danwaith forever. His name is blatantly a tribute to Tom Bombadil, who was called this by the elves and signifies the reverence the Wood Elves have for this elder. However, Iarwain also goes by the name Oromëndil (Friend of Oromë). Iarwain does not like sharing power with Thranduil and was happy to allow the Judgement to stand unchallenged, for it removed the King's heir. Thranduil got around that after taking a consort and producing more children. Then the Tawarwaith started to be spoken of and Iarwain figured out this was Legolas. He decided to try to regain control of the Realm through manipulating the wild elf. He has been unsuccessful in predicting what Legolas will do and also how the wily carpenter will intervene.  
Ben'waeth (According to the Wind)  
Ben'waith (According to the People)  
This is the name of the elf servant who has been Meril's friend for centuries, long before the consort's change in fortune. They are gossip hounds and have a standing contest to see who can astound the other with the most outrageous news. An accidental misspelling occurred recently and though I caught it I decided to leave it as it stands, because the way Ben'waeth is presented is different in each of the two chapters.  
We first meet her after Meril has her argument with Thranduil over her lies regarding the Tawarwaith. Ben'waeth encourages Meril to open up to her husband about what happened regarding Erebor, for Meril told her of it at the time. Meril refuses. However, spelled this way, Ben'waeth means 'According to the Wind' and in Tolkien's universe, Súlimo, or the Wind Lord, is another name for Manwë, the Vala closest to the mind of Iluvatar. Thus I chose this name, for the elf was speaking with the voice of right and justice.  
Later, she turns up again, when the glen is being set to rights for Legolas' return with his new mate. I spelled the name wrong: Ben'waith, which means 'According to the People'. Well, I decided to leave it that way because in that chapter she speaks up after Gandalf derides the Wood Elves efforts to make amends to Legolas. She effectively represents the voice of her people.  
The humans in the village:  
Llannadh, Sarah, Chloe, Amethyst, and the Elder with ivory skin and brown eyes, all these were chosen from among fans who had submitted reviews and said they would not mind being mentioned that way. Some others are mentioned more vaguely and only they are aware. Carnil (Red Star - Mars) and Cemendur (Servant of the Earth - aka geologist!) are me. The human name equivalents are Mark (Carnil) and George (Cemendur). Cemendur survives, Carnil perished. There is also an elven child that argues with his brother, when bringing some food and drink to Legolas, who is named Cemendur. These little ones are all foreshadowing of Legolas' strong protective instinct towards Taurant and Gwilwileth and his guilty belief that he has brought trouble upon them.  
Just in case anyone was wondering, Legolas is determined to return to the village and visit with Cemendur again. That will be a funny little side piece sometime in the future in which Aragorn, Legolas, and Cemendur will have a small and harmless (mostly) adventure one summer while Erestor is stuck in Imladris and the Tawarwaith is bored and restless.  
Taurant (Mighty Gift)  
Gwilwileth(Butterfly)  
The prince and princess of the Greenwood, Thranduil and Meril's children. Gwilwileth is still learning to speak and thus some words are difficult for her. She calls her self 'Gwilith', which means 'air' and indeed she is flighty and bright as any breezy spring day. Her father will give her the name Echuiross (Early Spring Rain).  
She makes up all sorts of funny names for people out of different word parts. She calls her baby brother Tauron, which means forester, Lindalcon is Lindon (Land in Beleriand where the Laiquendi originally dwelled, later a haven for the remnant of the Noldor). Legolas has turned into Limlas, (fish leaf), Gladhadithen is Gladdie because it is easy not because it means anything, Iarwain is Arwain (Royal Sickle). (He likes this because it refers to the constellation called the Sickle of the Valar and names him royal by virtue of being awakened when this constellation was prominent. However, the Sickle is the same as our Ursa Major aka Big Dipper and that is prominent much of the time anyway at least in the Northern Hemisphere.) Arathorn is Aran (king). And so on. What she will call Erestor, Gandalf, and Aiwendil has not been revealed.  
Taurant is just a helpless baby right now and Legolas will do his best to protect him. We will have to wait a bit to learn what sort of character this elfling possesses and whether he will appreciate the gift of the Tawarwaith's blessing or not.  
Have I left anyone out? Any other detail anyone would like to have brought forward?  
What we know about Erebor thus far:  
From the Hobbit we know this much: The Wood Elves were pinned down and boxed in, for goblins had swarmed in unexpectedly from the other side of the Mountain and were converging upon both the southern and eastern spurs defining the valley. Thranduil was at Ravenhill, Gandalf with him; Thorin and Dain's men were in the valley surrounded by the goblins. The elves were struggling to hold their positions on the southern spur but were being slowly overtaken.  
From the story we know this: Talagan's plan was to destroy the Goblin King, thus demoralising the rest of the fell beasts and bolstering the hope and courage of the remaining fighters. He was confident his plan would work, for Legolas was highly gifted and in fact never missed that anyone had ever noted. The plan would have worked, but someone started throwing rocks at Legolas and hit him just as he was about to take his shot. He missed.  
So the big question is, who threw those rocks?  
A) Goblins?  
B) Malthen?  
C) Ailinyéro?  
D) Talagan?  
Thranduil has referred to it as an avalanche, but this is an exaggeration. There was definitely a rock fall, however, and it happened just as many pivotal things occurred: 1) the Goblin King was exposed 2) the eagles started to fly into battle 3) Thorin was struck down. So no one was really concentrating on what was happening on one small ledge above two elves.  
Even so, Gandalf stated unequivocally that there were no goblins on the ridge above Legolas' position. If anyone was looking around, it was he. The Hobbit says he was just sitting there thinking while all the fighting was going on.  
Maltahondo did not report any activity until he saw the rocks start falling. By that time it was too late for Legolas to do anything, no matter what Talagan thinks. What was the guardsman doing all this time?  
Talagan, knowing the goblins were pouring toward the elves' positions on the southern spur, could have detailed at least one soldier to cover the archer his plot so depended upon, yet he did not. And where was he during this time?  
Ailinyéro hated Legolas and according to Meril (see below) had a motive for causing him to miss. But he was assigned to guarding the troops' horses and he would not have been involved in the combat. Also, Meril's tale is not flawless. Still, where was he during this time?  
This is the 'confession' Meril made to Thranduil:  
"I loved Valtamar, this you must accept," she at last began to whisper and raised her eyes, strained and alight with a frantic gleam, to his.  
Thranduil gripped her arm and lifted Meril up onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her as her head nestled in the crook of his neck. This was difficult to hear, for if love was so quick to come and go within her heart, what did that foretell of the bond they shared?  
"Aye, it is nothing unexpected for an elleth to love. Go on."  
"He wanted many elflings; I would not consent. He was a warrior, and I suffered the death of my father at a young age. The Last Alliance claimed him and his remains lie in the stagnant waters of the Dead Marshes. My mother faded quickly thereafter, leaving me to rear my three younger siblings. I did my best, but in the end I lost the littlest; she died of grief. Then I sent the other two over sea at once."  
"You did not join them, why?"  
"Valtamar. He served with my father; was there when he met his end. He did try to make me do so, even though he loved me dearly even then. I was comforted by his love, and came to return it. I could not go and leave him alone. He would not abandon the Greenwood, for seasoned warriors were fewer in number after the Last Alliance and needed here.  
"Those early years were wondrous and we lived in joy despite the growing dangers from the Necromancer. During the Watchful Peace Valtamar was seldom far from my side and he once more renewed his request for offspring. I resisted long, for I did not trust to the Weaver's [Vairë, Vala of Destiny] compassion and felt my fate was always to be marked by loss, as it has ever been for a spearman's daughter and a warrior's wife.  
"Nearly six hundred years did I make him wait, perpetually begging this gift of me on every Edinor Dû'wîthiel [Binding-Night Anniversary]. (NOTE- this sounds like an inconsistency, but Meril is counting that 600 years from the END of the Watchful Peace (2460) not from the Last Alliance. Lindalcon is pre-adolescent, 38, when we meet him first and matures over the years Legolas is in exile. This puts his birth at 2903, so Meril was exaggerating that amount of centuries a bit, it was more like 443. Please forgive the author for just estimating in this case instead of calculating everything exactly.) I do not recall what swayed me after such steadfast refusal. Yet I have never regretted relenting to Valtamar's unceasing pleas; Lindalcon was our delight and my only consolation upon his death, prior to my union with you.  
"Once our son was in his twenties, however, my husband began to demand more babes. We argued much and the strain grew between us. Valtamar saw my refusal as insecurity and deemed he had failed as my spouse and as a soldier. I could not make him see I was guarding Lindalcon against the pain I endured on losing my parents and my siblings.  
"By then we were often apart due to the increased activity of Orcs and the need for longer and longer tours of patrol. Then one morn he was brought home badly wounded and I nearly went berserk, shouting at him that I would leave and take Lindalcon with me to Aman if he did not resign his commission and seek a less dangerous life.  
"He called me a coward and faithless! He accused me of caring nothing for Greenwood and our child's future, of forgetting Tawar and the bounty of the trees. We resolved the conflict but things were not the same there after. And though we did share a bond, I ceased to lay with him. Of course we did not reveal any of this to Lindalcon and he never discovered our discord.  
"Valtamar knew his rights under the Law yet did not invoke them openly as he should. This was for Lindalcon's sake, but far better would that upheaval have been than the truth he was attempting to conceal from us!" Meril burst into fresh tears, but these were of anger and abused pride, not sorrow and despair. Thranduil caressed her hair and closed his eyes as he pressed her head against his shoulder.  
"Valtamar took a consort," he said and felt her nod avowal.  
"Oh far worse! He got her with child, a warrior in his company. She was wedded and the scandal would have destroyed any happiness we had left. How could I let him break Lindalcon's heart that way? I would not suffer it or have my child shamed thus!" Her weeping increased intensity for several minutes as Thranduil sought to comfort her, but already he had a sick feeling in his stomach regarding the completion of this tale.  
"What did you do about it?" he prompted when the tears subsided yet she did not resume speaking. He felt her take a long shuddering breath and release it slowly, so slowly, as if she was at last purging all the pain and anger she had harboured hidden in her heart for centuries.  
"The mate of this inu warrior came to me. He was outraged. He wanted to have them answer for their deeds before the Council, but I pleaded for him to consider the children, Lindalcon and the growing life in her womb, blameless of any wrongs. He relented, but said he would not have a bastard foisted upon him to raise. He said he would deal with them and that the child would never breathe air.  
"Again I begged mercy for this unborn elfling! I urged him to confront his mate and demand she remove to Aman or at least to Mithlond. This would solve our dilemma without jeopardising innocent life. He said he would consider it.  
"The next day, the call came up for the march to Erebor. The rest you know. I fear this elf made good his threats and was the cause for the deaths of at least two of the Lost Warriors, Valtamar and Andamaitë." She stopped speaking and snuggled against her husband as if ready for repose, heaving another great lungful to cleanse her soul.  
Thranduil frowned; if the warrior inu involved with Valtamar was Andamaitë then Rochendil was the irate mate. This was the real name of Ailinyéro, the elf banished by the Council for molesting the outcast under the veil of seeking retribution by chastisement. A link had been established, but most tenuous was this thread connecting the parties. Something was not quite right.  
"What of the archer? How is Legolas involved in all this? How did Rochendil manage it?" He felt Meril shrug listlessly.  
"He was not, at least not in the scandal. I have no idea how Rochendil made all this come about. I assumed he merely saw a chance to create a scapegoat for his crimes."  
"What of Maltahondo? Where does he fit into this? Was he part of the plot to blame Legolas?"  
"Nay, I do not believe so. I think he was as unaware of what was taking place as was his charge."  
"But you condemned Legolas, too! You demanded the fullness of the sentence, a punishment he did not deserve."  
"I went along with everyone else! How could I reveal all when that would only add to Lindalcon's grief? I would not risk my child's life! He was so devastated by the loss of his father, to tarnish his happy memories would have been brutally cruel.  
"As for the mandates I made that day, perhaps they were not fair. Would you hold me to account now? Are the love we have found and the family we have produced insufficient justification for that small infraction? Legolas did not really belong to anyone; he was just another archer, and his death would not even be remarked in Greenwood. No one thought him able to survive a year on his own, much less seventeen. It was never to come to this sort of conclusion."  
Meril claims the real victims were on the valley floor below, yet her story about Valtamar and Andamaitë lacks credence, because no parents would knowingly charge into battle and put their unborn child at risk.  
Meril claims Maltahondo was not involved at all.  
Meril also says her information came from Ailinyéro, who is conveniently no longer present to refute whatever she states. How does she know about all this before hand? Why didn't she go to Talagan with what she knew and protect the unborn child she claimed to be so concerned about? According to her, Ailinyéro somehow caused the rockslide, so where was he during the battle?  
No matter whether it is lies or truth, Meril has said entirely too much not to be involved on some level. Why would she do this? Was Valtamar really supposed to be a target? Was he having an affair of not? Why would Ailinyéro tell Meril anything at all about his plans? How could he trust her to remain silent?  
So that is all there is thus far, folks.  
Tbc


	74. Chapter 74

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK  
Gwedeir ar Gwedier-vi-Gwaedh (Bond Brothers and Brothers-in-Law)

Now the Wood Elves were a species attuned to nature in every aspect of their existence and few among them could ever fathom life beyond the cool, shaded world of the Greenwood under the protection and beneficence of Tawar. Every action among the elves of the forest occurred in congruity with the cycles of Arda and their habits reflected the every-changing constancy in the turn of the seasons. The Danwaith had developed a harmony within the structure of Yavanna's design that was in all ways a true symbiosis. Before the Sindar returned to the woods from Beleriand, bringing with them Melian and Thingol's concepts of immortality and the will of the Valar, the Wood Elves felt no need to call upon the absent cohorts of Oromë and Yavanna in order to understand the world and their place within it.

Indeed, in the centuries that passed before the coming of Anor and Ithil, the moriquendi forgot the majesty of the Valar dwelling in the distant realm of Valinor. Maybe they had not really believed Oromë's tales of these beings in the first place, unable to understand why such mighty lords would seek to remove them from the lands that sheltered them. While they felt the presence of Manwë in the wind and the air, the silvans thought not of the King of the West, closest to the ear of Eru. To the Danwaith, the Wind Lord seemed subject to Arda, as were they, for did not the breath of Iluvatar moving over the lands contain him? Truly, he served the rhythm of the world laid out for it by Yavanna, and thus he was judged a lesser spirit than she. For who among them had seen Súlimo?

In the rushing voice of hurrying streams and the driving torrents descending from menel in the season of rain, the Wood Elves heard the voice of Ulmo but instead of comprehending a being beyond the strength of these waters they saw him as subordinate to them. Were the rivers not confined within channels and meers, pools and lakes? Did not the very trees consume the vital fluid, and they themselves do the same? It did not seem logical that something lesser could contain the might of a higher entity. Perhaps, had any of their folk ventured West far enough to look upon Aearon this view of Ulmo would have altered, but no silvan of the Greenwood had ever done so and returned to speak of it.

The woodland folk gazed upon the stars and recalled Varda but the story surrounding her was somewhat at variance with the accepted legends of Beleriand. The Nandor named these bright points of gleam the eyes of Eru, ever watching over them in vigilant concern. The gift of the mightiest queen among the Valar was thus not the stars themselves, but an inky veil she cast between the world and the glorious majesty of the One, for to look upon such magnificence unceasingly, unshielded, would bring them to despair for being parted from it. Between the fine threads of her lacy mantle shown enough of the holy light of Iluvatar to hearten and encourage the elves, but not so much to cause them pain.

As for Oromë and Yavanna, the only members of the Ainur known to the Wood Elves, some misunderstandings arose. Yavanna was thought to be the wife of the Hunter, for none had seen Vána and if he spoke of her it was lost to the memory of the elders. The Danwaith believed Oromë kept his beloved hidden away and that only when the entire world was locked in slumber would she come forth from her bower and tend to her creations. The Forester, though later revered as the champion of elf-kind, had at first been feared as one of the captains of Melkor if not the Dark One himself.

And in the end, Oromë left them anyway and the trusting moriquendi could not understand. Why would their benefactor abandon them instead of completing his labour, destroying the vile emanations of Shadow still striving to defile and subjugate Iluvatar's Children? How could Yavanna expect the Danwaith to forsake the very world she had designed for them? Nay, the lesser children of Eru did not completely forget the Valar, yet the concept of them evoked resentment and insecurity while the notion of the Powers' purpose dimmed.  
.   
Over the passage of unnumbered aeons after the final retreat of the Ainur from the wide lands east of the Hithaeglir, the Wood Elves developed their own philosophy in order to render the unaccountable into wisdom. In this way they came to comprehension of Tawar and felt within the Spirit of the Great Wood the presence of Eru manifest in their world. The stars high above lent fortitude and awoke joy in their hearts; the trees protected and sheltered them. If this was not the expression of Iluvatar's being then there was none such that the silvans could understand it. Oromë had retreated, Yavanna turned her face away, but Tawar would never forsake them, be they living or dead.

And mortality was always stalking, a tireless tracker and remorseless predator.

Before the return of Lenwë's remnant late in the First Age, the Nandor believed death restored their essence to the elements of the world and consciousness was lost forever. Immortality was a delicate and fragile state to be jealously protected. Those who were reckless with another's existence and wasted it owed a debt of blood paid in service to the deceased elf's family. Not until the Laiquendi shared what Thingol's wife had taught concerning the division of life imperishable into hroa and feä was the notion of reincarnation introduced. Yet Wood Elves felled by violence or lost to grief did not heed the call of Námo or require the keeping of Mandos, nor were their feär driven to flee the trees but encouraged to stay and harbour near to their kinfolk and loved ones.

The Lost were neither dreaded nor scorned in those ancient times but rather were hallowed and coaxed to dwell in sacred places set-aside for them. The dead were remembered by relatives who visited these sites often and by parents who sought to rejuvenate their disembodied children by producing new life. In this way it was believed these unhoused ones came to be reborn among the elves of the woods.

The coming of the Sindar from Beleriand changed this for they enlightened the silvans. From refugees of Doriath and also the few Noldor among them, the fullness of the history of the Powers was explained. The immigrants laughed at the Danwaith's rustic credo propounding new elflings held old souls, claiming this was a gift only Námo could grant. They told tales that brought great sorrow to the woodland folk, saying all their kin lost since the time of Awakening had been enslaved first by Melkor and then by Sauron, turned into demons and monsters that obeyed his will and sought destruction of the First-born.

But among these newcomers were also Laiquendi from Ossiriand, and they disputed the dire doom proclaimed by the Sindar and the Noldor. They too held that, by the grace of Iluvatar, a soul could return to a body generated from its original progenitors without the need to dwell in Mandos. Gradually, a blend of the warring philosophies emerged, such that feär must be attended to upon death, else the Darkness claim them. Thus, rejuvenation required judgement and travel to Mandos yet peace might be found by immersion within Tawar for those that did not desire rebirth or feared to face the unknown Vala.

By the time of Thranduil's ascension to rule, the Wood Elves had come to regard Mandos as less terrible than enthralment by any entity, for by then the Shadow had begun overtaking the Greenwood and Tawar was no longer revered as immutable. Better to have the chance for reincarnation than to wander and face the possibility of entrapment by some evil power. Roaming souls were feared as possible agents of Darkness, encouraged to flee to the Halls of Waiting. That more and more of the moriquendi now sought the shores of the Undying Lands only added to the confusion, for sometimes mated couples became separated. How could a Lost feä hope to be reborn without the parents' union?

The sacred sanctuaries of the forest that harboured unhoused souls gradually fell to neglect and were forgotten by the population at large. Who could continue believing such places were protected when the Sinda King had so easily dispersed the fallen warriors of the Last Alliance into the Enchanted River and the surrounding trees?

Even so, the alternative was only marginally less intimidating. Námo was unknown, faceless and formless, and his standards were harsh and difficult to meet; thus came about the rigid demands for some sort of noble sacrifice to justify and balance a violent demise. Any elf that caused the death of another, whether wilfully or by negligence, was guilty of kin-slaying and must tender over either his own immortal existence or complete the Tasks of Release as payment for the victim's passage into the Vala's keeping. 

In all of the long history of this convoluted notion's evolution, only one elf had ever actually completed such a task without dying in the process.

That elf was Legolas, chosen champion of the Greenwood, the last voice of Tawar upon Arda. And while most of this ancient knowledge was but partially known to him, instinctively he was drawn to the consecrated fields where in ages past a sundered soul might safely rest awaiting rebirth. Such was the original nature of his sanctuary by the blackberry bramble far to the south near the woodsmen's settlements. Likewise the small clearing near the stronghold where he had practised archery alone in his elfling days was one of these holy fanes. And this was also the dell where he had brought his secret lover and where his heart had been broken, the very glade reclaimed by Lindalcon, Gladhadithen, Fearfaron and the good elves of the Woodland Realm to become the new home of the Tawarwaith and his bonded mate. 

There must have been at least a few among the eldest of the silvans that recalled the once blessed purpose of the location and felt it more than fitting for the Greenwood's defender to make his home there. None could know, for even Fearfaron did not, how much pain had since defiled the area or how important their unselfish actions were in rejuvenating it. The elves just wanted their world set to rights and the majority had come to the conclusion that Legolas was the key to this.

Besides, it was autumn and thus the time when many couples bonded, and that meant a number of really fine parties. It was a tradition looked forward to every year as a means of defying the Darkness surrounding their beleaguered world. The silvan folk were eager, for Legolas' would be the first Mereth Bardolel of the season. Every turn in the annual circle of the world brought its own distinctive activities to the Woodland Realm.

In spring as the trees renewed their foliage and wild-life set to mating, the silvans also tended to reproduce, at least those that dared generate new progeny under the siege of Dol Guldur. Elves bonded in the days surrounding the autumnal equinox sought to procreate near the time of the vernal equinox. The resultant nativities the following year were causes for great celebration. The forest remained brighter than the dawn both night and day as lanterns burned within every talan and hung from nearly every branch and twig. Unceasingly, elven voices mingled with the cheerful singing of warblers and finches, all heralding the arrival of new life in the greening branches of the oaks and beeches. Few were the Wood Elves that slept in the spring.

The cold months were not joyous in the Greenwood. Winter was spent in vigilant defence and aggressive campaigns against the Orcs and Spiders. The grotesque arachnids slumbered more in the frigid weather and thus were their colonies more easily targeted. Orcs, on the other hand, became extra energetic when Anor retreated and the reduced cover of the trees made elven warriors easier to keep in their sights. This was not a period of settling in and holding fast; the silvans pressed hard into the enemy's outposts, attacking relentlessly through the light hours in hopes of depleting their foes beyond the ability to retaliate in the night. The winter solstice was marked by brutal battle that bled into the reign of Ithil and spilled into the lengthening days that followed. 

Gathering and storing up the bounty of the forest against the dearth of winter began with summer's arrival. This semester of long light was a contradiction in attitudes, promoting both a flurry of industrious activity and an easy, indolent attitude of lazy relaxation. The oppressive heat and humidity promoted this strange combination of motivation and lassitude, and socialising in summertime invariably involved water.

In fact, there was an entire Pae-tâd Aur (twelve-day) devoted to a series of competitive games centred on various skills required for manoeuvring in and on water. Nearly all the elves participated and since these sports necessitated shedding as many garments as possible, sometimes all of them, it was not to be wondered that autumn bonding rituals succeeded summer's exhibition of bare skin. The games were a rather enjoyable means to establish courting rights and those already bonded relished the sport of matchmaking. 

Even elflings too young to understand the concept of courting joined the festivities, gleefully attending the events appropriate to their years. A carnival atmosphere prevailed and it was likely elves of the other realms would be amazed to see the continual party transpiring under the shadowy verdure of the canopy, were they ever invited.

Swimming and kayaking races, barrel-dancing, and running the rapids were serious events and among competing warriors the hazard of mock combat was invariably added. The contenders, whether male or female, tended to regard this portion of the trials rather solemnly. It was considered a matter of honour to best one's challengers and personal status depended on the ranking achieved through these endeavours. Those wishing to impress a prospective mate were especially aggressive and Gladhadithen frequently had to halt the proceedings, disqualifying combatants that took things too far.

The event culminated in a grand celebration of the summer solstice. Awards were given to the victors and for the younger participants these included sweets and clever toys wrought by dwarven hands far away in the Iron Mountains. Adult prizes often took the form of fine weapons, bows and knives, jewelled ornaments for adorning the hair and body, with the grand prize being not some sort of water craft as one might expect but rather the finest weanling foal from the King's stable. Even so, the lesser items were more coveted for the tokens were exchanged between eligible elves and their would-be paramours as signs of their intentions. The acceptance or rejection of such gifts marked the progress or suspension of a suitor's cause.

Lindalcon had competed in some of the adult levels of the games for the first time in the summer just ended and had not made too poor a showing. He had won a fine dagger for finishing first in a race through the lower rapids, a speed competition only with no war skills involved. He had also received a small sapphire jewel for taking the third spot in barrel-dancing, which was a very lively and popular sport among the populace. It was not, however, as mild and carefree as it sounded.

The skills employed were minimal, for the only directive was to leap atop an empty barrel dropped from the King's cellars into the Forest River. One had to remain on one's feet as the floating containers flipped, spun, bobbed and wobbled in the current, not an easy feat even for gracefully athletic Wood Elves. Sitting was not allowed and using hands to grip any part of the bloated wooden casks was forbidden; once in the water, an elf was out of the running. The name of the activity derived from the body-gyrating, arm-flailing, one- and two-footed hopping required to maintain balance. The objective was to be the last elf upright as the barrels crossed the boundary marking the completion of the course a league downstream.

All opponents had the same goal and thus everyone was equally concerned with dislodging their fellow barrel-dancers. There were few moves deemed too underhanded to disqualify a competitor and the only stipulation was that no weapons could be used. Rock throwing was a favourite tactic as were kicking an opponent and/or their barrel and hair yanking. Over the centuries during which winning techniques were perfected, it became obvious that less clothing meant fewer handholds for tugging and locks were kept tightly bound up in topknots and buns.

Barrel-dancing was undeniably invented for showing-off.

Lindalcon was certain he had never seen Legolas participate in the spectacle. He was recalling all of this for he knew that the archer had won many of the more dangerous competitions including running the upper rapids while being fired upon by 'enemies' in other kayaks and along the banks of the foaming stream. Remembering the games had occurred because Lindalcon had found himself rejoicing for the unexpected chill that had changed a drenching farewell-to-summer down-pour into an elegant veil of frosty white. That had got him thinking of the seasons and how clever he was to manage bringing about Legolas' bonding at the traditionally appropriate time of year.

Or perhaps he just had water on his thoughts in general.

In any case, Lindalcon found himself wondering whom the wild elf had given all his tokens to, and whether or not it was Maltahondo. Somehow, he did not think so. Somehow, he rather thought Legolas had never given anyone such a courting gift. This had come to the young elf's mind while pondering the fact that his initial offering to an amazingly beautiful potential mate had been refused.

The inu in question, one of the other Councillors' apprentices, had later accepted a ruby dotted hair clasp from a warrior who had only placed fifth in the same race. Lindalcon solemnly shook his head as he walked along the quiet pathway toward the baths; he simply did not understand how it was all done.

Nor does Legolas, I am sure.

It staggered his comprehension to consider the harrowing events that had been required in order for Legolas and Erestor to find their love for one another. Included within this catalogue of woeful happenstance was his father's demise.

Bloody Vairë!

Valtamar's son came over the rise above the stony grotto with its clear pools and stopped abruptly. He stood transfixed as though the baths were something never seen before, which was not the case.

The small depression was the location of a natural spring and the Wood Elves considered the mineral rich liquid to hold healing properties. It was customary for the silvans to take the waters frequently and communal soaking was not only accepted but cemented the sense of unity between the individuals of the populous city. In comparison, publicly cleansing the body was taboo for washing was a deeply personal experience, a display of trust shared only between mates, and the grotto was not used for such purposes. The unexpected cold and the healer's warnings had ensured the spring would be empty except for the new couple. 

Surrounding the site was an elegant octagonal pavilion of cedar wood that blended well with the natural environment. In spring and summer, flowering vines of Morning Glory and Clematis covered the structure and provided living curtains for the open-sided building. In winter there were of course silk screens to shield occupants from cold wind and icy drafts and bitter rain or snow. These were tightly drawn shut now to ward off the unexpected blast of arctic air.

Inside, the stone floor had been sanded smooth and the naturally terraced contours enhanced to create broad steps that led down to the sheltered spring. There were three deep pools and around them elves had scattered a number of comfortable benches of the same cedar wood. These were grouped near tables and in winter could be dragged close to the iron braziers so commonly used by the woodland folk when heat was demanded. Of course, Gladhadithen had seen to it that these were all blazing brightly to ensure the newly-bonded couple enjoyed their ablutions.

No, Lindalcon was familiar with this place and had not halted upon sighting the pavilion, but rather because he heard the sound of song floating in the snow-filled air. Erestor was singing to Legolas, his rich melodic baritone insinuating the notes between the feathery flakes, the words imbued with a compelling level of emotion as his love resonated within every syllable of the lyrics. It was a composition Lindalcon had not heard before, sung in Quenya so that it had the eerie quality of belonging to a time and a land forgotten, destroyed centuries before even his father's father had been born.

Not before this moment had the Noldo advisor seemed so alien or foreign, yet now the young son of Valtamar wondered how this elf could find ease among the altered landscapes and diminished glory remaining in Arda. Such as Erestor belonged across the sea in Valinor not here beneath Greenwood's ancient trees amid a people that had shunned the company of Valar and Eldar alike. Yet the music rising over the quiescent hollow bespoke commitment, a feeling of peace and of returning to home, of kinship and family.

Lindalcon hesitated. Should he go down? He was charged to lead the new couple back to the glade, for both thought they were expected at Fearfaron's talan. The baths were screened and it was not that he would be spying on the couple, yet he was uncertain. He did not wish to interrupt the lovers in an erotic episode, for all joking and curiosity aside, Lindalcon wanted Legolas to be happy and fulfilled.

Nor did he wish to cause Erestor to stop singing. There was no need to translate the words to understand how important for Legolas was the hearing of such heart-thoughts, sung for him alone and no other, ever. For surely this was Erestor's equivalent of the song Lindalcon had invented this very dawn; held back until it could be voiced for the one who would spend eternity by his side. He marvelled at this sudden parity to that youthful Erestor, facing the rising of Anor with a canticle of love building in his spirit, therein to be cherished, patiently sequestered through millennia of lonely longing until his soul broke free to mingle with its counterpart, made whole at last.

And the Tawarwaith's brother knew then that he could not go down, for this moment was more private and intimate than any physical intercourse of two bodies would ever be. Erestor was offering Legolas his feä and the wild elf was bound to receive it in joy.

Even as he turned to leave, a warm breeze, whispering like a soft sigh sprung from a being submerged in serene contentment, gently rustled the trees and wafted through his tresses. Lindalcon inhaled in amazement, for suddenly it seemed he stood less then a metre from the lovers within the pavilion, so clearly could he discern them. His mind whirled, disoriented by the impossibility, then settled as he recalled Aragorn's description of the phenomenon. He was being permitted this vision through the intercession of Tawar.

The lovers were not in the pools but the relaxed familiarity of the pair told Lindalcon their carnal union was not long past. They were naked, seated astride a padded bench before the incalescent hearth to dry.

Legolas had his back to the Noldo, hands resting on Berenaur's knees between which he was perfectly ensconced. The long curved lashes of closed eyes formed a dark golden fringe upon the elegant perfection of high cheeks. The wild elf was smiling in dreamy tranquillity, chin tipped up slightly to make the long fall of wet locks spill freely down his spine. Legolas was still flushed from the heat of their love-making and the warmth of the glowing grate, deep garnet of parted lips and small erect nipples contrasting against flesh all peachy-pink. The silky patch of flaxen hair between his thighs was barely visible, for the seneschal's right hand was gently draped over the lax genitalia, and there was in that contact a sense of both a privilege bestowed and a right of possession.

Erestor was combing the fingers of the other hand slowly through the honey-coloured mane as he sang. He ran the slender digits from crown to the frayed and felted ends as if trying to touch each individual strand, seeking to know every atom of the wild elf's being through this simple action. The Noldo's form loomed behind his mate and even the air around him exuded the palpable, nearly desperate need to simultaneously encompass and belong to the wild elf. Intermittently as the grooming progressed and his song swelled, the seneschal planted kisses upon the archer's head, the refined jaw, the crimson tips of his ears, the pulsing vein in the long, ivory throat where a love-bite stood out in stark wine red.

Next to the apricot and roses of the Tawarwaith's skin, the Noldo was pale as moonlight and his curtain of onyx tresses rained silver droplets that sidled sinuously down his silvan lover's body. Erestor chased one with his tongue, bending low and curving his lithe body around his mate, greedily collecting up the transparent bead racing toward the old dagger wound. Legolas sighed and leaned back against him. Erestor wrapped his arms around the slender frame and propped his chin upon the shoulder above a straight pink scar that was barely noticeable at all, humming and murmuring into his beloved's ear.

Legolas opened his eyes and the cobalt irises alight with the fire of Erestor's love for him shifted and locked upon Lindalcon's. Smiling, the Tawarwaith reassured his younger brother, sending confirmation that he had sanctioned this uncanny vision's transmission.

No words were exchanged yet the councillor's apprentice understood clearly the message he was meant to have. All was well, Legolas knew he was waiting upon the hill and the lovers would join him soon. Lindalcon smiled back and the apparition dissolved leaving him gazing once more upon the fluid curtain of weightless wintered water, the grotto and its healing pools at his back.

Lindalcon swallowed a huge lump forming in his throat for it was quite overwhelming to have been given such a glimpse of his brother's heart. And while all this filled him with jubilance some of the old sorrow wormed its way back into his soul, for the young elf suddenly felt very alone once more. He sniffed and sighed and shook his head, chiding himself for such a selfish reaction, stamping his boots in the drifts against the coldness encroaching on his tender toes.

He felt quite conciliatory toward Erestor at that moment, more confident than ever that his instincts had been right and this elf would provide the exact solution to all his brother's problems. Somehow, the Erebor situation would be resolved, Thranduil would retract his vile banishment, and the Noldo would remain at Legolas' side for all the days to come, ensuring no nightmares would ever haunt the archer's reverie again. Lindalcon exhaled again this time in magnanimous omnipotence. Yes, he felt almost fraternal enough to call off the magnificent and memorable stunt he was about to unleash upon the worthy noble from Imladris.

It suddenly registered in his consciousness that the singing had stopped and Lindalcon wondered how long he had been standing there grinning like a fool, but chuckled to himself anyway. He gazed about, seeking a likely tree to scale and await the couple's arrival. No need to waste such a perfect opportunity. His snickering took on a decidedly devious undertone as he bent down to scoop up a double-sized handful of the wet snow.

And took the full force of the Noldo lord's considerable strength, compactly contained in a solid, icy bomb of a snowball, which impacted the young elf's backside with a resounding slap and a splatter of little snow slivers while the chilly mass of the frozen salvo clung ingloriously to his rear. Lindalcon staggered under the force of the blow and gave an indignant shout, rounding on the couple just in time to see Legolas topple into the drifts, unable to remain upright as he whooped with laughter. Lindalcon's searing gaze transferred to Erestor, who was boldly grinning with smug self-satisfaction, poised for his opponent's next move.

"I warned you," he reminded his mate's brother and glanced at Legolas to make sure he was breathing in between his unrestrained merriment.

Well that convinced the son of Valtamar that his compassionate consideration over cancelling the elaborate hoax was misplaced. He matched the older elf's insolent smirk.

"Quite, quite," he murmured amiably as he reached back and pried off the offending conglomeration of melting crystals slowly soaking his breeches. He then casually approached the elf lord, calmly pressing and moulding a new handful of the fluffy stuff between his palms.

"Get up, Legolas!" hissed Erestor, keeping his eyes on the approaching Wood Elf edging toward the pair.

Lindalcon drew back for his throw, Erestor dodged away deftly, and Legolas lifted his head just in time to see the flying glob of freezing ice the second before it pelted him between the eyes.

The minuscule span of time that followed seemed to transpire in increments so small that even the falling flakes appeared to have ceased their descent, hanging suspended in the welkin. The young statesman-in-training goggled with mouth agape and eyes brightly gleaming, the Tawarwaith flopped back into the cold gloss with a stunned grunt, and Erestor tried unsuccessfully to contain a loud peal of high-pitched giggling.

And then normalcy returned to the passage of the day as Legolas flung the freezing ice from his eyes and exploded out of the drift with a dangerous sounding growl.

"It was Erestor; he stepped aside on purpose so I would hit you!" declaimed the younger elf as he backed away a few steps, turned, and fled.

"Torog! (Troll!)" screamed Legolas. "You cannot escape!" He took off after Lindalcon, who was speeding with every ounce of energy he could generate, and Erestor jogged along behind his love, still laughing.

Now Lindalcon was not running haphazardly through the city for his assignment was to steer the couple to the reclaimed glen where the rest of the wild elf's irregular family was awaiting their arrival. If the youth's methods were a bit extreme at least he was leading his pursuers in the proper direction.

And despite his justified wrath over the growing red spot of snow-burn upon his forehead, Legolas was not so incensed as to fail to comprehend where his brother was running. As Lindalcon slipped through the bordering ring of trees about the glade, the archer slid to a halt and stood motionless, panting as he caught his breath and Berenaur joined his side.

"Valar," whispered Erestor, for he was not unmindful of the effect this place had upon his mate. He laid a hand upon Legolas' shoulder, concerned that the symptoms he had witnessed before would return.

"Why did he come here?" mourned the wild elf as he slumped against Berenaur, grateful for the strength of the arms that instantly wrapped around him.

"Pen-rhovan, let us go; we can play his game some other time," coaxed Erestor and nuzzled his lips against his beloved's cheek. He felt Legolas nod mutely against his shoulder and turned to guide them back to Fearfaron's abode when the carpenter's voice called out from beyond the barrier of slumbering beeches.

"Legolas? Erestor? Come forth, we are waiting for you!" his words were cheerful and the sound was followed by the grinning elf's appearance between the bolls. His smile vanished immediately when his son lifted sombre eyes to peer into his. The carpenter rushed to join the retreating couple. "Ai! What is amiss?"

"I know not for certain, but this place holds pain for Legolas," complained Erestor, unable to prevent the accusatory reprimand from entering the response. "Why have you led us here?"

"Is this true?" Fearfaron queried and at the archer's brief nod the talan builder groaned and pulled his hair in frustration. "If I had known, I would not have done this thing. Please believe me, we all meant only to give you joy in this."

"What have you done?" the Noldo demanded.

"Never mind; it can be undone and the idea reinvented once we have consulted you both more directly," the carpenter sought to usher them away from the site but unexpectedly his adopted child offered resistance.

"Wait, I wish to know what it is. I can put the memories aside for it is clear you have attempted to do me a kindness and I would hear of it," he stated with a shaky smile and reached out for Fearfaron's hand. "Tell me," he encouraged at the wary look on the kindly elf's features.

"It was to be a home for you and Erestor," Fearfaron sighed dejectedly. "We thought this place was one that was special to you in your youth, for Gladhadithen reported that you stayed here more often than within the stronghold."

Legolas' brows arched skyward for he was astounded. Truthfully, he had been wondering about where he and Berenaur could stay, for Fearfaron's talan was small and had no means of ensuring privacy for him and his mate. Legolas was definitely not comfortable with the thought of his foster father observing his intimate moments with his new spouse. Equally distasteful was the notion of returning to the Noldo's guest quarters in the mountain fortress, for that would put them in nearly daily contact with Thranduil and Meril.

But this glen he had not considered. Yet Gladhadithen was correct; this had been the haven of his choosing all those long years ago. The sorrow contained here was of recent deposition in comparison to the time preceding Malthen's breaking of their union. Legolas had tried once to take back what was rightfully his; for he had indeed felt ownership over this small clearing for more years than he could even accurately number without sound introspection. The anguish generated by that initial effort had landed him in Berenaur's arms just four short days ago. Legolas smiled.

That was surely a good thing.

The Tawarwaith was not one to shy from a difficult task or a venture that promised the risk of injury. He squared up his shoulders and let go his hold on his mate's and his father's fingers, instead linking arms through theirs' with a confident, bold flare in his icy blue eyes. He met their concerned and confused expressions with the look of stubborn defiance that so easily shaped his features and gave each a brisk nod.

"The healer was not wrong; this was my home. Come, I would see it once more and determine if still it belongs to me." So speaking he stepped purposefully forward, fully prepared for the stabbing flare of wrenching torment to tear at his soul but willing to face it down.

I have survived worse than this and Berenaur is beside me now.

The trio broke through to the clearing and halted for Legolas had frozen in step once more. This time he was not overcome with dismay as he gazed upon the hallowed spot. His heart leaped, not with the expected surge of dreadful woe but rather in a plume of upwelling warmth and gratitude, for he looked not upon a straggling and neglected meadow filled with bitter images but a gracefully groomed and tended garden. His eyes lifted to the tree where his old flet had slowly decayed into ruin and found within the ancient boughs as smart and tidy a home as any within the Greenwood's bounds. A gasp broke from his lips then and he shared his delight with Berenaur.

"Three levels!" he spoke and pointed excitedly.

The Noldo only nodded, grinning back, unable to find words to express the joy he felt to observe such transported wonder upon his beloved's features over this simple domicile and its humble grounds. Yet for all its rustic austerity, Erestor felt he could feel happier and more at peace here than in his apartment in the Last Homely House or even the finest palace in Eldamar.

The archer noted everything from the neatly trimmed hedges festooned with bright ribbons in the colours symbolising his mate's lineage to the long table crammed with food set beneath the snow-burdened canvas awning. The sturdy buffet was decorated with blue streamers and a cloth of soft olive and sienna, the colours of the woodland realm. The small croft was adequately warmed by two merrily crackling bonfires and little puffs of steam issued from them as the wintry drizzle fizzled in the flames. Much consideration and care had gone into the renovation of the glen and there was simply no room left for any sorrow to take hold.

It only required an instant for Legolas to understand; the pain had not resided in the place but within his wounded heart, and that Berenaur had healed.

With an exuberant laugh he turned to grapple his mate in a lung deflating squeeze, whispering words of thanks and love into the Noldo's ear, delighting in the sensation of Berenaur's heart pounding against his chest when the advisor responded by crushing them tightly together. Legolas kissed him quickly and let go, turning to fling ecstatic arms around his father's neck and repeat the sentiments.

Fearfaron held him gently and smiled at Erestor, mouthing a silent 'hannad' (thanks) over the wild elf's head, and softly pressed his lips into the unruly mane before Legolas disengaged.

One by one the archer advanced upon his friends in turn where they stood before the bonfire, silently observing the former outcast's reactions. Legolas embraced each and uttered his appreciation for such an unparalleled gift.

Gladhadithen did not bother trying to stop her tears and employed the handkerchief she had brought along, having fully expected to need one. Aiwendil was laughing and smiling and shaking his head and periodically clapped Gandalf on the back. Mithrandir was pensive for a moment when the archer's lithe arms encircled him but quickly his visage resumed its appearance of corrugated delight and he kissed Legolas' forehead lovingly. Aragorn was slightly overwhelmed by the force of the wild elf's embrace but deeply gladdened, recalling how he had feared to lose the uncommon silvan to grieving sickness just a handful of days gone by.

And lastly Legolas came to his brother, who gazed in mild trepidation to see the bruise he had caused with his silly play. The smile that beamed from the archer's face was enough to relieve the younger elf's concerns, however, and he eagerly leaped into the Tawarwaith's opened arms, matching the benevolent countenance with equally filial devotion upon his own. Just as he was about to beg forgiveness for the prank, he felt the back of his leggings jerk as someone yanked on him from behind, followed by the indescribable sensation of a huge wad of frigid snow being stuffed down his pants.

"Eru's arse!" his outraged shout echoed in the small clearing and he must have jumped a metre.

"Actually, I believe that is your arse," jibed Legolas, moving rapidly out of reach.

The glen bubbled with mild laughter.

Realising the offender could not have been Legolas, Lindalcon wheeled to confront the culprit, squirming and twitching as he tried to work the stinging ice particles out of the cleft between the cheeks of his freezing derrière. He was expecting to face Erestor and instead was shocked to find himself glowering into the mirth wrinkled, laughing face of the wily grey pilgrim. The young elf's jaw went slack and he actually forgot the numbness creeping over his gluteus maximus for a moment. Lindalcon clamped shut his lips and turned to find the Tawarwaith safely shielded behind his mate.

"That is not fair! You used mind-speak to recruit an accomplice!" the youth accused his brother.

"Nonetheless, we are even," Legolas proclaimed.

"Aye. For now," the diplomat-in-training intoned with foreboding, retreating to the fire to attempt to return feeling to his flesh and dry the cloying cold from his pants.

TBC.


	75. Chapter 75

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

Cuil o Erestor addelia nedhnîf hin tîn. (Erestor's life replays before his eyes.)

"Gellam Bardúliel!" (Joyous Homecoming!) called out Fearfaron suddenly.

As if awaiting that cue, which of course they had been, a quartet of musicians entered the glade from the opposite end and headed for the protection of the awning as they shook the snow from their cloaks and greeted the new couple traditionally:

"Galu bo lîn herth." (Good fortune on your household.)

They unpacked their instruments, a harp, a drum, a fine slender silver whistle and a set of bellows-pipes. In no time they were settled and began playing a lively reel. Even as the first notes sounded through the air elves came filtering into the meadow, smiling and calling salutations, wishing the bond-mates good fortune before joining in the jig.

Legolas let Fearfaron act as host for he could not stand still while the pipes commanded his feet to dance. He grabbed Berenaur and tugged him out into the growing number of swirling bodies. The steps were complex and the rhythm rapid, but it was not unlike the circle dances held in Lorien, thus the Noldo was able to keep up with his silvan mate. They whirled and wheeled, dipped and leaped, crossed over and under and promenaded.

Legolas laughed and smiled as his golden tangles mingled in the fanning black tresses of his love's long locks. He could hardly remember the last time he had danced.

As for Erestor, he could not recall ever enjoying a party more.

Wine was consumed and the delectable goodies devoured, the revellers kept the musicians playing and soon it was mid-afternoon in the Greenwood. The glen's ground was devoid of its frozen carpet, the dancer's feet having melted that away during the first reel. The piper called a halt and everyone clapped and thanked the players, pressing them to take nourishment and refresh themselves so the festivities might resume in the delightful strains of their lively music. The snow had ceased falling and Anor peeked through widening gaps of vibrant blue in the white starchy clouds.

And into this peaceful lull of murmuring conversation and amiable goodwill marched Talagan and a handful of his soldiers, an angry crowd of complaining elves pressed around their flanks.

"There he is!" an outraged voice shouted.

"Seize that meddling spy!" another demanded and the throng surged forward in a mass of dangerous grumbling.

Talagan, still at the head of this unruly serpent of writhing energetic wrath approached the new couple and the party-going guests fell back to let him pass.

"What is your meaning, bringing tribulation here?" demanded Fearfaron. This soldier had a habit of bringing his son bitter doom. "This is a celebration!"

"I am here on the orders of the King," the warrior stated and turned to gaze upon Legolas and Erestor. It gave him a sharp pang to see the expression of dread fleeting through Tirno's eyes and not a small amount of worry over the angry resentment that followed after. His sight took in the seneschal's stoic demeanour and the unguarded fury of the healer. Thranduil's old friend noted the sullen glower in Lindalcon's stare and verily cringed to behold the austere reprimand in the Human's face, mirrored on the wizards' countenances as well. But he had a purpose and must adhere to it.

"Erestor of Imladris, you are required to return to the stronghold and answer for the crimes of your Realm in the trespass of the sovereign Kingdom of the Wood Elves," spoke Talagan and the mob around him erupted into shouts of confirmation.

"The dungeons! Throw him in the dungeons!"

"Aye, lock him away!" the elves shouted and raised angry fists to shake at the accused.

"Nay!" yelled back the Tawarwaith and got between his mate and the Sinda captain. "You will not lay hands upon him!"

Erestor was quite gratified to hear this and tightly gripped his beloved's shoulders.

The assembly hesitated; it would not be so easy perhaps to defy the Tawarwaith. Then Lindalcon stepped forward.

"Let them alone! Erestor is one of us, now. You would not imprison one of our own!" he called out and the rabble's resolve seemed to re-ignite. 

"Stand aside, son of Valtamar, he must pay for his crimes!" someone from the back warned.

"He shall not see the dungeons, yet he must face his errors!"

"This must be done!" another concurred.

"Nay you shall not!" shouted Legolas again and began pushing Berenaur backward away from the seething mass of irate elves.

But the guards, realising he would try this, had quietly circled around and now blocked this means of retreat. The couple came to a stop and everyone stilled.

"Perhaps we should just go and find out what this is all about," this was Mithrandir's voice, calm and placating, as he moved closer to the bonded couple, a grim smile upon his lips. "No need for untoward violence here."

Legolas stared at him in disbelief, not expecting the wizard to suggest he allow this arrest to take place. But then a small mental wink drifted into the wild elf's mind and his eyes widened even more. Abruptly his gaze flew to Lindalcon and found there the answer to this hullabaloo.

A prank!

He could not help but be impressed at the magnitude of the trick and could not resist playing along, though Berenaur would be furious upon realising he had been duped. It took a great deal of strength to command his face to remain contracted in a deadly scowl of wrathful indignation, but the Tawarwaith managed it, grateful that Berenaur was behind him and could not see the tell-tale sparkle lighting his eyes.

"Mayhap Mithrandir is right. Thranduil cannot lock anyone away without a trial. He is just trying to spoil things. If you go along and see what he wants he will have to let you return here shortly," Legolas said as he finally turned to face his love.

"What?" Erestor was shocked and he stared at Legolas, noting in confusion the strange gleam in the wild elf's eyes.

"I will accompany you to ensure diplomacy is adhered to," Mithrandir said.

Aiwendil shook his head as though in solemn pity and stared at the trampled ground, for he could not look too long at the dumbfounded expression on the Noldo's features and keep his own sombre. Aragorn suddenly turned away, unable to command his countenance at all, his face averted and screened with his hands and shoulders stooped lest he give them all away. The healer hurried over to him in his 'distress', guiding him a little apart from the others till he regained his composure. Aragorn refused to lift his gaze to hers, for she knew not the manufactured nature of this ominous scene, thus to hide his stifled laughter. 

The Man's old tutor became even more alarmed upon observing these reactions, especially Aragorn's. What had the mortal heard to render him so disparate? Had Elrond worsened the situation by sending another of his inflammatory missives?

"Willingly or not you must accompany me," stated Talagan and took hold of the Noldo's arm.

"All will be well; I am right behind you," encouraged Legolas and gave his mate a little shove forward even as he sent the Sinda captain a piercing look that forewarned dire consequences should anything untoward occur.

That was enough for the throng. They swarmed the advisor and the warrior and swept them away from the glade.

"Aye, he will learn not to act against the Greenwood!"

"Needs his eyes opened!"

Lindalcon and Legolas fell in behind the mob, observing the dark head of the Noldo amid the sea of brown and yellow as he was borne away.

"Do not harm him!" called the Tawarwaith, a little concerned by the sheer number of bodies now between him and his love. His heart skipped a beat as he noted that Talagan and his guards were summarily shoved aside as the host plowed ahead. The soldiers did not look as though that was part of the staged lynching.

"Legolas!" Erestor was not in the least confident in the multitude's willingness to obey that directive once the warriors were no longer at his side. The seneschal was buffeted and shoved from elf to angry elf, hustled along toward what end he dreaded to learn. Erestor could not see Aragorn or the wizards anywhere and his Pen-rhovan must be very far behind for he had completely lost sight of him.

"Mayhap we should show him the fastest way out of the Woodland Realm!" a cold voice suggested near his elbow.

"Aye! To the river!" a chorus answered and the horde veered off course. "Cast him into the stream!" But they were not making for the docks behind the fortress. They were heading out into the forest.

"Wait! I thought you were taking me to the stronghold!" shouted Erestor in alarm. They could not really mean to run him out of the woods on a barge to Laketown, could they? "Legolas!" The Imladrian began resisting in earnest.

Lindalcon and Legolas slowed, watching the direction of the retreating rabble with sinking hearts. Too well they knew where this path led.

"Nay! Not the Enchanted River!" yelled Lindalcon, distress apparent in his escalating pitch. 

But the forest folk just registered appreciation for the young elf's thespian gifts to be able to render such a realistic semblance of panic to his words. As if on command they took up the chant and surged ahead with greater resolve. "To the Enchanted River! Cast him in!"

"Oh Valar!" hissed Legolas and grabbed his brother's arm. "What have you done?" he shrieked and began shoving through the back of the massive agglomeration, desperate to reach Berenaur before the unruly group achieved its objective. It was hopeless, they would not let him pass. Legolas leaped into the trees.

"Daro!" called Lindalcon to the congregation. "This is not the right way!" He was astonished by the realisation that the multitude so ready to act upon his merest suggestion earlier now ignored him completely. It was a lesson in group dynamics the young diplomat would never forget. But if I do not stop them, Erestor certainly will forget! "Mithrandir, do something!"

"I do not think they will listen to me," he shouted back. Perhaps a bit of flash and sparkle will alter their course. The Istar met his fellow wizard's mind and together they uplifted wooden staffs aglow with blinding light. A loud concussion of the air issued from the Maiar's weapons and a great ball of blue and red energy shot up into the branches. A bright soundless explosion of starry streaks spewed from the disintegrating orb and fell among the crowd.

The unexpected display halted them briefly and some cried out in dismay and fled. The rest leaped forward as one, assuming this was also a part of the play, and ran with even greater determination to the wanly glistening banks of the sluggish stream. Four able-bodied silvans grabbed their foreign prisoner by the arms and legs and hoisted him up.

"Let go of me! Unhand me at once!" Erestor fought against the manhandling, indignant and incensed but no longer fearful, realising he was about to take a second and very icy bath but little comprehending the real danger. He could swim, after all.

But he could not get free of the hearty woodland warriors as the elves swung him back and forth to build up sufficient momentum to carry him out into the very middle of the black, motionless liquid. A glimpse of golden hair caught his eyes just before the silvan citizens flung him away and then he was sailing through the air. His arms flailed and he twisted in hopes of going in feet first and the next sensation he knew was the jolting agony of his left shoulder as the remainder of his body attempted to dislocate from it at the joint. He groaned as he looked up and met the clear blue eyes of the wild elf that had snatched him by the hand. The next instant his feet did meet the stream and sent a great arc of the oily water up around him.

The gathered elves gave an appreciative exclamation of amazed delight. It had all come about so neatly! None had known exactly how the rescue would be done and to see their champion race to the aid of his mate so gallantly and acrobatically was highly gratifying. They clapped for Legolas, suspended upside-down, legs wrapped around a low-hanging branch of a hemlock as he kept a firm grip upon the Noldo's hand with both of his.

"Pen-rhovan!" exclaimed Erestor with relief.

"I have you," rasped the archer through gritted teeth, for the strain was equally great upon him.

"Well I am grateful but let go; I will not drown and you look quite uncomfortable."

"Nay! Climb up! Now!" commanded the Tawarwaith and the seneschal obeyed, using his agile mate for a ladder and eliciting a few grunts of displeasure for it. Once he was safely settled on the branch Legolas swung back upright and pulled him into a strong embrace.

A great cheer went up from the congeries accompanied by much laughter and congratulations all around. The silvan citizens truly had not intended to harm Erestor and believed everything had transpired exactly as Lindalcon had planned. This was indeed the most elaborate and entertaining bonding-rite prank ever! Finally the elves began to disperse.

"What was that all about?" drawled the advisor with a sleepy yawn.

"Hurry, we need to get these leggings off!" said Legolas, trying to untie the lacings as Berenaur attempted to fold him up in a languid embrace. A sultry chuckle accompanied the resistance.

"My, my, Pen-rhovan; you are very eager! But this is not the appropriate place for such activity. There are still people standing around watching us."

"Just do as I ask, Berenaur; your legs are soaked to the skin! We must get you dried off quickly."

"But it is frightfully cold," whined the seneschal. "I do not want to!" Erestor squirmed ungracefully from his lover's arms and almost tumbled down into the river for he found himself unaccountably lethargic and his co-ordination not quite as it should be.

"Valar! Stop that!" Legolas was frantic as he grabbed onto Berenaur's tunic just in time to prevent the fall. The Noldo smiled in mild confusion and again attempted to wrap his lanky frame around the Wood Elf, resting his cheek upon the archer's shoulder with a sigh of contentment as he sank into oblivious repose.

"I will help," a repentant voice called from the ground and Lindalcon vaulted into the tree.

"Here, take my cloak," offered Fearfaron, who had by now caught up with the others as the crowd departed, bringing the wizards, the Man and the healer as well. He held the coat out for Lindalcon and waited patiently by the base of the tree. Movement attracted his eye and he spied the Sinda captain hovering nearby attempting to be inconspicuous. The carpenter charged for him.

"You! How could you allow this to happen? What manner of leader are you to give over an elf into the hands of an uncontrollable mob? Too often are you at hand when despair finds Legolas!" he cursed Talagan and it truly seemed as though he would strike the captain down had Gandalf not intercepted the Spirit Hunter.

"Nay, he is not alone in this, Fearfaron; do not place all the blame on Talagan," said the Istar. "Is the seneschal well?" he called back toward the elves in the tree.

"What do you mean, wizard, and be plain in your words!" fumed Fearfaron, but for the moment Mithrandir ignored him.

"It is too soon to tell," murmured Aiwendil. "His head did not go below the surface, however, so there is hope."

"Why, what is at risk here?" queried Aragorn. There were numerous rumours and stories concerning the Enchanted River and judging by the grim expression on the archer's features not all of them were exaggerations.

"Everything!" snapped Legolas and unexpectedly tears filled his eyes and he cuddled up against his love, roughly shoving Lindalcon away when the younger elf advanced. He held his mate close and ran a shaking hand over the crown of ebony hair resting on his shoulder. "He will forget me! He will forget everything!"

"Oh Valar! Legolas, I did not mean for him to…" Lindalcon sobbed, horrified for such to come to pass, unable to complete the dire thoughts aloud.

"Aye, it was a foolish ploy. Though no injury was intended, I should have prevented this," Talagan quietly apologised, remaining outside the circle of Tirno's family as they gathered closer to assess the damage.

"It matters not; it has happened," Legolas' voice was cold and distant. "Help me get him down from here."

"The water steals memories?" Aragorn was incredulous and looked to Fearfaron for confirmation.

"In most cases," the carpenter heaved a morose sigh. "Usually only recent memories are erased." It was evident to all that the last few weeks' worth of Erestor's experiences were but a fleeting second in the toll of immortal time. He had returned to the hemlock and was ready to receive the Noldo's feet as Legolas and Lindalcon handed him carefully down.

"Yet Aiwendil has a point; those victims were completely submerged and spent days asleep. Erestor has only got his legs wet and his eyes are open," remarked Gladhadithen. She approached to inspect the slumbering Noldo where Fearfaron held his limp form up, pressing an ear against his chest to listen a few minutes. She raised serious eyes to Legolas' despondent ones. "His pulse and breathing sound as would any elf in normal reverie. There is a good chance he will be unaffected, Tirno."

"Oh, Legolas, it was just a joke! They were supposed to douse him in the Forest River by the docks!" wailed Lindalcon as he jumped down from the limbs. Seeing the insensible Imladrian propped up against the carpenter's shoulders brought him to weeping anew.

"I know," Legolas stated flatly as he landed beside him. "Mithrandir explained it to me back in the glen. But it was not planned out very well, was it, and turned stupid and cruel."

Mithrandir and Aiwendil winced at this and shared chagrined looks, including the woebegone Man as well.

"We are equally to blame," said Aiwendil contritely. "We knew of the plan. I am so sorry, Legolas."

"It is true; I beg your forgiveness," whispered Aragorn, eyes on the forest floor and its muddy trampled snow.

"All of you?" demanded Legolas angrily, glaring among his friends. His eyes met Talagan's briefly and in that second's worth of contact promised to exact retribution both swift and severe.

The warrior tore his gaze free and hurried back toward the stronghold, unwilling to be the one to inform Legolas that he was expected in the Council Chamber at dawn, with or without his Noldo lover.

"Nay, not Fearfaron," confessed Lindalcon through his tears. He could not believe he had caused so terrible a hurt, all for the sake of staging a foolish stunt. "I would give anything if I could undo this!"

"There is nothing to be done; we must wait and see how he fares once he awakens," sighed Legolas dejectedly. "Help me carry him," he directed Lindalcon but Aragorn stepped forward instead.

The mortal hefted his old tutor's soggy ankles and motioned with his chin for Lindalcon to take the shoulders. They struggled, for the Noldo was quite tall and garbed in water logged clothing as well. They trudged awkwardly back to the clearing, the head of a melancholy procession none of them had expected to participate in on what should have been a joyous day.

Tbc.


	76. Chapter 76

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

Díhenad Vreg (Fierce Forgiveness)

The Chamber of Starlight was not resplendent or magical, no awe-invoking display of Maiar puissance pervaded the high-domed hall and convection in the air was insufficient to redistribute even a single mote of dust amid the restive First-born within its bounds. The lustre of the thousand gems failed to draw the eye, indeed the clear stones looked almost dull and cloudy, as if the available light was too feeble to penetrate the smooth facets and play within the crystals' planes.

The crowd of citizens was moderately diminished compared to the initial meeting's numbers and even though the courtyard was filled there was room to manoeuvre and breathe. The soldiers were present, sans Talagan however, and the complete Council along with their assorted apprentices, except for Lindalcon. Thranduil sat upon his elegant and portentous chair and waited, calm and patient, posture regal and collected, refraining from fidgets or any outward sign of irritation.

Mithrandir and Aiwendil, Aragorn, Fearfaron and Gladhadithen were notably absent.

Of witnesses there remained but two to speak and neither had yet arrived. The entire assembly remained subdued and sombre as they awaited the appearance of Maltahondo and the Tawarwaith.

By nightfall of the previous day, everyone had learned of the disastrous outcome of the collaborative practical joke thanks to the ranting vociferations of Talagan. The woodland folk were horrified to have caused so drastic a reaction and milled in tense trepidation for Legolas' entrance, dreading to learn if they had permanently robbed their chosen champion of the only happiness he had ever found. It was enough to make them want to quit this assembly, leaving the formality of withdrawing the charges to Thranduil and Iarwain. Yet they could not quell the morbid fascination the archer's plight invited and not a soul truly considered foregoing the announcement of the verdict.

The Eldest Elder stood in his customary spot before the dais, motionless in formal attire of flowing robes that failed to present the aura of authority normally enveloping his person. Somehow events had gone far from his ability to influence and he was deep in contemplation of what must be done to re-establish dominance. At last accepting the failure of his attempt to seize control of the Greenwood through manipulation of the Tawarwaith's fate, Iarwain realised he had made the same mistakes to which Thranduil so commonly succumbed: underestimation of both Legolas' resolve and intelligence. Believing the wild elf lacked comprehension of the power struggle occurring beneath the sham of the hearing had cost the Friend of Oromë the victory in the battle of wills. It had been so easy to assume that having no interest in such contests was the same as ignorance.

He had learned unequivocally what Tirno thought of him and how unlikely he would be to ever back the Council in opposition to Thranduil. Or vice versa. It was Iarwain who had drawn the losing lot, forced to assume the responsibility for bearing the news of the hearing's resumption to Legolas. In vain had Talagan argued with Thranduil against the convocation, at least until the fate of the Imladrian was determined. Iarwain had likewise attempted to dissuade the Sinda King from pushing the finale of this long-drawn trial.

But Oropher's son had been unmoved. The previous day had been one of prolonged unpleasantness for Taurant; fussy and refusing to eat, the elfling had continued his off-and-on crying throughout the night that followed. Thranduil could not help but be troubled over his newborn's state and upon learning of the foolish joke; the agitated father was livid with wrath for the participants. Had Lindalcon been within reach, the King would have imprisoned him for his actions. Talagan barely escaped this doom. 

Angry and resentful of his captain for allowing the fiasco to transpire in the first place, Thranduil had led Talagan away to the private study and therein berated his friend's lack of wisdom and outright stupidity. This was exactly the sort of hardship he was determined to prevent from befalling Legolas, now that the outcast and Taurant's future were so closely linked. Had he not just cautioned the captain regarding distressing the Tawarwaith? Indeed, the irate parent came to the brink of stripping Talagan of rank and position, so enraged was his mind. 

The two warriors emerged from seclusion after little more than an hour's passing and Talagan immediately left the fortress. Cowed in shame and grim with purpose, he gathered a small contingent of soldiers and galloped into the twilit wilds with less than normal dash and daring, his mission undeclared.

As for Iarwain, Thranduil had no interest in giving him additional time in which to devise a method for turning events in his favour. The hearing would ensue exactly as planned, with or without the noble from Imladris in attendance. The Elder had trudged forth from the stronghold to fulfil the invidious duty of informing Legolas, relegated to the lowly status of errand runner for the King.

Iarwain had found the archer in the glen struggling with his friends to get the unconscious seneschal up into the newly constructed talan. Had the situation not been so deplorable the sight would have been highly amusing, for there were entirely too many people involved in the endeavour and arguments broke out over how to do the lifting and who should bear the burden for making the transfer successful.

"I shall carry him up on my back," Lindalcon had declared quietly, unable to look his brother in the eyes.

"Do not be absurd," scoffed the Man. "He cannot hold on and is easily taller than you by a head. I say let the wizards have the chore." Aragorn confronted the Maiar. "Will you fail to produce some useful demonstration of the exalted might of Aman, even now? Surely you could render Erestor as weightless as these leaves and lift him upon the very air." His tone had not been very complimentary nor had he seemed surprised by the Istari's protests.

"Enough! No need to be so spiteful!" Aiwendil's admonishment followed at once.

"Aye, our gifts do not include unmaking the very structure of nature solely to prevent a strain upon your back, Aragorn," groused Gandalf.

"Mayhap it is best to let him rest here at the roots of the tree. I can secure bedding and blankets," suggested Fearfaron.

"Nay, I do not want him next to this thawing mire, for it would soon saturate any number of mats and covers," cautioned the healer. "Erestor is already chilled and, with the heart's rhythm reduced by reverie, he is susceptible to falling deeper into unconsciousness if his body's warmth diminishes further."

At this they all broke out in quarrelling contention, hovering over Erestor's prone body, each claiming to have the best solution, and more than anything resembling a clutch of yard fowl fighting over a rind of bread.

"Baw!" Into the squabbling turmoil rang the Tawarwaith's furious command, loud and forceful enough to awaken the hibernating beech. The ancient tree's limbs began to groan and sway in sympathy with the wild elf's rage and Legolas laid his palm upon the bark to steady it. He had endured as much as he could of his friends' bickering and was quite weary of their attempts to intervene in his life, no matter how well-meaning was the intent of such meddling. He strode forward and the cluster fell back from his advance until only Pen-rhovan stood beside Berenaur.

"Get me some rope and then get thee to Mordor, the lot of you!" he cursed them in a voice frayed and anguished that broke against the final syllable, glass upon stone.

It was undoubtedly a shock to the group and had they not already been speechless this would have struck them dumb instantaneously. They were as immobile as the slumbering beeches and the stricken Noldo lord. Lindalcon recovered first and was off like an arrow, fleet feet flying for the carpenter's home to retrieve the hithlain cord.

Hesitantly the Spirit Hunter approached his distraught son, hand outstretched and gaze discerning. He was relieved not to be rebuffed and sighed, satisfied when his hand wrapped tightly around the warrior's upper arm in its preferred location. Nonetheless, Legolas remained as distant and withdrawn as he had been on the twelfth anniversary of the Judgement and avoided Fearfaron's scrutiny.

Lindalcon's journey was short and he returned with alacrity and the required item. With consolidated effort and no further discussion they heaved Erestor up, having tied the rope round his chest and under his arms. Legolas clung to the trunk as the seneschal was lifted and steadied him to prevent his head from connecting with the boll.

It was not until Erestor was safely deposited on the lowest platform that anyone had taken note of the councillor's presence. It had been Legolas who made the discovery, serving cutting recognition upon Iarwain from his cross-legged position next to his insensible mate.

"What do you want?" he had demanded, rising. "You are not welcome here. In fact, let all the populace know this place is never to be approached without my specific invitation, in advance, to do so!" Somehow having this pompous, self-aggrandising elf witness his despair was beyond Legolas' ability to tolerate courteously.

"Forgive my intrusion," entreated Iarwain, realising he was facing Tirn-en-Tawar rather than an insignificant soldier condemned in Judgement. "It grieves me to be the one to inform you. Understand, this was meant to be a consideration, not an added hardship," he began and hesitated as the wild elf leaped from the platform to land in scarcely restrained menace before the ancient elda.

"What nonsense are you blathering?" shouted Legolas. "Do you find this amusing? Were you part of this appalling deed?"

"What?" the elder gasped out.

"Nay, Legolas, he knew nothing!" cried Lindalcon from above, desperate to forestall any additional hurtful consequences arising over his lack of judgement.

"Valar! I would never be involved in such activities," insisted Iarwain. "I am here to inform you of the resolution of the Erebor hearing that will take place tomorrow at minuial in the Chamber of Starlight. All charges are to be dismissed and the Judgement overturned," he rushed to get the words out before Legolas could insert further vitriolic accusations.

Against the background of relieved and gratified statements and exclamations from his friends, the Tawarwaith sneered at the chief councillor in derisive contempt.

"You no longer have the authority to do that," he snarled, "and neither does Thranduil. You both are mistaken in your estimation of the sort of power you actually hold. Ignorant of the facts in this matter, you have only sought to gain a more secure role in the governance of these lands, regardless of the innocents who would suffer for your selfishness. You and Thranduil are too alike for my taste! How can you stand there and speak with such arrogance, as though bestowing some beneficial grant upon me? I will tell you this: neither of you will have your way. I am the one who will decide Erebor. Begone from my home!"

Iarwain had hastily retreated, having no difficulty appreciating this explicit dismissal from the voice of Tawar, as the elves, the wizards and the mortal stood gaping in disconcerted silence at the fury emanating from the bitter pronouncement.

In the nerve-wearing, noiseless atmosphere of the Council Chamber, Iarwain shuddered a little under the impact of the memory. But for the necessity demanded by his office and his curiosity to learn how Thranduil would fare under Tirno's censure, the Elder would have remained apart from the conclusion of this trial.

The King and the Councillor stared at one another. Smooth and inexpressive faces eclipsed the deep distrust and mutual despisal that filled the space between the sets of coolly complacent eyes, one pair viridescent as emeralds, the other as pale and grey as the sky at dawn.

Predictably, Iarwain broke the staring match. With a grimace and an indistinct sound that was either a clearing of the larynx or a low-decibel expletive, he turned to confer with Fêrlass over some non-existent point or other. They examined a scroll, pretending to review the actions of the most recent hearing inscribed upon it. 

Thranduil did not allow his pleasure over this minute mastery to reconfigure his countenance. He continued to survey the councillor, delighting in the discomfort he knew this would inflict upon his rival, interested over what had brought about the ancient one's manifest sense of defeat. It was not the solution to Erebor concocted by the King and his captain. Iarwain had returned from his interrogation with Maltahondo blatantly unsatisfied yet unable to come up with any way to block the guardsman's testimony.

Iarwain had to be aware, Thranduil reasoned, that the warrior was enhancing the facts considerably yet with no method for proving this he could tender no objections. None that did not involve demanding Meril appear for testimony. And he cannot validate such a subpoena without tangible evidence that implicates her. Iarwain would discredit himself and the entire Council should he make any unwarrantable suggestions of the Consort's complicity.

And draw upon him my swift condemnation. With the support of the warriors once more assured, the population would heave their elder into the Enchanted River if I so commanded!

The thought pleased Thranduil and he allowed himself the luxury of daydreaming the event in glorious detail as his narrowed, gloating leer remained upon the Elder.

The subtle sonance of re-ordering among the collected troops disrupted his concentration, however, and he turned to see what was amiss. The healer and Meril's first born emerged from the ranks and took places in the forefront of the warriors, Gladhadithen securely supporting the young elf with a protective arm about his shoulders. Thranduil was on his feet immediately and stalked across the dais to confront Lindalcon. Here was the perpetrator of his infant son's most recent episode of distressed anxiety.

"You! I would cast you into the blackest pit beneath these halls if I believed it would remedy the harm you have caused my child! By what flash of inspiration did you invent this scheme? Are you Taurant's brother or still the usurper? Exactly what did you hope to accomplish?" he demanded in scornful and angry timbre as he loomed over the son of Valtamar.

And his words were not strange to the assembly, for none doubted the bond between the former and the nascent heir. It was perfectly logical that what disturbed Tirno must impact the infant he had so generously blessed. There was an uneasy disappointment, however, that slowly diffused throughout the room's air, for the common folk also understood the motive for the King's sudden desire to welcome the Tawarwaith among them. His concern did not extend beyond the well-being of Taurant.

"Far! (Enough!)" countered Gladhadithen, angling her body to create a barricade between the two, tightening her hold on Lindalcon as she felt him try to disengage. "He is punishing himself enough and Legolas has already scolded him. Cease your threats!"

"Aye, he meant no harm to Tirno or Taurant!" a disgruntled inu in the crowd complained and actually shook her finger at the King.

Thranduil's accusation against the new prince's elder brother did not sit well within the Wood Elves' communal conscience, for had they not been the ones who had subverted the goal of the prank? A series of disapproving whispers skittered around the chamber like tossed pebbles rebounding from a wooden floor. 

"None of us were thinking too clearly," another elf spoke up.

"Nay, he is right; even worse do I deserve," mumbled the bereft son of Valtamar, head low and shoulders slumped. Really, it would almost be a blessing to be locked away in some dark hole rather than witness the outcome of his indiscretion if the seneschal awakened and failed to recognise Legolas.

"Indeed," spoke Thranduil to his subjects, "for none of you good folk would have thought to author such a situation without Lindalcon's incitement. Mayhap some sort of corporal punishment is in order. What says the Law and Custom in such cases, Iarwain?" demanded the King.

"That shall not be! If you lay hands upon my brother, I will end your immortal life and that of any who seeks to obstruct me."

These chillingly brutal words wrung a collective and alarmed expulsion of air from the lungs of the assembled Wood Elves. As one they pivoted in a cacophonous swish and bustle of leather-shod feet compressing stone, swirling garments rifling the air.

Legolas stood in the open archway, Fearfaron and Aiwendil at his back.

The forest champion did not tarry there long and the assembly rapidly divided as he moved through them straight to Lindalcon. Without preamble he reached for the guilt-ridden youth and pulled him from the healer's hold, linking both arms around his back and hugging him tight.

"All is forgiven if you can pardon my cruelty on tinuial last," Legolas whispered and exhaled a gratified release of tension as Lindalcon's arms closed round his waist with desperate pressure.

"Valar! I do not fault you for those words!" the broken declaration seeped between Lindalcon's jolting sobs as he struggled to contain the outpouring of emotion.

But the youth could not prevent his tears and leaned his forehead down upon his brother's shoulder, astounded to feel the comforting pressure of Legolas' hand soothing up and down his spine as nondescript entreaties in placating tones met his ears. Lindalcon truly believed he had caused Legolas to hate him. The confrontation at dusk had borne the marks of finality and but for the healer's interference he would have departed the city that night.

After the Chief Councillor's rapid departure from the glen, the small collection of folk that comprised Legolas' family had remained stiff and still in awkward indecision. Confounded as to how to solve the dilemma, their eyes moved in rapid and brief inspections of the wild elf, his sleeping mate, each other, and the floor. Dealing with Legolas' morose mourning was not a simple task, for everyone was now profoundly aware of the truth in Lindalcon's assessment of the archer's manner in such situations. No one wished to provoke him beyond the thin boundary separating his sorrow from its violent expression. 

Fearfaron had finally found his resolve and hastened to get down but by then Legolas was already climbing back up and soon stood among them. The carpenter surveyed his adopted child with tribulation. Never had he seen Legolas in this dark a frame of mind, not even when he had threatened Thranduil with Caranthir's dagger. Searching the fiery gaze for the elf he knew and loved, he found instead a fearsome feä more reminiscent of the unyielding pith in Thranduil's shrivelled heart. The Spirit Hunter had shivered in spite of himself and impulsively reached for and squeezed Legolas' arm tightly.

"What can I do to help you?" he had whispered.

"Nothing."

The word was flat and the gravity of the two syllables crushing. Beneath its weight the fragile shoots of hope and happiness so newly sprung must surely perish.

Legolas had turned away as he had spoken, pulling free of his father and leaning to take up the hithlain cord again. Grabbing his mate under the arms, he had dragged him across the floor a ways, shooting Lindalcon a murderous glare when the younger elf moved to help. Once he had the seneschal positioned as he wanted, the Tawarwaith climbed to the second level and pulled him up. Repeating the steps, he soon deposited Berenaur on the highest platform. He set about inspecting the room meant for their sleeping quarters, giving no indication he was listening to the questions and comments arising from below.

"Legolas?" Aragorn had queried compassionately. He knew not how to reverse the effects of the dunking but was not one to readily give up and admit defeat. "I will check through my healer's guide and see if there is any suggestion of a remedy there." He leaned down to secure the rope ladder in order to descend, intending to gather his pack from the fortress.

"Aye, a good plan," condoned Gandalf. "Gladhadithen, perhaps there is something mentioned in the histories of similar cases. I shall return to the stronghold and search the library archives there."

"Very well," the healer had shrugged, rather doubtful this was true for she would know of it. Still, it gives him something to do. "I shall stay, for Erestor could awaken at any time."

"Aiwendil, your assistance would be welcome, for your knowledge of herb-lore is greater than mine," Mithrandir added and thus the Istari departed from the glade, climbing down first as Aragorn stepped back from the trapdoor out of deference.

"It is not a matter of herbs and toxins, though," Lindalcon had complained. He stood dejectedly right where Legolas' balefully glinting blue orbs had halted him, subdued with guilt and beside himself with the sense of futility that filled his heart.

"How so?" demanded Aragorn, delaying his descent and peering back over the rim of the opening. "The chief symptom indicates a highly soporific and potent ingredient."

"It is not from any natural substance extracted from bark or root or leaf," asserted the Wood Elf. "It is an enchantment of the feä."

"Indeed, this is Thranduil's doing, for it was he that made the creek as it is now," Fearfaron had elaborated for Aragorn's benefit. "He diverted the flow from the Forest River and created a mote of protection. In it he has suspended the souls of innumerable elves, compelling them to guard the Realm by instilling confusion and loss of memory. No one knows how it works."

"Probably not even Thranduil truly understands it," Gladhadithen added.

"In that you may be correct, though it is not so hard to comprehend," Legolas' sarcastic tone had filtered down from the high flet and they flinched to hear such acrimony in his voice. "The spirits in the water must drain away some of the life energy of the one that has the misfortune to fall in. If not drawn out quickly enough, too much is lost and the victim dies, whether he has filled up his lungs with the water or not."

The horror of this analysis silenced them a third time. Aragorn had abruptly continued his retreat and vanished from the area as quickly as he could without running, less than optimistic that his studies would reveal anything useful. Yet he refused to simply stand around waiting, conceding victory to Thranduil's curse. Elbereth! Has the Sinda ever wrought anything that was not harmful to Legolas?

Legolas was pleased to have them cease their pointless discourse. He was glad to see the Man and the Maiar go; in fact he wished they would all find someplace else to do their fussing and fretting. Too late they wanted to make sure of the facts and learn of the consequences. He frowned down at the remaining three elves still in attendance and returned to his previous consideration.

He was deciding whether to just lay out the bedding on the floor or try to secure the netted hammock properly. This was a task the new couple usually completed together, another tradition of bonding-rites, and Legolas was unwilling to do it without Berenaur's participation. He studied the furled mesh and the fluffy down-filled mattress with longing, tentatively reaching down to feel the supple luxury of the silken ticking. His eyes filled at once and he angrily righted himself, kicking the roll open and snatching the knotted web away. With a violent curse he balled it up into tangles and stuffed it into a trunk near the tree's boll, slamming down the lid.

Below, Lindalcon could not stifle his sobs as he dissolved into his fourth discharge of tears.

"Ungol rein!" (Spider shit!) Legolas stomped to the edge and knelt down, glaring in exasperated fury at his brother. "Can you not be silent? Must I listen to your self-pitying display in addition to dealing with this tragic excuse for a joke?

"Nay, it was no prank at all. Eighteen years in isolation and twelve years of torture were not enough to satisfy your thirst for vengeance? You are beyond the cruelty of Thranduil, surpassing Elrond in the deviousness of such a plot!"

"Legolas!" admonished Fearfaron in stunned disbelief.

"Nay, it is not so!" bawled Lindalcon. "Saes, avbedo sin pith!" (Please, do not speak these words!)

"Tirno say no more!" cried Gladhadithen.

"Ah! You are all treacherous!" the archer rose and turned away as his irrational tirade continued. "It is so easy to see it now. Lindalcon engineered the most effective way to destroy me once and for all. Mithrandir smoothed over the hurts of the past so he had to inflict new ones. What better way than to give me someone to love and then rip up my soul by snatching him away forever!"

"No, Legolas. I did not mean that to happen!" Lindalcon pressed his palms over his ears and scrunched his eyes into a wrinkled compression of lashes and lids.

"Have you also arranged for the Galadhrim to show up and claim him so that I can witness their joyous reunion? That would just about be sufficient to prompt the dagger's use a final time. But you shall not stay and relish the realisation of your revenge. I do not want you here! Get out!"

Lindalcon was already on his way down the rope and was soon racing from the clearing toward the stronghold, the healer in frantic pursuit.

Gladhadithen had caught up with him in Ningloriel's garden and forcefully terminated his flight by tackling him to the ground. Too distraught to notice who had hold of his legs, Lindalcon had landed a couple of bruising blows to her head before her insistent reprimands brought him to his senses and he collapsed in a heap of heaving distress.

She had let him cry into the withered, brown grass until he was too exhausted to weep any longer. Then helping him stand she led him away to her healing wards, remaining by his side throughout the night, comforting, consoling and explaining the mental state that had generated Legolas' unreasoning accusations. She had assured Lindalcon un-numbered times that his brother would eventually regain his equilibrium and seek to mend the rift.

Locked in the Tawarwaith's embrace, Lindalcon was never so pleased to acknowledge Gladhadithen's wisdom as he was now. He lifted his head and disengaged enough to search Legolas' eyes, equally as shiny with bright remorse as his own. The brothers exchanged slender smiles and resumed their crushing closeness with more jubilant sounds.

"You are quick to pardon one who has endangered your lover and the well-being of an innocent babe," snapped Thranduil, well aware of Tirno's negation of his command but cautious as to how to re-assert it. "All night has Taurant wailed and wept over yesterday's stressful events. Does your magnanimous behaviour indicate Elrond's seneschal is free of the enchantment's deleterious effects?"

"It does not," Legolas loosed himself from Lindalcon's clasp and passed the younger elf into Fearfaron's care. He boldly faced the woodland sovereign. "Berenaur has not awakened."

Behind him the talan builder shushed the younger elf's anguished groan and the crowd mimicked Lindalcon's dismay in disjointed murmurs of regret and remorse.

Thranduil's brow creased as he examined the warrior before him. There was abundant evidence of both the newly formed bond of which he had been told and the despair over having it so abruptly sundered. Yet it was also obvious that acceptance of this loss was in abeyance pending the Noldo's emergence from his comatose state.

Stubbornly holding to hope against such insurmountable odds.

Immediately a memory of his father filled his brain; with a small, startled intake of breath Thranduil finally saw the determination of Oropher hidden within eyes so like the cerulean clarity of Ningloriel's.

They both clung to false hope. Oropher believed the rest of the elven armies would join his precipitous charge; Ningloriel imagined her lover would salvage her homeland and grant her its governance. Now this one follows suit. What chance is there his mate will recover?

The thought chilled Thranduil to the core, for if such was impossible then the elf before him would not survive it. Should the outcast fall, what would become of Taurant?

"That is most unfortunate," he said and the alarm in his tone was undisguised. 

"Whatever the outcome may be," Legolas resumed his address, ignoring the inspection and the commiseration, "it is you who provided the means to create this misfortune. Why do you believe this is what has affected the princeling? What of your own part in Taurant's despair? I cautioned you regarding this very result when you demanded re-examination of the folly of Erebor."

Now an expectant tension permeated the woodland citizens and a ripple of uneasy whispering rolled through the throng. They wondered if the King would choose the moment to publicly rescind the fallen archer's banishment or punish him for such insolence.

"Take care," warned Thranduil. "This hearing is meant to conclude in a solicitous manner where you are concerned. Nonetheless I will not suffer your imputation."

"Will you not?" Legolas' whole demeanour was mocking in its presentation of exaggerated surprise. "It is you who must tread cautiously for control of this trial is no longer in your grasp."

"Peace!" called Iarwain and moved to flank Legolas. He reached out, intending to physically turn the Greenwood's champion toward him and found his wrist clamped in Legolas' painfully tight fist-hold.

"You are not permitted such liberties," he hissed and shoved the Councillor's arm away.

Then Legolas stepped up onto the dais and placed himself close enough to the Sinda Lord to feel the vaporous moisture of his exhaled breath.

Tbc.


	77. Chapter 77

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

Adechui od Erestor (Resurrecting Erestor)

The Tawarwaith had staked a claim within the core of Thranduil's dominion.

Poised an arm's length from doom and beyond the reach of friends and family, the personification of rebellious defiance and mythical valour, Legolas flaunted his power. Here stood a warrior other soldiers would eagerly follow who paradoxically needed no army. This was a prophet who shared consciousness with Tawar yet neither desired nor required disciples for validation. An immortal marked for death with a wizard bound to his service and a Noldo Lord ensnared by his heart, yet it was he who had sworn undying allegiance and tendered over the totality of his battered soul.

Legolas was full of contradictions.

The very embodiment of the mystical beliefs the silvans would not give up juxtaposed against the pragmatic tenacity of the Sindar, Legolas had become the unofficial hero of a proud nation struggling under the growing threat of Darkness. He represented all that was lost and everything the forest folk longed to regain, the Greenwood's best hope for salvation and a return to peaceful harmony within the Music of Arda. The Wood Elves were thoroughly enamoured of their unpredictable champion and were both thrilled and anxious to see him behave so precipitously. 

Engrossed in the drama unfolding before them, the populace froze in paralysed suspense, mesmerised by the potential for disaster. It was almost addictive, these great swinging arcs of emotion Legolas wrought upon them: from joy to despair, hope to despondency, terror to wrath. The sensation was as stirring to the blood as canoeing the cataracts of the upper rapids. They longed for Tirno to teach the King manners; they yearned for Thranduil to claim his shunned and rejected heir. They wanted an explanation for the misery in their lives that did not burden their feral redeemer with blame. The silvans craved stability yet anticipated the explosive confrontation that must follow Legolas' simple action of advancing upon the dais.

The wild elf's physical presence on a plane that could not be shared was a more potent denunciation of the King's right to rule than his earlier defence of Fearfaron. That deed had been an instinctive response provoked by Thranduil's aggressive rejoinder to the talan builder's complaints. This was a deliberate, goading, taunting move, an insult and a threat of gross proportions. The unqualified disrespect flouted in the Sinda Lord's very face must be squelched. The attending populace braced for the expected reprisal in nervous immobility, attention locked upon the Sinda Lord and his disinherited heir.

It was in that stalled moment that the elves realised Tirno was fully armed, quiver and bow at his back and the shining blade of a dagger captive beneath the plaited leather belt about his waist.

The collected ranks of silvan warriors must have noted this immediately upon the wild elf's entrance. This time no indecision hindered their reactions for their allegiance had been determined on the last occasion when the Tawarwaith had threatened the King. No offensive had been launched against Legolas then nor would they do so now.

Their Lord had since indicated his support of Tirno and here the truth of his words would be tested, the calibre of his character revealed. The soldiers were resigned to let this confrontation follow its natural course and would intervene only if Legolas required aid. Without Talagan there to direct the Sindar guards, it was Thranduil whose freedom was in jeopardy should speech decay into violence.

The small coterie of Legolas' hodgepodge family observed the standoff in stunned denial. Eyes collected images and fed them to the brain yet no acceptance of the situation could they encompass.

For once in her long life, Gladhadithen was uncertain of the best course to pursue. She frowned at the obstinate challenge Legolas presented and transferred her regard to the King, but he seemed as nonplussed as everyone else in the room. Uncertain exactly what was happening, she hesitated. This was not a facet of the archer's personality she had witnessed before.

Aragorn and Mithrandir would have recognised it easily. It was the same mood their friend harboured when baiting Orcs, enticing them into the traps or luring them away from comrades in battle. They would have understood immediately Thranduil's peril and might have warned him, even if the nature of the Tawarwaith's subterfuge was unknown. The mortal and the Maia were not in the Chamber of Starlight, however, having remained with Erestor in case he wakened while his mate was absent.

Aiwendil appeared to be either praying, concocting a spell, or both as he stood with head tilted down and lips moving in soundless entreaty. The grip upon his staff was enough to break it had the object been less than a conduit of the Istar's might. But Radagast was not Gandalf and he would not interfere no matter the danger. The Brown Wizard loved Legolas, but could not place himself level with Manwë nor consider his wishes above the will of Eru. 

Lindalcon silently cursed; for he had not brought anything lethal with which to aid his brother should the need arise. Nonetheless, he tensed and mentally prepared himself, confident he could at the very least provide a physical barrier to absorb the warriors' arrows if it came to such extremes. That he could not get between Thranduil and the wild elf, this sank his soul to abyssal gloom. 

Only Fearfaron was able to comprehend some of his foster-son's motivations. He had not seen Legolas in the grip of a killing frenzy nor watched him teasing foes others hoped never to encounter, but he recognised the grim caste to the warrior's eyes easily enough. Thus had Annaldír looked after the loss of his beloved and their child. It was an expression of hunger and despair, a desire for death, a longing to induce significant results by obtaining it.

Legolas had chosen his purpose upon accepting the role of Tawarwaith on the morning of the Judgement's twelfth anniversary. His growing devotion to Lindalcon and strong sense of responsibility for the younger elf's grief had undoubtedly intensified his dedication to this calling. Taurant's birth on a more recent dawn had brought Legolas a new brother and sister to love, deepening his commitment to the Greenwood. His consuming hope was to give to them a peaceful childhood amid the security of a devoted family, doting parents who mutually adored one another.

With the prospect of losing Erestor once the seneschal awoke, Legolas felt he must act quickly to ensure at least partial fulfilment of his goals before he faded. He would settle the Erebor question, he would re-establish balance between the ruling factions in the Wood Elves' world, and he would free the Lost Warriors.

The stoic Spirit Hunter unwillingly yielded to the primacy of the Tawarwaith's intractability. This was ultimately Legolas' choice and Fearfaron had already exhausted every argument he could fathom to dissuade his son from surrendering faith. That he had failed was manifest before his eyes.

The humble carpenter had felt the ominous diapir of molten fury rising inside his adopted child when the archer pulled the Noldo from the tainted stream. Heat of this magnitude was either slow to dissipate, gradually altering everything surrounding it, or vented in a violent expulsion of energetically destructive force. The outburst of scurrilous accusations upon Lindalcon had not been enough to quell it.

Indeed, Legolas had not even bothered to look as Lindalcon had bolted from the clearing, returning to his mundane chore of making up the bed. Fearfaron had watched him haul the seneschal onto the feather mattress before climbing right up onto the highest flet and stepping over the prone Noldo Lord. Legolas' scowl was no deterrent and Fearfaron seized him by the biceps and shook him hard.

"What are you thinking? How could you speak those foul lies?" These were the harshest words he had ever sounded to Legolas, filled with more reproach than his pronouncement during public sentencing seventeen years ago.

"Nay!" Legolas had shouted back and pulled free. "You do not understand! He wants me to go on suffering because I have not been able to release Valtamar. I have tried, yet nothing helps. I cannot bring back Lindalcon's father nor even send him to honoured remembrance in Mandos."

"Legolas, this is not what Lindalcon had in his heart when he planned this stunt," Fearfaron calmed himself and tried reason, hearing the underlying guilt in his second son's words. "Nor does he feel you deserve such a punishment. He has never held you accountable for Valtamar's death; this you know. These thoughts arise in your soul, not Lindalcon's, generated from the belief that you are undeserving of the happiness Erestor brings. Do not project them onto your younger brother."

The Tawarwaith turned away and shielded his heart beneath folded arms and tightly balled fists. He knew Fearfaron was right; Lindalcon had never expressed any anger toward him.

Yet it must be there just the same.

The younger elf had refused to accept Legolas' apologies and fervent assertions of his intent to salvage Valtamar from Wandering.

If he will not even hear my pleas, how shall he ever forgive me? 

It had been easy to overlook this unresolved debt whilst both elves had shared in common the complaints of grief and loss. Now that Legolas was suddenly granted the blessing of a bond-mate, the dearth of love in Lindalcon's life was pronounced and unbearably unjust. Legolas could not get past it, yet neither could he accept that he must relinquish his heart's contentment. He bowed his head under the weight of the dilemma.

"I did not mean to love him, but I do," he whispered. "I do not want to lose him; I shall die if he parts from me."

"Aye," Fearfaron sighed. "That is enough for Lindalcon to shoulder, for he can see the depth of your bond to Erestor. You must forgive him, Legolas."

"Ai, Ada!" Legolas cried. "I have harmed him yet again! First I take his father from him and now these allegations of treachery and vengeance! Mayhap I do deserve this fate!"

"Do not make it worse than it is." The carpenter reached for him then, gratified that Legolas allowed the comfort of the older elf's hand gently squeezing his shoulder as he was turned round. Fearfaron closed the distance between them and encircled the archer in his hold. "You did not kill Valtamar nor cause him to die. Lindalcon has spoken almost these exact words to you and wishes no ill will upon you. What must he do to convince you this is true?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Legolas shook his head against his father's shoulder and uncrossed his arms, wrapping them tight about the willowy elf's body. "I would not blame him if he did hope for this to happen. I cannot forgive him for there is no wrong to be pardoned."

"That is what he would say to you as well, were he here," Fearfaron reassured.

"It does not help," Legolas straightened up and disengaged from his father, meeting the carpenter's eyes with a look of fevered bewilderment. "I cannot accept this fate! Why must this be?" he demanded in the strident tones of impotent rage. He turned and knelt beside Berenaur, surveying his mate's impassive features and sleeping sight. He drifted the tips of his fingers across the smooth perfection of the refined cheek. "Where is his feä walking? Am I there?"

But Fearfaron could not answer this. He leaned down and softly caressed the wild elf's tangled mane. "Do not add torment to your worries with such speculation. He may not be affected by the water and you must hold to Gladhadithen's prognosis of deep reverie and nothing more."

For several minutes they were silent, the carpenter quietly stroking his son's hair as Legolas' fingers entwined in the advisor's ebony locks. Then the Tawarwaith shifted and gazed up at his father.

"Ada, boe darthon erui na Berenaur." (Ada, I need to be alone with Berenaur.) 

"Nay, avon vadel." (Nay, I am not leaving.)

"Le Boe!" (You must!)

"Avon." (I will not.)

"Man?" (Why?)

"I know what you will try, Legolas, and I refuse to let you face the inevitable defeat without support. It has never succeeded yet I also realise nothing I say will deter you. I will be down on the first level."

With that Fearfaron knelt briefly and hugged Legolas tight, dropping a quick kiss upon his forehead before moving to the rope still dangling from its knotted encirclement of a sturdy branch. At the edge of the platform he paused.

"He loves you, Legolas. Even if he does not remember the last four days, you are whom he chose to love. His feä will not forget." Fearfaron did not expect or wait for a reply, disappearing over the side to take up his vigil in the cosy sitting room.

Legolas could hear him moving around, the subdued shuffle of his soft-soled shoes compressing the carpeted floorboards. The ponderous, rattlely screech of iron hinges turning followed by the nondescript dull clunking as fuel was expertly stacked for lighting within the grate. The pleasant clink of metal upon glazed pottery accompanied the muted chuckle of liquid falling into an empty vessel. The carpenter was boiling water for tea. A cupboard was opened and shut, a china cup connected with its saucer, a drawn out sigh eased between the leafless limbs and finally the barely perceptible sound of the cushions' compaction signalled that Fearfaron had settled down on the sofa.

He truly means to stay.

Now the Tawarwaith hesitated. How could he proceed with an audience attending? Yet he must try, even as Fearfaron had averred. Legolas was bound to test the healer's theory, for if Berenaur was only locked in profound reverie, then he should be rousable. And the wild elf had a fair idea of the means to do it. Still, the carpenter's presence was a formidable impediment.

Valar! I cannot seduce my lover while my father sits below!

Legolas frowned; he must master this bashfulness. The advisor had to return to him, memories, heart and feä intact. He did not care about horror stories and legends from the past of others' attempts ending in failure. These tales were woefully lurid accounts; tragedies that ended with the death of one or both of the mated elves at the culmination of the act. He and Berenaur would be the exception; the depth of his passionate love for the Noldo would return him to consciousness. Legolas scanned the recumbent elf longingly and paused, straining his ears to listen, imagining Fearfaron doing exactly the same thing. He sighed and shook his head.

Far! (Enough!) He is Ages old and does not care. In fact, I have shared this with him before.

In the darkened space of the silk draped flet, Legolas blushed as he recalled the Spirit Hunter's aid during his first attack of grieving. Fearfaron had handled him intimately and skilfully that night yet never became aroused in turn. He had treated the archer's deeply suppressed needs as the most natural and basic of drives, regardless of the gender of the object of those desires. When the flood of his ardour had subsided, Fearfaron had cleaned him without embarrassment and then held him in safety as he slept, free of tormented dreams for the first time in years. Legolas had never before been encouraged to seek pleasure without feeling shamed and degraded, as though his appetites were depraved and indecent, his love for his guardsman a flaw to be hidden, allowed expression only when Malthen sanctioned it. 

I trusted the carpenter then; shall I let those old lessons prevent me from delighting in my bond-mate now?

Nay, this was to be the initiation of the couples' domestic cohabitation and tradition demanded a coupling the first night, anointing the untried bed with the outpouring of their love. Resolutely forcing his reservations into the background, Legolas focused anew upon the insensible elf in his keeping.

He is mine, dark hair and smirking mouth, long lean limbs and clever hands.

Legolas reached for one and brought the limp appendage to his lips, kissing the warm palm and pressing it against his neck over the small purple badge earned through desire's fulfilment. The weight of the arm was ponderous and underscored the lack of response to this tentative foreplay. He laid it carefully back down upon the quilt and chided himself; this would never do to entice Berenaur were he cognisant, why should such a tactic kindle any flare of aphrodesia as he slept? Legolas procrastinated, fearful to execute his plan successfully only to be rebuffed.

What if he wakes and calls out for one of his other mates?

A cold shiver ran over the Wood Elf's frame and his heart compressed as a painful stab lanced up toward the fragile organ from the nexus of the old dagger wound. A sharp breath escaped Legolas and instantly called the carpenter to attention.

"Ion Edwen, do not do this!" Fearfaron whispered softly in sorrow. "I fear to lose you; put me not upon the brink of such despair, I beg you!"

But Legolas did not respond and the talan builder groaned aloud, getting up as the steamy song of the copper kettle incongruously broke the silence with its homey cheer. The sweet scent of the steeping leaves soon filled the atmosphere and calmed him.

Legolas will survive; it is not as if the Noldo has died. Cuil anna estel. (Life gives hope.)

Fearfaron decided he needed to distract his mind from the activity above and moved to a cabinet, drawing out the set of wood-working tools he had given Legolas so long ago. Used little, the implements had resided in Annaldír's room previously. Fearfaron was still completing a project for the new couple's home, his bonding-rite gift to them, and soon the comforting scrape of a blade planing wood offered a screen to the subtle sounds of displaced clothing and shifting bodies that began anew on the uppermost platform.

Determined to induce recovery, Legolas had begun removing Berenaur's borrowed attire, hoping the sight of his lover's magnificent physique would inspire a bloom of lust and stir his thus far dormant libido. It would be difficult to arouse his mate if he could not feel the heat of desire flowing through his veins. Legolas had just bared the seneschal's smooth, broad chest, gleaming softly with the light of his golden glow, and bent to kiss a dark brown nipple when the repetitious rasp of the carpenter's tool met his ears. Legolas froze a scant centimetre from the enticing flesh, cursing quietly as he crawled over his lover to the edge of the flet and peered down into the half-lit parlour.

"What are you doing?" Spiky and grating, the phrase discharged a corona of irritation from the kernel of every word. The sound of the plane ceased. 

"Working."

"With no light? Do you not fear to amputate a fingertip?" Exasperated sarcasm hissed out from the shadowy silhouette above.

"Long have I practised my trade; my hands have sight keener than the eyes of Gwaihir." (Lord of the Eagles). This answer was gently spoken for Fearfaron understood the stress building in his distraught son's soul. The illumination spilling through the brazier's openwork grill was ample and both knew it. "Shall I stop?"

Legolas stared at the flickering play of light upon the features of his benefactor and regretted his caustic speech, simultaneously comprehending the reason for the older elf's unlikely labour. The woodland warrior bowed his head to the floorboards with a weary sigh.

"Nay, Gohena nin, Ada." (No. Forgive me, Papa.)

"Sîdh, pân vaer, Legolas." (Peace, all is well, Legolas.)

Fearfaron returned to his task and the light husk of filings curling from the furniture's surface obscured the muted patter of Legolas' retreat to the mattress.

The Tawarwaith decided to divest his mate of the opened tunic and shirt completely before resuming his interrupted undertaking to animate his lover. He heaved the lax frame forward, raising the Noldo's shoulders enough to allow complete removal of the silken garb. It was a cumbersome chore, grasping the slack body in one arm as the other worked to get the sleeves of the garment free. Legolas achieved the objective and flung the clothing away impatiently, panting a little from the effort. 

Undressing the seneschal is more difficult than it seemed before.

As soon as he thought this, Legolas recalled that he had never actually disrobed his lover, for Berenaur had stripped himself for Legolas' delight on their first joining in the bonding talan and both had remained naked thereafter. He dismissed the encounter in the glade, uncertain who had denuded the seneschal that night. As he carefully tried to lower Berenaur again the Noldo's head flopped backward and struck the cushiony mattress first with a dull thump.

The wild elf uttered a small, dismayed cry and stilled; the noise from the carpenter smoothing the wooden frame faltered for an instant, but the advisor remained oblivious. Fearfaron's competent hands resumed their utilitarian motion.

With a disgruntled sigh of disappointment Legolas focused his attention on the leggings, quickly untying them and yanking to work them loose. It was easier to accomplish than he had thought it would be and in a matter of minutes he had Berenaur fully exposed. The slender, slackened pink penis lay nestled upon the warm bulk of the scrotum and its heavy contents; pale pearly skin contrasting against the thick thatch of tight black ringlets. It should have been erotic and arousing, but instead the sight of his lover's lifeless torso was disconcerting.

Something about the way the arms and legs rested, perhaps, or the faintness of respiration upset Legolas and he was almost frightened to touch Berenaur. The rakish Noldo Lord should not be reduced to this vulnerable state, helpless and defenceless.

He should be in my arms, hands, lips and tongue exploring every inch of me.

Abruptly Legolas began tearing away his clothes, hoping the conjunction of their naked flesh would at last ignite his lust, filling his cock and setting every nerve afire with urgent need. But Legolas' body remained as neutral as Berenaur's.

Frantic, he cast his argent aura atop his love's golden glow, fervently kissing and caressing every millimetre of skin, longing to make Berenaur squirm beneath him, desperate to hear him plead for more. The tips of both ears were nipped, sucked and lapped without result. Ruby lips were impressed with his feverish cinnabar ones but did not part to admit his imploring tongue. Dark nipples refused to perk and harden no matter the attention bestowed. He nuzzled Berenaur's ticklish spot with his nose yet the body was immune to stimulation. He stroked and pulled, petted and palmed, licked and suckled the relaxed genitals to no avail.

"Beloved, hear me, awaken!" With a forlorn whimper Legolas straddled Berenaur's waist, grabbed his shoulders and shook him. The dark head wobbled back and forth under the force but no resistance met this assault. Legolas tried to make the glassy eyes focus on his but they remained half-closed, intent upon the interior dreamscape where he could not go.

Legolas released him and climbed off, turning away from the inanimate ellon.

There was but one zone the wild elf had not exploited, for he had hoped to have his love's full participation by this time. Yet surely if he could activate that core of fiery yearning hidden deep within the Noldo's body the intensity of the sensation would jolt him sensible in an ecstatic eruption of bliss and sperm. With effort Legolas rolled Berenaur onto his side and lay down next to him, snuggling against the unyielding spine. The warmth of the inert body soothed the silvan; this would be easier to accomplish without meeting that unseeing stare.

But his cock remained flaccidly uncooperative.

He closed his eyes, letting memory supply an image of Berenaur's fingertips teasing his physical topography, duplicating the touches upon his mate. One hand softly caressed the compact muscles across the seneschal's shoulders, slipped down over the contours of his thigh and cupped the rounded swell of his buttocks. Legolas breathed out a slender sigh and gently brushed away the dark drape of luxuriant tresses, granting his lips access to the resilient skin. His tongue dabbed over the old scar and eagerly licked it all the way down to its termination at the hip. Berenaur tasted of all the foreign lands in which he had dwelled during his long life.

From among the host of elves he has known over these many centuries, I am the one he chose to love.

Legolas' pulse quickened at this thought and he kissed his way back to the nape of the neck, tenderly trying it with his teeth. He breathed deeply the scent of his beloved and sidled closer, rubbing his groin against the supple arse, feeling his penis stir at last as it snagged within the dividing crevice. He pushed against this resistance and the friction urged him to fullness.

A soft moan, faint but definitely impassioned, reached his hearing and Pen-rhovan rejoiced, barely holding in an exuberant shout. Eagerly he shifted to access the tantalising mounds, carefully parting the cheeks to delve his tongue within and lap against the relaxed annulus. The wet red muscle swiped across the closure and he felt a slight tremor flicker over the quiescent body. Excited to perceive this minimal effect, Legolas plunged his tongue inside and worked it rapidly in and out to make the entrance slick. His cock twitched. He grabbed it, pumping in time with his darting tongue, unconsciously matching the steady metronome of the carpenter's plane as it scraped across the wood.

Another tremble rippled against his spearing oral muscle and Legolas quickly repositioned himself, eager to bring about the seneschal's rejuvenation in such a gloriously successful way. He imagined Berenaur's eyes clearing as the orgasm overtook him, gazing in astonished rapture at his mate as Legolas' cock stroked his prostrate over and over, calling for Pen-rhovan and clasping him tight against his chest as he came.

With a softly lubricious grunt Legolas pressed in and gave a strong shove. Traction was slight and he soon established a comfortable rhythm, rocking in and out, still matching Fearfaron thrust for stroke as the Spirit Hunter increased the pace of his work. Legolas leaned down to trail kisses upon the compliant back, as was his wont.

"Valar, how I love you," he whispered into the swirls of an elegant ear, pushing his cock in farther so he could reach the pointed tip and enclose it between his lips.

He hummed as he sucked, pounding against the body rocking beneath him, imagining these were not merely residual movements corresponding to the force of his vigorous penetration. Legolas felt his release building and reached down between the Noldo's legs to grasp the hard column of hot, seeping flesh thus to stimulate a simultaneous ejaculation.

His hand closed upon the velvety tube and the hairless sac; the testicles shifted under his manipulation and the penis rolled easily in his fingers, wilted and empty, as torpid as the dreaming elf beneath him.

Legolas collapsed atop Berenaur and snatched his hand back, shocked. A strangled sob left him as he pressed his face against the passive torso. His desire drained away; his cock deflated. Legolas pulled out and sat up, staring at the motionless form. Twisting away, he covered his face in his hands to completely block out the sight.

It was obvious; the moans had been his own voice or perhaps a vivid hallucination heard only in his mind. The trembles sprang from his over wrought nerves, not his mate's thrill of sexual gratification, the movement merely transmitted to the seneschal by their intimate contact. How could he have thought otherwise knowing the volume and gusto with which the Noldo directed his efforts to strike the small locus of internal delight?

But I must have reached it, always have I done so before!

Reality settled in then; Gladhadithen was wrong. If this could not lift the veil of slumber from the advisor's mind, nothing would. No reverie claimed his bond-mate; it was the sapping poison of Thranduil's cursed mote. Berenaur was to be his no longer.

He found that he was too empty for tears, too depleted to think, too lost to feel wrath. He was glad for the absence of sensation, for this strange mental stupor was preferable to soul-tearing agony. The next instant brought a contradictory spasm of jealousy. Should he not be ground within the teeth of grieving's cleaving torment? Now the wrenching pain seemed a privilege revoked, denied because their bond was dissolved.

Or never existed at all.

Legolas suddenly felt wrong, ashamed, as if he had violated this elf. He turned Berenaur on his back again and grabbed a blanket, spreading it over the prone form. Seeking some resemblance to normalcy, he posed the arms atop the covers and smoothed out the mussed tresses. Legolas reached for his leggings, slipping them on before stretching out next to the Noldo. Tentatively he draped one arm across the sturdy chest and let his forehead rest upon the seneschal's shoulder. 

Thus had Fearfaron found them.

The gentle craftsman had listened to the exertions overhead, waiting for the moment when Legolas would understand the futility of his efforts. The imploring cry from his adopted child had torn his heart and stilled his hands. He had not known a more chilling instant of time than this barring the searing of his soul upon viewing Annaldír's decapitated remains. Fearfaron leaped from his place before the grate and scrambled up to the topmost talan. He lingered on the edge, breath suspended, until Legolas' doleful vision lifted to his.

A great rush of relief fled the Spirit Hunter's lungs and he hurried over, unceremoniously kicking off his shoes and lying down against his son's back, encasing him in solace and comfort. Throughout Ithil's hours he whispered encouragement and enjoined the archer not to relent to despair. Just before minuial, Legolas had arisen and prepared for the council hearing, making no reference to the events of the night or anything his father had said regarding them.

Watching him now, Fearfaron experienced that same cold and heavy burden accumulate within his chest again. He did not know which Legolas intended: to force Thranduil to kill him or for the King to so order the guards flanking them, but surety of the scheme would not make its fulfilment acceptable. The carpenter abruptly transferred Lindalcon back to Gladhadithen's care and moved toward the dais.

"Daro!" commanded the Tawarwaith. He did not need to turn around to know those footfalls heralded Fearfaron's approach. "Avo deli sí." (Do not come here.)

Fearfaron halted at once but refused to return to his place in the crowd. Over the wild elf's shoulder, his eyes briefly engaged the disturbed depths of Thranduil's and noted the circumspect surprise within them. The next instant the Sinda's attention reverted to Ningloriel's child. 

Frozen in a confused amalgamation of outrage, bewilderment, and wary foreboding, the youngest son of Oropher stared down at the cool disregard of the elf before him. Evaluating the readiness in the wild warrior's stance, his hand swiftly found the hilt of the knife at his hip. He watched a brief flare of intense menace dance through his opponent's eyes at the defensive motion, but otherwise the outcast made no response. Legolas simply stood there waiting.

An man? (For what?)

This was not the behaviour the King had anticipated. Where was the weeping soul-shattered wreck he had envisioned upon hearing Talagan's tale? Instead he must treat with this primitive throwback; a being convinced of his status as the chosen emissary of an ancient deity everyone else had forgotten two Ages ago. A champion beloved by the woodland folk, both elf-kind and human, revered as their hope for a cleansing of Greenwood and a return to peace. A feral fighter who had earned the respect, admiration and loyalty of the warriors, apparently without even planning it.

And one that has been single-handedly, and effectively, making war against spiders, Orcs, and Wraiths for the last seventeen years.

This, Thranduil decided, was a dangerous combination of extremely volatile elements. He inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly, willing his body to remain limber and prepared, and took a step back.

Legolas advanced into the vacancy.

Iarwain could not even muster up the gumption to be pleased with the King's discomfort, for he was too concerned over the emergence of a radically unpredictable leader oblivious to his influence. The eldest elder did not fail to acknowledge the unspoken solidarity of the ranks collected on the dais' perimeter, for as one entity their focus was aimed upon the Tawarwaith. That determined his loyalty with definitive finality; he must back Legolas. The question remained whether Legolas would accept such fealty or not.

"What will you, Tirno?" Thranduil's voice was low and edged with warning when at last he spoke. "Is this how you express gratitude for the complete remission of responsibility regarding Erebor?"

"It is, for you have not the right to determine fault or rescind liability. You have brought me to this place with your stubborn stupidity and refusal to act in the interests of the victims and innocents affected by this travesty. Everything you have done, even long before Smaug took possession of Dale, has only been to serve your exalted pride. Erebor is decided; such things cannot be altered by you."

"Legolas, nay!" whispered Fearfaron in horror. He would have leaped upon the stone platform but Aiwendil detained him, gripping his arm strongly; the beech wood staff lowered before his chest, presenting diagonal impedance to progress. The Istar shook his head firmly and the carpenter learned what a lie was the wizard's outward semblance of decrepit weakness, for he could not break the hold.

"Your words and actions are designed to provoke," murmured Thranduil quietly, "It is a game I have played for longer years than you have lived. I cannot be so simply motivated to unweighed measures." Yet his visage belied the calm tone of the remarks, for his colour had darkened to deep maroon and his jaw tensed convulsively.

"Indeed, there is no need for any dispute or denouncements of character," Iarwain spoke up and inched forward out of the knot of politicians. "We are trying to remedy a wrongful decision, nothing more. Can you not accept our..."

"Echado dîn." (Be silent.) Legolas addressed the Councillor but his gaze did not waiver from Thranduil's features. The demand was delivered softly but the echoing undertones left no doubt that obedience was expected. The elder complied immediately.

"The people wish this, Legolas," Thranduil cajoled and was so amazed by the result this brief preamble produced that he did not finish his thought.

As he watched with baffled fascination the Tawarwaith's complexion drained to a pasty hue reminiscent of wood exposed in a lightening-blasted oak. A fine coat of perspiration arose, lending the pallid pigment an unhealthy gleam. Legolas' lips contracted, an inflexible stroke of vivid scarlet beneath nostrils flared and eyes afire with unfathomable resentment. His entire frame stiffened in unnatural rigidity as his hands coiled into fists at his sides. A series of fine tremors began racing over his body, waves of subtle infuriation in counterpoint to inaudible breaths taken and expelled in rapid suspiration.

"What did you say?" the taut, strained quality of the question matched the elf's stricken demeanour.

Never before had Thranduil spoken his name.

Tbc.


	78. Chapter 78

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

 

Osp Erin 'Waew [Smoke Upon Wind]

The King of the Woodland Realm watched the peculiar loss of composure sweep away the Tawarwaith's bold assurance, mesmerising presence and latent power. No longer confronted with a threatening challenger demanding control of the Greenwood, Thranduil faced the disgraceful product of Ningloriel's fickle-hearted carnal appetites. In the space of a heartbeat Horthad-en-Taur [Hope of the Forest] regressed to raeg-onnant tad-dal [misbegotten two-legged animal], an insignificant and easily discounted archer, unworthy of recognition, granted leave to live by virtue of his mother's status alone.

What can be the meaning of this bizarre behaviour? One moment cooly derisive, the next instant quivering like a bowstring ready to snap.

This was a personality the Woodland ruler knew well and it would be easy to resume his reflexive, offhand manner of dealing with the faithless queen's only child. The urge to remind Hecilo of his place was strong. Administering the censure earned by so brazen a trespass upon the King's authority would be intensely satisfying. Thranduil seldom hesitated long enough to consider other options when his supremacy was infringed, but this time the possible consequences refused to be squelched. Equally adamant was the warning bouncing and dancing against his conscious will, admonishing and reminding that such disdainful disregard was generated not from within his personal evaluation of events but rather by the spiteful jealousy of an arrogant Noldo Lord.

Indeed, the shame of having the intimate details of his life choreographed by Elrond was a more potent motivator to resisting the temptation to display his might than was the notion of stolen fatherhood. If he responded as centuries of habit dictated then the purpose of this staged trial would go unfulfilled and Ningloriel's paramour would emerge triumphant, having destroyed both of Thranduil's heirs. This he would not countenance. The Sinda Lord would forfend that outcome and ally the wild warrior to his dominion though Eru himself forbid it.

How shall I salvage him when he so defiantly demands to be crushed?

The Tawarwaith was concurrently an opponent to be dispatched, a confederate to acquire, and the agent of the most precious and glorious achievement of his long labour. Through the painful loss, abandonment, and betrayals Ningloriel's child had borne the wonder of innocence had arisen: Taurant and Gwilith. Such a concept was in direct opposition to the Sinda's comprehension of nature's chaotic structure in which purity, perfection, and order were pummelled into dishonour, corruption, and bedlam. 

It was a compelling example, for he had been attempting nearly all of his life to raise up purpose and honour from the senseless destruction of everything he had held dear in the world. Oropher's son was as yet unable to compare his methods and the archer's, incapable of discerning why the lowly outcast succeeded while, even with all his wealth and power, Thranduil's efforts yielded only more misery. He wished to preserve what Legolas' wrongful condemnation had enabled, yet to do so he must lift the unjust conviction without endangering his elflings' mother.

Neither could he ignore the provocation the Tawarwaith presented. Here was a conundrum the King was ill-equipped to unravel.

Thranduil's keen green gaze gauged the elf before him; an incongruous manifestation of repressed outrage and vulnerable wretchedness met this scrutiny. The eyes staring back were not attentive to the present, however, and remained disengaged as some interior reality reigned. The strange look held a different sort of challenge, as if Legolas awaited the King's next words to impart permission to express whatever dire thoughts plagued him. Thranduil was willing neither to supply the spark that would ignite this fury nor to endure the uneasy stalemate. Oblivious as to the cause for this abrupt reversal of character, the Sinda Lord refused to expend any more time in pondering the situation.

For Taurant's sake, I will see this through. I must act.

All of these reflections coursed through his mind in a streak of flashing emotion and disjointed imagery, but the puzzle remained unresolved. Calling upon the guard was not a solution whose plausibility he wished to test. Should he summon Fearfaron to come retrieve his fosterling? Would it be better to address the archer directly, inquiring what might be amiss?

Nay, such might compound the confusion in his mind; too great is the number of disasters weathered.

Whatever its cause, Legolas' peculiarly ominous fugue put Thranduil back in command of his court. Vairë had favoured him with a boon and he must snatch it up before the moment passed. The King side-stepped around Legolas and paced to his chair, stopping behind it, hands curling over the ornately carved back. He faced his subjects.

"This Council is convened to answer the legitimate concerns our people hold concerning the events of Erebor." Every nuance of tone and inflection matched the serenely benevolent expression of contrite wisdom masking his patrician features. The sound of the convicted kinslayer turning to follow his movements met his hearing, but Legolas did not speak. Thranduil's eyes shown, a mixture of triumphant relief, as they fell upon the eldest councillor. "Gandalf and Talagan have spoken their summations of these woes. We have awaited the recovery of Maltahondo in order to obtain a complete understanding of that dread day. Let us hear from the corpsman, Elder."

"Agreed, yet proper decorum must be observed." Iarwain retorted. He had as little comprehension of what was happening as did the King yet was equally eager to take advantage of the upset. "Tirno, come down, if you please, that we may conclude the inquiry."

"What?" Legolas tried to stifle his internal turmoil and focus on the events at hand.

"Here," Fearfaron pleaded. "Stand with me, Ion Edwen. [Second Son]"

"Nay, it is of no consequence; Legolas may remain," came Thranduil's magnanimous, indulgent reply as he glanced over his shoulder to peer at the fallen warrior, presenting a nondescript counterfeit smile.

Had the unexpected sound of his name falling so casually from those fatuously upturned lips not recurred, the Tawarwaith might have regained his presence of mind. He was faintly aware of Fearfaron's entreaty, vaguely cognisant of the multitude of eyes verily boring into him, yet he could not find a way to achieve clarity of thought. Fixated upon Thranduil's crimson mouth, open just enough to show the faint gleam of ivory incisors, he was totally absorbed by the nonchalant and meaningless expression of congenial tolerance pasted on for the public's benefit. Legolas hardly registered the words surrounding his name, so strange did it sound uttered in the tone and timbre he had so come to despise. It felt invasive; little else than that simple designation belonged to him.

Twice in as many minutes after two millennia of silence! By what right does he use that which Naneth conferred?

Yet his disposition had once been contradictory to his current mood. It was not silence Legolas recalled as coherent thought foundered under the inundation of memories swamping his brain, a heaving tide of impressions from his formative years.

Legolas' first skill, predating speech and bipedal locomotion, had been learning the Sinda's daily routine so that he could avoid the Lord's notice. Before he could sit unaided in the cradle, earlier even than his birth, Legolas recognised the heavy tread of Thranduil's boots pounding out disappointed wrath as he stalked through the stronghold. That sound was invariably succeeded by enraged shouting that buffeted against the delicate membranes of the babe's sensitive ears and inflicted a burden of responsibility upon the newborn's heart that redefined his percipience, overriding whatever traits bloodlines and heritage might impart. The connection between his wailing cries and the stomping footfalls was muddled in the infant's mind; which caused the other was secondary to the painful results. Legolas fostered quietude so as not to lure those angry feet and their screaming voice.

A short interval of growth granted the toddler comprehension of the sharp, deriding words aimed at his feä whenever he came within the King's visual range. Pointedly descriptive and unmistakably meant for him to hear, but spoken to others, for the imposing ruler refused to address the queen's child directly. 'Orcion fuiol' [Disgusting Orc-spawn]', 'gwaur úhîl' [foul pretender], and 'caul úmaer' [useless burden] were the most commonly utilised references to leave the King's mouth at such times. These were the patronymics Ningloriel's spouse bestowed.

Thranduil never called him by name and the youngling could not comprehend what he had done to arouse such profound antipathy. Legolas was not yet of sufficient maturity to perceive the nature of his parents' antagonism. Naneth called the cruelly dismissive elf his father and this the child accepted, along with the blatant truth that his father despised him. The impact was like robbing a seedling of water and light; development became slow and stunted.

Even so, life will not be denied its fruition and the body must obey such commands; the elfling advanced in stature of both mind and form. The child and the monarch worked out an unspoken treaty: Legolas stayed out of the way and Thranduil shunned him.

By the time Legolas achieved adolescence he understood all the sordid details involving his existence. What he did not grasp was why he must remain with this abhorrent charlatan. Why was he always left behind when Naneth departed to visit his real father? Why did Malthen refuse to answer any queries he posed concerning the Peredhel? Did the distant Noldo Lord of Imladris even know of him; had he ever used his name?

Slithering beneath the surface of these questions was an insidiously unshakeable dread that perhaps this unseen progenitor also loathed him.

That was negation of his existence on a level Legolas could not accept, however, and he shied from it. There was too much anger centred round those he loved and whose love he needed: Naneth, Malthen, and the paternal eidolon far beyond the peaks of Hithaeglir. The youth chose to foist his burgeoning wrath upon the local beacon of ill-will. If hatred was all Thranduil would give him, then he wanted that to be heated and lividly invidious rather than callously cold and indifferent.

His name became the locus for all these tumultuous considerations. So often did his parents include his eneth-naneth [mother-name] in their shouting arguments that he had no doubt the Lord of the Woodland Realm remembered it. Legolas believed that by refusing to say it Thranduil sought to rob him of his fundamental identity. The speculation was infuriating and he began a campaign of subtly aggressive insolence, attempting to test the hypothesis and force the King to either speak the word or admit his reason for such refusal.

On the next occasion of Malthen and his mother's retreat to Lorien, Legolas launched his assault.

He began insinuating his person within Thranduil's daily routine. The rejected heir suddenly appeared at Council and Court, soundlessly listening in while his cold, defiant glare raked the monarch's form. Where before he had studiously avoided participation in state functions, the Queen's solitary offspring regularly attended feasts, conferences, fetes and games. He found reasons to be striding in the opposite direction when the King exited his study en route to the stables or the dining hall. If Thranduil was ascending the kitchen stairs, Legolas was on the way down. Should the Lord decide to visit his library, the novice archer invariably popped in to find a book as well. It was quite obvious the youth had Thranduil's habits memorised. Only to the vaults would Ningloriel's child refuse to follow.

Inadvertently, this plan earned Legolas a host of fresh antagonists among the stronghold's staff. These good folk, employed to provide education, supervise activities, and attend the needs of the deprecated prince, were in general apathetically amicable to the neglected elfling. It was an oft stated rule that the child was not to be near the King if Ningloriel and Maltahondo were absent. Before his rebellious indignation arose Legolas had agreed to this edict with equal enthusiasm, eagerly vacating the caverns to shelter among the branches of the Sentinel or vanish into the verdant cover of the canopy as soon as completion of lessons and duties permitted. It was thus with alarm that the tutors and valets viewed his new policy of persistent, overt presence.

The Sinda Lord's discomfort and displeasure over the radical change was evident though he attempted to disregard the unexpected imposition. The conspicuous failure of that policy thrilled Legolas and he began to crave the infusion of potency that coursed through him each time flustered irritability overtook the King's normally suave control, presaged by a meteoric rise in colour as his temper flared. There was a place in his mind where Legolas acknowledged the aberrant nature of his delight in this deliberate goading, where he could admit that the idea of forcing Thranduil to acknowledge him, even if only to shout at him in anger, was an intoxicatingly alluring concept. He would show the haughty ruler who was in control.

The plot succeeded beyond his imagination's scope; he garnered the King's full attention. The results, however, never approached the outcome he desired. Legolas' obstinate encroachment into Thranduil's world prompted swift and escalating retaliation.

The King countered the sullen juvenile's atypical behaviour by engaging Talagan as a buffer, relegating to his faithful comrade the chore of introducing Ningloriel's child to ministers, emissaries, dignitaries, and guests at any official function. Legolas was usually announced impersonally as 'the Queen's son and Greenwood's heir' which placated the silvans and afforded their Sinda Lord the distance he preferred. In response everyone addressed Legolas by nameless title, puzzled by the strange contention but eager to be plain in their intent to appease Thranduil.

Between these battles in effrontery, Thranduil called forth the prince's minders and demanded explanations, for he had no comprehension of what was at the root of the bold hostility. None could they give for no one but Maltahondo had gained the youth's confidence and he was in Lorien. The King refused to accept their excuses and instituted sanctions for failing to control the wayward upstart.

The reprisals were minor at first but rapidly matriculated in proportion to Legolas' audacity. Access to the stronghold's pantries and wine cellars was restricted, demotion to less prestigious positions and reduction of pay followed, withdrawal of escort during travel to Lorien or Mithlond was added. In response the tutors passed on their Lord's anger, administering to their charge the tongue lashings and an occasional ringing blow their Lord would not condescend to deliver personally.

Still Legolas was not deterred. In fact the lack of success pushed him to greater degrees of insubordination, culminating in the theft of Oropher's war bow. Yet even this failed and he regretted his foolhardy bid to establish dominance. The caning, delivered in wordless ferocity, taught the untried warrior his place in Thranduil's Realm with incontestable finality. Legolas abandoned the experiment that night.

At minuial, the Sinda Lord commenced his counter-attack.

Legolas' freedom was curtailed. Where before the teachers, minders, and attendants had been ordered to keep the youth away they were now instructed to make certain of his continued inclusion in court affairs. Should Legolas fail to be present, the domestics suffered additional disciplinary penalties and either one of the woodland warriors or Talagan himself was sent to retrieve the delinquent. If the veteran of the Last Alliance had to hunt for the stubborn miscreant, Legolas' paid a heavier price, for the silvan fighters only wielded scathing words while the captain preferred the cane. Both left scars upon the young archer's soul.

Ningloriel's child was forced to follow a rigid schedule of meaningless activities in which he was expected to be seen without contributing anything substantive, and everyone knew why. He was not to speak unless formally addressed by Thranduil which never occurred. Legolas was not to respond if approached by visitors, a rare occurrence prompted by the more malicious warriors who would deliberately send some unsuspecting guest to do so. He must stand apart from the King but near enough to benefit from his disdainful regard, always under the looming surveillance of either Talagan or one of his lieutenants. He became a living representation of Thranduil's chillingly aloof primacy. This continued for over six years and not until his mother's return to the Greenwood was a reprieve granted.

And never once did the King speak his name.

Until this day. Why this day? What manner of sadistic game is he about now?

By way of answer Maltahondo walked through the open archway from the courtyard flanked by a pair of spearmen from Thranduil's own guard. Legolas watched in abstracted disbelief as his former lover entered the drama while his bonded mate lay insensible in a place the three of them now shared, an asymmetric circle locked in a disharmonic wobble of which he was the unsteady centre.

The appearance was not unexpected for he was well aware of the King's intent to make the guardsman testify; indeed he had been dreading the moment since the Council's commencement. Legolas had assumed, however, that Berenaur would be at his side for this. When fate robbed him of his mate's support, he had devised a strategy certain to prevent the corpsman from ever having the opportunity to say a single word. Thranduil's surprising familiarity had tossed him into the morass of unresolved conflict from his past and somehow time had got away from him before he could carry it through. In a cockeyed juxtaposition of recent and recollected events, he decided Thranduil had not arbitrarily chosen the number of times to pronounce his praenomen.

Once for each of the loves I have lost.

Legolas felt his throat tighten up until he was certain he would choke for failure to draw air through his windpipe. A slight twitch of his head in denial and negation rustled the heavy locks falling fluidly down his back. All his senses converged upon the small procession. Malthen was halfway through the congregation, passing among the solemnly expectant masses on weary feet, head bent low. Legolas retreated as the corpsman advanced, halting when his heel met the edge of the raised platform.

"Nay."

No single syllable ever contained so much defeat. Though barely exhaled, the abyssal silence of the crowded chamber accorded the word sufficient volume to carry clearly to every elven ear.

It stopped the corpsman in mid-step and he lifted his amber eyes to meet the turbulent confusion swirling through the darkly shadowed sapphire gaze fixed upon him. Maltahondo felt all the air rush from his lungs; he had seen this look before.

An infinite second of time froze the pair in public communion of private converse, a trial of the guardsman's soul conducted through the will of Tawar for all to see but none to perceive. For the witnesses were invisible phantoms of the phases of the archer's life only the two of them could share.

Memory called forth for both the first testimonial: Legolas at twenty-two, a gore begrimed warrior-child, tears streaking down his face as one hand upheld a necklace bearing three mithril rings and the other presented the cloth wrapped digits that had worn them, all that remained of the silvan soldiers that had accompanied the elfling on a simple hunting exercise in a purportedly safe region of the forest. The only survivor of the Orcs' raid, Legolas had been missing five days when Malthen found him in the company of a small group of humans traversing the Forest Road.

Then, Maltahondo had been the trusted mentor and confidante, a substitute father, free to follow his instincts and gather the traumatised youngling up into his embrace. He dared not imagine doing so now and the loss of that privilege was shockingly painful, but less so than the knowledge that Legolas wanted him to suffer this anguish. More than that, Legolas desperately needed to feel he possessed the power to hurt Malthen, and forced the guardsman to comprehend why through the next visual duet.

The scene presented was commonplace enough: a cluster of off-duty guards lingering in the barracks yard jesting and boasting to each other. Legolas was there, an adult archer newly inducted into Talagan's company, stiffly uncomfortable amid the group, trying unsuccessfully to appear disinterested and unperturbed while attempting to stop the tale being told about him. Malthen recognised the narrator: the minor beaurocrat from Imladris to whom he had given Legolas.

As the crude elf gave explicit details of their most recent coupling, the audience guffawed and smirked, casting patently speculative leers that stripped and groped the subject's tensely rigid form. The spy from Elrond's court also let it be known that his new partner had not been untouched after-all, and the barrage of lude conjectures over who had been the first ranged from various household servants, including the prince's bodyguard, to Talagan and Thranduil.

"Was it your father who taught you what that fine, firm arse is for?" On that query the apparition vanished.

The significance of this question from Legolas' perspective flooded Maltahondo's perception. He was unaware of the strange and strangled gargle that escaped his throat. The murmuring discontent of the assembly went unheeded. He did not hear Thranduil speaking.

Malthen could not avert his gaze from the wild elf's piercing examination nor cast out the infused revelations from his brain. He would never touch Legolas again, neither body nor soul. Do you care; does it hurt? The disembodied, divided demand sliced through his mind, part accusation and part entreaty, words laden with agony that inundated every atom of his being. The corpsman's feä writhed in torment and tried to give answer attesting to his regret. Liar. He knew not whether it was Legolas' consciousness or his that refuted the claim.

Futilely he fought to regain command of his mental world, vainly wondering why no one in the room moved to intervene or tried to speak, unable to comprehend the level of exclusion in which this moment reposed. Nothing of the surroundings breached the intensity of the Tawarwaith's relentlessly probing psyche, imploring what was impossible to give: the purpose, the reasons, some believable justification that would explain the past away and clothe the present with a more bearable logic. That Malthen could not supply this, his charge's last request of him, shrivelled up the wilted remnant of the soldier's self-respect. Through tear-filmed eyes his soul begged for pardon and watched the dewy blue orbs transform into hard, crystallised lenses of focused fury.

Every facet of the dynamic, complicated Tawarwaith was revealed there: the betrayed and shattered ghost of the bright and beautiful elfling ruined by lustful vengeance, the passionately adoring lover, spurned, traded away to preserve anonymity; the tenacious albeit untested sniper abandoned upon that ledge of sombre stone at Erebor, a bleeding soul grieving the loss of a newly bonded life-mate, a determinedly protective elder brother prepared to die to guarantee his siblings' future.

Remember, for I will never be able to forget. 

The silent sentence resounded through the corpsman's skull.  
The eternal instant ended.  
Maltahondo dropped his gaze to the floor.

Legolas' sight transferred to Fearfaron, his resolve recovered and his objective redefined. The faintest light of a smile glowed within the brilliant blaze of defiant wrath that burned anew within the aqua eyes. He had confronted the individual responsible for the most injurious sequences in his history without succumbing to the terrible rending affliction of grief. He was suddenly almost euphoric and struggled to contain the exuberant energy, storing it up for the tribulation to follow.

He shared this victory with Lindalcon as well and added what reassurance he could manage at such distance and without words. The corresponding expression his brother returned was a flimsy forgery of dauntless perseverance, a veneer of fortitude over appreciable apprehension. That Legolas could not instantly remove that fear was maddening, and yet it strengthened his determination.

For Gwilwileth, Taurant, and for Lindalcon. I will not falter now.

The talan builder exhaled a great sigh, rejoicing to behold the spark of recognition in his adopted son's soul once more. Too like the disordered disassociation of fading had the archer's state been for his comfort. He squeezed Lindalcon's shoulder, around which his arm was wrapped so tightly the muscles were cramping, even harder for a brief span. It was reassurance he needed just as badly. Fearfaron was not well pleased by this strange combination of dire purpose and manic fervour so apparent in his foster child's demeanour. Smouldering embers that threaten to burst into a raging conflagration at the slightest whisper of provocation. Still, Legolas with his wits sharp was more likely to survive whatever transpired next.

His amelioration diffused rapidly through the chamber, enveloping Aiwendil and the healer foremost before distribution amid the throng. The Wood Elves soaked up the assuaging wave of succour readily, aided by the visible rejuvenation of their champion's compelling personality. The people were gratified to have the voice of Tawar return and take over for their rejected atheling. A stray hand reached out and prodded the corpsman into motion again; a second repeated the gesture and Malthen resumed his march.

He moved sluggishly and kept his face pointed at the polished granite passing beneath his boots, for he could not lift it without seeking the archer's eyes and he feared to look again upon the horrors that resided therein. The guardsman reached the collected councillors and their attendants and took a place between Iarwain and Fêrlass, raising his sight for an instant to record their identities before settling on concentrated examination of their shoes.

"What in Mordor ails you, soldier? Answer when your King addresses you!"

Thranduil's strident words at last reached Malthen's ears and his head rose with a disoriented shake. He felt as if he had returned from a drunken daze, complete with the throbbing headache that generally accompanied such overindulgence, yet he had not consumed a drop of spirits. That he knew for certainty while doubt cloaked everything he had just experienced. Did any of it truly occur? No one else in the room seemed to be aware of it. Mayhap his nerves were unravelling under the press of so many staring faces and the magnitude of the confession he had agreed to publicly proclaim. He decided it did not matter where or how the insight had originated; the realisations were genuine and he must act accordingly. His duty was to Legolas as it ever had been.

"Forgive me, my Lord, what did you say?"

The Sinda stared in undisguised contempt. "What can you add to the Erebor question?" he repeated with phlegmatic, exaggerated slowness.

"Nay, he shall not speak!" The Tawarwaith moved from his spot at the extreme end of the dais to confront the King again.

"Enough of this!" The Lord of the Realm spun to counter the outcast's second attempt at arrogation. The expression of harried befuddlement that accompanied Thranduil's outburst would have been amusing in other circumstances yet in this arena promised only disaster. "He will make his statement for the record and then this Council will make its ruling. No more interruptions will I tolerate!"

Valar! Challenger to child and back again; it is unnatural!

These thoughts were but a façade to hide the resurgent prickling of instinctive warning working its way up the back of his neck. The perverse temerity moulding Legolas' features was alarmingly familiar; thus had Oropher appeared when last he turned to look upon his youngest son, just before calling the charge to battle at Dagorlad. 

For his part, Maltahondo had received his orders and firmly pressed his lips together, refusing to utter a sound.

"There are no words he can offer that will alter what has passed. Even if such could be wrought, would you wish it, knowing this would revoke the existence of Taurant and Gwilith?" Legolas demanded.

"Silence!" Thranduil thundered, closing the distance between them and towering over his adversary with all the menacing anger those remarks incited. Do not play his game. The inner intellect cautioned but failed to quell the defensive reaction. "You will stop foretelling doom upon the innocent!"

"I?" Legolas laughed up into the rage-flushed visage and turned to share his incredulity over the King's dense-headed obstinacy with his foster father. He observed only worry in the carpenter's glance, however, and resumed his scrutiny of Thranduil. "Once more I will say this: It is you who continually puts my siblings in jeopardy through the selfish desire to hide your true motives. It is not Maltahondo who has admissions of fault to make. Let this matter drop now or I will insist on full disclosure."

A sinuous ripple of querulous discontent snaked through the gathered onlookers and warriors alike, for once in accord in their confusion and rising indignation. What was he talking about? Was the King withholding information? Was Tirno implying Thranduil was responsible for Erebor, as had the carpenter? But he had supported the King's reasoning earlier, had he not?

The Sinda Lord wondered something more disturbing as he slowly relaxed his threatening posture and evaluated the calmly collected elf before him. He has evidence against Meril. Legolas had to be bluffing. He might suspect, indeed by her own declaration the outcast had privately accused her, but there was no proof of any link between Meril and the Lost Warriors other than that of grieving widow and bereft mother.

Unless that corrupt horse-master told secrets during their sessions of chastisement.

That was actually possible and Thranduil felt a dense concentration of heaviness collect in his gut as all the blood drained from his features and extremities to settle there. Perhaps Ailinyéro had boasted of his connection to the new consort, the hold he possessed over her, how he would use the knowledge to obtain favours. Mayhap he held some tangible proof of her involvement; a letter or some token given to demonstrate the faith between them and seal the unholy partnership. 

How Legolas would have come to possess such an article, should its existence be more than a spectre, did not quite engage the distraught father's reasoning capacity. Likewise, the fact that Rochendil had never sought to utilise this alleged advantage to enhance his position escaped Thranduil's consideration, for the monarch was almost on the verge of panic.

"What are you trying to do?" he whispered.

The query wafted across the Tawarwaith's face, displacing a fine strand of hair that had escaped imprisonment in the ropy twists. He replied by sending Thranduil a cold, indifferent smirk. He gave no other answer and the two remained locked in soundless, ocular combat, both determined not to back down.

"Ion Edwen, do not pursue this course," implored Fearfaron. Alone among the rooms occupants, he had determined what his second son intended, and dearly hoped to change his mind.

Beside him, Lindalcon stared between his brother, the carpenter and the King in accumulating distress, though he had no inkling of what was going to happen. Legolas was in a dangerous place, Fearfaron was terrified, and there were too many elves blocking his path to the dais. The humble craftsman held his arm in a grip so tight it pained and he seemed unlikely to relinquish it. The son of Valtamar exchanged his anxiety with Gladhadithen, but this time her demeanour was anything but encouraging. The briefest uplift of her shoulders emphasised her helpless dismay. Lindalcon glanced at Radagast and discovered his attention fully engaged elsewhere. The wizard seemed to have somewhat forgotten the two perpetrators of the present state of unrest and was attentively scanning the crowd, monitoring the fluctuating levels of energy roiling through them.

The scent of Thranduil's fear was instantly detected by the congregation and they edged toward hysteria, milling and billowing in the cramped confinement, grumbling and snapping at one another in rising volume as they argued over their opinions. Some wanted the whole mess thrown out of both court and council, stricken from Record and shoved as far into oblivion as the capacity of the mind would allow. Others were weary of the conflict but felt the full account must be had or peace would never reside in their green world again. The majority considered the distressing break between their civil and spiritual leaders an omen of a terrible fate about to overwhelm them. As yet no move toward physical expression of these volatile emotions appeared eminent, but the pressure was building even as the volume of their merged voices increased.

"Peace! We must remain patient and temperate or vital facts may go unheard!" Iarwain admonished. The eldest elder was not one to lend Thranduil assistance yet neither did he want the dire mood to deteriorate further. He searched for faces he trusted among the people, desperately trying to make visual contact and gather some control of the mob. Suddenly Aiwendil joined him and a surge of appreciative relief washed over the councillor. 

"Good folk of the woodlands, be calm and let this inquiry continue," the Brown wizard added in a congenial tone. "Our Tirno will explain." His placid smile was warm and genuine, consoling and gentle. An uplifting compassion flowed within the soothing timbre of his voice, a river of restoring grace sorting through the effusive load, washing out ambivalence and leaving the more substantial grains of persevering faith.

Almost at once the silvans responded to the Istar's benediction. Here was an emissary from Manwë himself; certainly the Vala must be overseeing these proceedings and would not let ill come of it. Aiwendil's unwavering confidence in Legolas was sufficient to bring them to a more consolidated attentiveness and the boil settled into a simmer. The citizens stopped disputing one another and resumed their unified concentration on the dais and its occupants. They did not wait for their champion to begin his elocution, but instead interrogated their King in tones of remonstrance and irritation. Thranduil was principally responsible for Legolas' life-long purgatory whether there were reasonable grounds for the Erebor invasion or not.

"What say you, Lord?" demanded one of the silvan warriors.

"Aye, is Tirno right? What more is there to this tale?" a voice among the citizens joined in.

"Much more, and none of it has anything to do with Erebor's dead soldiers, or conspiracies and spies from distant Realms, or Judgements and justice under the eaves of our homeland," Legolas threw these titillating hints out into the air and watched the throng eagerly pounce upon them.

"What, then! Tell us!"

"No more subtleties, we would hear the truth!"

"Aye, you cannot protect Greenwood with allusions and inference!"

Perturbed confusion erupted throughout the Chamber of Starlight anew as one faction yelled against the contentions of another. Legolas was teasing them to divert attention from the corpsman. The King was using Maltahondo as another scapegoat. Tirno must be cleared. No one but the Tawarwaith could bear the burden of the Judgement and see it through; the sentence must remain.

Their disarray was mirrored in the King's mind. He could not make any sense of it, for he had convinced himself that Legolas truly wished to protect Taurant and Gwilith. Yet these insinuations threatened to turn the discontented elves into a rioting canaille bent on ousting their King. Had this been Legolas' plan all along? Did he mean to take the throne by force after all, usurping his younger brother's title?

And why should he not, it would be the perfect revenge upon me for how he was treated.

"I will not permit this," he said with quiet finality, a narrow glare of bitter vitreous hatred fused with the matching signs of despisal within Legolas' flinty orbs of beryl.

"And how far will you go to prevent me?" taunted the Tawarwaith and turned his back on the King to look upon the thrashing sea of shouting mouths, gesticulating limbs and livid faces. He was unconcerned; they were as he meant them to be.

"Far." [Enough.] Legolas let the simple word lightly leave his lips and with it the hallowed dignity of Tawar fell upon the crowd. He waited for them to quiet and they did not disappoint their feral atheling. "What I have to say supersedes the Judgement, the Lost Warriors, and any other personal considerations claimed by anyone in this room.

"Long have our people been subjected to hardship and persecution from the Dark Tower of Amon Lanc. I ask you now to think on how this came to be. Why so much interest in our quiet trees while rings of power lie uncontested in the elven Realms to the West and South?"

"Nay!" Radagast whirled round to gaze in shock at the woodland warrior, for his eyes were opened and he understood what Legolas meant to reveal. "This is not the time for news of that nature!"

"The reason resides here, below these floors," the Tawarwaith ignored the interruption and continued. "In the vaults, hidden among the vast stores of guarded treasure. King Thranduil's wealth is so great, he does not even realise himself what is harboured there. But the Dark One wonders and is determined to turn that curiosity into surety, to our detriment."

"I beseech you, Tirno, do not spread a rumour so injurious to our Realm," Iarwain also comprehended Legolas' intent, and while he could see that fact was something of a surprise to the wild elf, it was equally apparent that too much had already been divulged. The crowd was silently anticipating the conclusion of this speech, and should Legolas stop they would be just as enraged and uncontrollable as the news would render them. The ancient elda was grateful no elflings were present lest they be trampled under foot in the chaos he was certain must result.

"This is a deviously clever lie!" Thranduil was incensed. "I know every item in those caverns, down to the lowliest copper bracelet. Sauron's Ring is not there." And thus he stole the moment of universal epiphany from his cast-off heir.

A collective gasp went up from the mass of agitated elves and they froze, the fearsome concept overwhelming every attempt at coherent speculation.

"Prove it!" challenged Legolas leaping into the momentary lull and commandeering their attention anew. Once more he placed himself under the ruler's very chin. "Give that key around your neck to Aiwendil and bid him search! No unhoused spirit will hinder him and our people trust his integrity."

Low murmurs of approval sprouted up here and there and the people visibly calmed. Tirno had the situation well in hand; his suggestion was sound. There was enough doubt to prevent outright bedlam, and the throng remained tensely controlled, for in their Tawarwaith they placed hope. Legolas would not fail them.

"Aye, let the wizard seek this dire thing!"

"If it lies in Greenwood, Radagast must take it hence. Let him search!"

"Give him the key!"

"It is not a question of keys; it is a matter of trust. You dare imply I am guilty of deceit? I will not submit to an accounting when there is no reason to doubt my word!" the King yelled at his subjects but the end of his nose remained scant centimetres from Legolas' forehead, emerald-fire focused relentlessly against the archer's retinas. "And how can you suggest I would want such a vile instrument of evil in my possession? Do you accuse me of wishing to wield that soul-withering extension of Melkor's hate?"

"Peace!" shouted Fearfaron. "He did not so state; Legolas said you did not know!"

"Aye, he has not accused you of anything!" added Lindalcon.

But the antagonists heeded them not, for this was a confrontation that had been building since the day Legolas was born. Nothing short of a catastrophic cave in could forestall it any longer.

"Your words reveal you, for never did I assign any unworthy inclination to your actions! Who can say what you would do should the talisman come into your hands?" Legolas' words hissed through the minute space between them. "Mayhap you would only keep it secret, hoping the Shadow Lord would thus never arise. Then again, you might be lured to try and use it to aid the Woodland Realm. That was ever my mother's demand, was it not, to return our forest to peace?"

"What impudence! I can scarcely fathom why you speak of her; she abandoned you to your fate from the very beginning!" Thranduil mocked, straightening up his back to maximise his advantage in height and bulk. 

"You drove her away! You caused her to ever flee from here and leave me behind! Do not disparage my Naneth!"

"That is a lie and we all know what drew her to Lorien! Do not place the fault for her lack of propriety on my shoulders!"

"It is you that are false and base!" Legolas shrieked back. He pointed his index finger right between the Sinda Lord's eyes for effect. "You seek to divert attention from the true menace. I say you must be hiding something important to go to such lengths to keep it covered."

Neither one realised how like the verbal wars betwixt the King and Queen was this scathing shouting match. The woodland folk, however, were entranced by the spectacle and thoroughly engrossed in the show. They quite forgot Malthen and the Judgement of Erebor. Warriors, civilians, councillors and wizard, all were caught up in the emotional whirlwind and could but hang on to every soupçon of meaning the screaming voices presented and hope their world survived when the storm was spent.

"I will not be spoken to thusly by such as you, convicted and banished Hecilo!" raged the King. "You invented this ridiculous claim to seize control of the Realm, to exact revenge! I name you the prevaricator for claiming to have Greenwood and the prince's interest at heart while plotting to undermine any hope of his elevation to power!"

"You are an ignorant fool!" slandered Legolas. "It is you who manufactures irrational scenarios of enemies plotting and scheming against you when no one has ever contested your ascendancy since first you achieved it. Exactly how does having the treasury examined translate into making me a king?" His scoffing tone earned a few snickers at Thranduil's expense.

"Do not treat our people so casually, playing their fears against them so baldly, assuming they are not wise enough to comprehend your ruse. Your fraudulent tale of the Ring is designed to incite frenzy and generate instability. No doubt under your illustrious connection with Tawar, you will promise relief by ridding us of Dol Guldur's attention, eliminating a Ring that was never there. Thus does an inventory of my resources serve your goal!"

"You dare insinuate I would use Tawar in such a fashion? You know nothing of my role here! I serve Tawar, not the other way round!"

"Lay aside the tone of noble umbrage; I am not the idiot your addled brain imagines me to be. Your actions of late serve no one besides yourself, least of all my elfling heir and his sister!"

"If you wish to ensure Taurant's future, you will allow the inspection."

"Threats again! I have every right to confine you to the dungeons for such treason; you and your perverted Noldo Lord! That must be where these absurd ideas come from; the two of you are plotting together! Do not deny it!"

"That is not true! Leave Berenaur out of it; he has done nothing to you!"

"You must be excluding invasion of my kingdom and starting this reprehensible gossip about the Ring! Mayhap you are so naive you really do not comprehend the nature of your relationship. He is using you to create this frenetic upheaval in our world; can you not see that? Why else would he link his fate to yours? He is acting under his Lord's directions and you are their dupe!"

"Nay, nay, you are wrong and I will not hear this! You seek to divert me from the issue! Why do you refuse to open the vaults? What do you fear will be uncovered? Give me the key!"

"No orders of yours will be heeded here, hênellon. Fearfaron, come take this, this…"

Thranduil struggled for a sufficiently foul epithet to use and Legolas tensed expectantly, ready for the wounding words to slash his soul.

"…get this edlethron Orcion [exiled son of an Orc] out of my sight!"

In silence the Tawarwaith sprang, right hand at Thranduil's throat as his left swept the dagger from its confinement at his waist and poised it for a fatal jab into the monarch's jugular.

"Legolas!" Fearfaron and Lindalcon shouted in tandem and surged forward toward the dais.

Thranduil was quicker, seizing the wild warrior's wrist to halt the burrowing fingers searching for a throttling hold on his oesophagus, unsheathing Caranthir's dirk in a blur of flashing mithril accompanied by the softly eerie hiss of friction as the blade left its scabbard. And this knife knew the taste of the outcast's blood and craved more, biting in and sinking deeply into Legolas' left shoulder, deflecting the threat to the King's neck.

"Elbereth, no!" Malthen shouted hoarsely and reached for a sword he did not have.

Legolas gasped and leaped back, staggering as the fiercely cold metal left his body and the heat of his blood gushed out. A noise captured his attention and his eyes followed it to the floor where his dagger lay. In an instant of precognition, he knew he would never feel its hilt in his hand again. Instinctively clapping his right palm over the bleeding wound, Legolas realised he had achieved his objective regardless the price. Entwined within his clutching fingers was the chain from the king's neck, for it was this his blade had moved to sever, and under his hand he felt the solid mass of the key pressing into the gash.

Legolas spared Thranduil an accusingly victorious glint of blue and swiftly sped from the room.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: It is interesting how some scenes define a story for me. This is one of the scenes that came first, very early in Feud's creation, though years passed before it was ever written down. Here we see a glimpse of Malthen as he was in Hênvaethor. This is, in fact, the scene that inspired Hênvaethor, in which the timeline is drastically different from Feud. Don't let that alarm you; the two stories were never meant to be part of the same universe. I wrote Hênvaethor to post as an entry to a challenge about first meetings but did not finish it in time. Please accept that Feud was written first, and though this is the first time this chapter has posted anywhere, it is hardly the first time it has played through my mind. Feud remains within the timeline in which it began.


	79. Chapter 79

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

Sigil ar Edron [Dagger and Key]

The blade remained stationary, poised in the emptiness left by the flight of the Tawarwaith, eager for another strike, Thranduil's fist wrapped round it in a constricting clasp of rage and fear. Even in stillness the dagger menaced; its potential for violence compounding, its craving for death increasing and not until returned to its sheath or loosed from the hold of its current owner would the sense of peril it fostered dissipate. Indeed, its mere presence seemed an attack upon the molecules of air pierced by the destructive spike of exquisite artistry.

The metal gave off an effulgent gleam comprised of more than the reflected brightness of lamplight dancing from its deadly contours, for the sheen boasted a gory translucent overlay of crimson. Vivid and vibrant was the vermilion colour of Legolas' blood thus exposed to the atmosphere and next to it every other hue on display appeared drab, a monochrome assortment of sepia shadows that refused to draw the eye. The thick film of cruor coated the dagger almost to the hilt but could not adhere to it, sliding with languid slowness over the slick perfection of the finely honed edge, filling the inscribed Quenya words of power marking its body, gathering at the narrow, delicately curved tip. There the vital varnish clung, suspended until enough of the stuff accrued and gravity inexorably plucked the droplet from the tenacious and thirsty device.

Down, down dropped the scarlet drip in an infinity of seconds and Thranduil's eyes fixed upon it, travelled with it, dilated in shock as the tiny sphere of liquid life burst against the granite and spattered the lustrous patina of the outcast's discarded weapon with a mist of random red spots.

Thranduil's sight retraced the path even as another ruby bead broke free and plunged to join the growing stain at his feet. He watched for another minute as the sluggish viscous flow worked its way toward the knife's pinnacle, staring in amazed abhorrence as if seeing the dagger for the first time, as if attempting to comprehend how it came to be in his hand, stained with elven blood. The light glinting off the evil thing was boldly stygian and for a moment seemed to hold form and take substance from the sanguine grime encasing it. A sense of presence emanated from the shining implement, revealing to the Sindarin soul-catcher in what manner his trophy had been wrought and whence its ability to invoke terror originated. Thranduil's heart gave a strong double percussion and sent his own interior river of essential fluid coursing through him briskly. He cried out, casting away the instrument of Caranthir's consuming insanity to join the humble blade already on the floor.

It struck against Legolas' dirk with a raucous reverberation and lay cross-wise over the common, utilitarian stiletto, painting it not for the first time with its master's serum, pinning it to the ground with the weight of Ages, a multitude of devious and dire deeds done at the behest of the Noldo Prince's self-destructive vow.

The King's heart surged anew, this time with the commitment never to touch the despicable thing again. His features contorted in disgust to have been manipulated by whatever foul remnant of life was held bound in the weapon's core. Unconsciously, Thranduil wiped his hand against his leggings in an effort to remove from his person the sensation of thrill the unholy object garnered from its momentary sheathing in the flesh of the First-born. The idea that he had unwittingly fed the abhorrent genie revolted him and his gut churned as he stared down at the two weapons.

How did I ever see that as a worthy artefact to carry on my person?

As he viewed them now, the lowly knife kept by the Tawarwaith was pure in comparison, for it had served loyally, fending off danger and dispatching foes, enabling hasty surgery to remove embedded arrows, smoothing ash-wood into straight, hard shafts, trimming feathers into fletching, skinning game for food and pelts. But in another sense were the razored edges brothers, for both had sipped Legolas' blood, though the archer's dirk had been forced to do so by the wild elf's hand. The savageness of such moiety fell upon Thranduil with the magnitude of a lightening blast and he gasped as his foot flashed forward and kicked the knives away in a blaze of outrage. They went skittering across the raised platform and came to rest after plummeting over the edge and landing in a disharmonic clash of metal upon rock.

"Oh!" a startled exclamation broke from among the elves and a low murmur circulated through the gathering at their Lord's unexpected action.

"Melt them down!" he shouted, pointing at the weapons, eyes upon Iarwain. "Both have sampled what is sacred. We are not Noldor, delighting in letting flow freely that which should never be visible, stealing immortal life from kin and comrades. Render them unto vapour!"

The Councillor shared an astounded set of oculi with Aiwendil but received no indication the wizard wished to respond to Thranduil's statement.

"As you wish; your assessment is wise," he replied with a brief nod of his head. "Yet it is not within the making of the weapon that the harm is done," he added coldly, eager to impugn the ruler's noble proclamation. "Your hand has done this thing."

"You know nothing of what may be predestined in the casting of the metal!" scoffed the King.

The populace stared at their leaders in disjointed confusion, some nodding to affirm the Elder's sentiment others growling against it in low tones of which 'self-defence' was the primary audible phrase. Their scrutiny transferred almost universally to Thranduil. Every eye focused upon him, each soul filled with combined outrage and uncertainty, perplexed over which inclination should gain preference and expression: fury against their King for spilling the blood of the Tawarwaith or confounded dismay over Legolas' violent attack upon a kinsman. Lindalcon decided for them.

"You stabbed him! I cannot believe I witnessed this!" his shouted accusation filled the hallowed chamber and echoed with the fervour of his wrath.

"It was not a matter of choice," Thranduil turned to face him. "Everyone saw; he meant to cut my throat. I responded as anyone would in such a situation."

"He would never harm you, if only for the sake of Taurant and Gwilith!" Lindalcon snapped back, attempting to get free from Fearfaron who still had firm hold upon his biceps.

"It did not seem that way from my perspective! Verily I weary of hearing empty avowals of the outcast's much lauded concern for my offspring! Ending my life would not benefit them under any rational consideration of that term. Can you deny that you thought he intended to destroy me also and were rushing to stop him?"

"It is true," interjected the carpenter. "I did so believe, for he has been sorely tried of late."

The collected elves murmured their acceptance of this admission for it summed up their reactions appropriately.

Abruptly Maltahondo dropped to his knees beside the shunned weapons and took up the dagger he had provided for his charge so long ago. Oblivious to the conversation around him, he caressed the stippled blade with his thumb, wiping the crimson dots into a streaky smear. Tripping lightly along the length of the edge, his nail documented the numerous notches and nicks the deadly article had collected over years of harsh use and minimal care. That this accurately described his treatment of Legolas was a bitter realisation and the corpsman quietly broke apart into sobbing and tears, clutching the defiled knife against his chest. 

"Nay," Lindalcon denied the King's charge. "I did not consider it even for a second for I know him too well." Valtamar's son spared the guardsman an indignant sneer, unimpressed with his sudden outpouring of remorse. "Legolas only wanted that stupid key to get at your jealously guarded treasure horde!"

"The key!" Thranduil called out, suddenly remembering it was no longer round his neck as his right hand flew there, fingering the unfamiliar loss of the chain's weight against his throat. His alarm was not due to the lack of the object so much as into whose possession it had passed. Now would come the proof he had both desired and denied himself, for if Fearfaron's reasoning proved true the Tawarwaith would know in a matter of minutes what was held bound in the small filigreed tool. The spirits in the vestibule of the Three Doors would recognise him, the blood flowing freely from the stab wound would call them as surely as nectar drew bees, for it was their means to freedom.

And revenge. They will seek to invade him!

It would not be the first time such had occurred. Memory, awakened under the strident stimulation of conscience, revealed the healer's report of Legolas' experience upon stumbling into the antechamber following the bold theft of Oropher's bow. Then, the King had dismissed the information, ignored Gladhadithen's repetition of the youth's account, derided her claim that the unhoused feär had sought to evict him from his own body. Thranduil stared at the inward image of himself, seated in his private study, too busy with his work to accord the healer more than an irritated glance as she stood at the opposite side of the desk and gave her assessment of Legolas' condition, explaining the cause of the horrifying shrieks that had so disrupted the King's concentration.

The truth I have owned all these long centuries. Only Adaren's [my father's] blood would my brothers acknowledge, only a child of mine would they seek to claim. 

So cold was his heart, so unrelenting his pride that he had denied this evidence of the youth's heritage rather than relinquish his self-righteous fury over Ningloriel's infidelity. His inner intellect mocked and scorned his pathetic refusal of the facts utilizing the absent Queen's taunting voice: 'He is no other's son but yours!'.

And my first-born will both suffer and fulfill their vengeance!

As though his thoughts were an order issued, a spirit-ripping cry of intense affliction and anguished rage arose from the depths of the stronghold's honeycombed heart, unmistakably Legolas' even through the muffling mass of several metres of dense rock.

"Ulunn! Ulunn gortheb ar huneb morn! Nay!" [Monster! Vile and black-hearted monster! Nay!]

"Ion Edwen!" cried out Fearfaron and hastened through the throng, elves of every rank and profession giving way to let him pass.

"Ai Valar! It is already too late," whispered Thranduil morosely.

The King did not wait to consider the moral implications of his enlightenment. How could he face the shame for so grievous a betrayal? What manner of compensation could he offer? He concentrated instead on the immediate repercussions if the unhoused ones were successful, for it was obvious to him that he had at last discovered the true threat to his children and Legolas' connection. The outcast possessed would be a potent weapon for none would hinder the Tawarwaith. Death would follow quickly for Taurant and Gwilwileth. Unless it finds Legolas first. Thranduil turned and leaped from the dais following the carpenter's wake but just as quickly found his path obstructed as the warriors closed up their ranks and denied his passage.

"Stand aside! You do not understand the consequences should Legolas reach the gates with that key in his possession!" the King commanded.

"Nay, it is best to let him be," a stalwart silvan spearman warned.

"Aye, Tirno is in good hands," another added.

"What are you saying? Are you mad? Fearfaron cannot assist him and I assure you the guardians of the vaults will not respect Legolas' unique association with the Greenwood!" Thranduil shoved against the mass of bodies in an attempt to force through. "Let me pass!"

"Stay back!" another soldier hissed and the troops consolidated their bulk, becoming a resilient and impenetrable wall of resistance.

"Aye, it is too late to prevent him searching your hidden lair!" This from a Sinda captain of the Northern Patrol. "Your sorcery will not hinder the Tawarwaith."

"Whatever is concealed therein will be exposed this day!" another remnant of Oropher's people spoke up from the crowd.

"Fools! That is exactly the point! Your champion has no idea what awaits and only I can control them!"

Again a morbid shout drifted through the layers of stone to underscore the King's assertions, turning hearts to lead and thoughts to instinctive prescience of doom. 

"Nay! This cannot be! Ada?"

In the Chamber of Starlight, the urge to flee grew palpable, taking on voice in the hyperventilated heaving of hundreds of lungs, exuding the stink of abject terror from the miriad of pores.

Silence enveloped the stronghold then as everyone waited for more from their feral tree Lord, but minutes raced past and nothing further could be discerned.

Thranduil redoubled his effort, twisting and turning in vain, seeking a chink in the insurmountable living barricade as more and more hands and arms snaked out to push back and fend off his advance. 

"Peace!" shouted Aiwendil, and uplifted his staff to discharge a blasting wave of hot dry energy throughout the room, hoping to distract the people from their confusion and panic. "Cease this pointless contention!" He was utterly disregarded and dared no greater magic for fear of undue harm to innocents, even were he inclined to disregard his vows.

"Unhand the King!" a citizen suddenly called out, disengaging from the mob to assist his Lord.

"Throw him in the dungeons!" countered a dissenter and rushed up to block this demonstration of loyalty.

"Aye! He struck our Tirno!" declaimed a third who went to abet the second.

"Traitors!" seethed Thranduil, grasping the nearest arm rebuffing him and twisting it roughly, wringing a grunt from the warrior to which it was attached. 

"Thranduil had no other choice, Legolas attacked first!" shouted one of the councillors but stayed well back from the fisticuffs.

The soldiers paid no heed to these outcries as the King became more forceful and they in turn increased their intolerance. A brawny hand curled into an angry fist and darted through the writhing agglomeration to land with a loud, dull thud upon Thranduil's cheek. He cursed in outrage and kicked back, and that was sufficient to unleash bedlam.

Instantly the situation deteriorated and the monarch found himself embroiled in a hopeless struggle against a virulent multitude. The warriors wrestled him to the floor and there held him bound as booted feet and stony knuckles scrambled to get access to his immobilised form, venting the pent frustrations and discontent of milennia. So many were engaged in the effort that they hindered each other, and this was fortunate for Thranduil who suffered fewer blows because of it.

For a second the collected populace merely stared in open-mouthed disbelief to see the Sinda Lord thus reduced to helpless cursing and fruitless commands to be released. Then one elf darted out of the throng and joined the fray, and like water through a sieve the remainder followed. Each one's kin and fellows hastened to lend aid, some to the King, others to the warriors, and a tumultuous, expanding melee engulfed the Chamber's occupants. 

Not everyone could reach the major battle and the mob divided into pockets of confrontation as one group set upon another, each hoping to impede the actions of any opposed to their views. Many were fully supportive of the warriors and welcomed the downfall of Thranduil, eager for the return of a time when Wood Elves needed no sovereign beyond the omnipresent will of Tawar. No less numerous were they that feared the ousting of the strong ruler who had thus far shielded their world from the worst of the Shadow's evil encroachment, sensing the Sindar's might was beyond the ability of the Dark Lord's minions to overthrow. Most wished to simply get out of the altercation all together and escape to the safety of home and talan.

Shouting and shoving degraded into grappling and blows, mates sought to shield one another from harm, fear drove even the mildest of tempers into frenzy, and utter ruin was upon them.

Amid this chaos the entreaties of the councillors arose joined by the yelling of the wizard, each beseeching calm and restraint, yet their words were lost in the thunderous clamour of argument and schism. The peacemakers were rudely jostled and jammed against one another, drawn away from the centre of the discombobulation in the outwash of retreating elves fleeing for the exits. Iarwain found himself next to Radagast once more, who had taken hold of Lindalcon upon Fearfaron's retreat, the three of them surrounded by a small contingent of soldiers and councillors that slowly and steadily moved them toward the inner walls, out of danger.

The Maia and the Councillor exchanged despondent dread and watched from their enforced detachment as the silvans succumbed to the heightened emotions and fed on each other's hysteria. In futility they called for order; it was as asking rain to reverse direction or stars to dwell among the grass. Before their eyes they saw Maltahondo seized by an enraged pack of archers and spearmen, buffeted among their flailing arms and snarling curses as he ineffectually sought to defend himself. Legolas' dagger dropped from his hands to the granitic floor, the sound of its impact lost in the din of strife.

Lindalcon saw his predicament too and tugged free from the Istar. There was reason enough to wish Maltahondo's death yet the feeling that the unworthy guardian had something important to contribute to the Erebor story would not be squelched.

"Malthen!"

The speaking of this familiar name called the corpsman's attention sharply to the councillor's apprentice. A single caustic look passed between them and agreement was reached. Lindalcon plunged into the fight.

Aiwendil gave an alarmed shout and had no choice but to follow the young elf, fearing the Tawarwaith's brother would come to serious injury otherwise. Together they extracted the battered guardian with significant difficulty and not a few bruises. Once the incensed warriors realised who sought custody of the reviled elf, however, they relented, allowing the wizard to take him away. The winded, dishevelled corpsman, tunic ripped and nose spouting a red fountain, had to be supported as they slowly backed toward the group protecting the Elder, there depositing him for safekeeping.

Back into the commotion the prince's brother and the Istar dived, desperate to reach Legolas' side, treading the thrashing sea of undulating bodies like cirion [a sailor] adrift in the heaving swells of a typhoon, seeking to ride the storm's crest to the bounds of the chamber, there to be washed out into the service corridor and the rear stairway. 

Thranduil was on his feet once more, assisted by a steadily growing compilation of Sindar soldiers and silvan citizens, struggling to regain the relative advantage of the dais, now overrun with rioting elves.

"To me!" he shouted above the ruckus. "All loyal to Oropher and the Greenwood stand with me!"

"Greenwood was never under your father's dominion!" someone yelled back.

Then a hand reached down and picked up the dirk of Caranthir the Dark, lifting the gory blade high. The flickering light of the lamps cast a fiery halo upon the outline of its solid volume that seemed to pulse with the disharmonic waves of fear and rage roiling through the throng.

In answer to this indeterminate threat rang the rasping song of a long knife leaving its sheath.

"Iluvatar beria mín! [Iluvatar protect us!]" a shrill voice prayed.

"Na Eru, avo adanno agar an um sigil sen! [By Eru, do not give blood to this evil blade again!]" Thranduil fairly screamed in protest and it was enough to cause all activity to freeze as each eye found its way to uneasy sidelong stares at the vile implement of malice and murder.

It was at this propitious intermission that Celeborn arrived, stepping into the arrested pandemonium through the open archway, Haldir on his right and Talagan at his left. Rapidly he assessed the situation and accurately concluded he was present for the complete unravelling of the Woodland Realm, though as yet he had only supposition as to the catalyst for the cataclysm.

"Suilad, Aran Thranduil, gwanuren, Hîr o Eryndor Ardh! [Greetings, King Thranduil, my kinsman, Lord of the Woodland Realm!]" he announced loudly, right hand uplifted, and sought the gaze of his cousin amid the multitude. 

At once the populace turned to see this unexpected caller and a collective, inarticulate exclamation of amazement rose to the vaulted ceiling as if expelled from a single entity's throat. Not many would doubt who this august dignitary was and indeed most knew the Lord of the Golden Wood on sight from visits to family residing in Lorien. Immediately, grasping hands released their clutching holds on neighbours and friends and in embarrassed shame the silvans shifted, reordering their positions to grant each other room to breathe and space to think. In the whispery hush of smoothing fingers they made attempts to reorder their disarrayed garments, wipe away blood, constrain tangled tresses. With lowered heads they stood aside to let the Galadhrim pass as Haldir quickly stationed his warriors throughout the room to separate the flustered factions from each other and their King.

"Celeborn, gwanuren, Hîr o Lothlorien, mae govannen! Aderthad mín anna nin glass! [Celeborn, my cousin, Lord of Lothlorien, well met! Our reunion gives me joy!] And it was with real gladness that Thranduil responded with this traditional welcome between nobles of equal rank.

A gracious smile upended his lips, the lower one split and bleeding. Relief smoothed away the harried crevices marring his brow but could do nothing about the dark red abrasion at his temple or the swelling along his cheekbone. His long honey coloured hair was a mass of knots and in one place it seemed a handful had been yanked loose from his scalp, which was beaded with rosy gloss. With his elegant garments soiled and torn, Thranduil looked exactly the picture of survival that he was, and that this coup was but narrowly defeated was evident in his labouring breath and the glittering rage in his eyes of lapis blue.

Everyone knew it; not a single individual that had dared lay hands upon him would be spared punishment. Likewise, the warriors and Wood Elves whom had rallied to his side would find their circumstances significantly enhanced before day's ending. Talagan the King graced with a minute nod of approval; reassurance that his timely return with reinforcements would not go unrewarded.

"Talagan, take your soldiers and seal off access to Taurant, Gwilwileth, and their mother. Forget not the garden stairway! Guard the escape chutes also. None are to pass save myself. None! Most especially not the outcast nor any of his cronies!" he barked these orders brusquely and ignored the uneasy mumbling of his peoples' complaints.

"Aye, Lord. I will ensure it," the Sinda captain responded and left to do his King's bidding, bending his contemptuous eye upon the warriors involved in the upset, clearly identified by their virtual incarceration, ringed by the ruler's loyal fighters.

"You fear for your family's welfare?" incredulity limned the visiting Lord's question.

"Aye," the Greenwood's monarch confirmed with dire brevity.

Thranduil beckoned Lothlorien's leader and his lieutenant forward with a hand sporting badly skinned and bloated joints. Suddenly exhilarated in the aftermath of victory and the last splash of adrenaline, satisfied that his youngest children were safe, he advanced to the dais, there to right the overturned seat and return it to its place. He did not repose upon it, however, for a sudden flash of brilliance captured his notice as the loathsome weapon of the Noldo Prince was once more cast upon the stone with a brash clatter.

All interest was captured by the peril inherrent in the ancient masterpiece of Noldor metal work.

Celeborn paused in his progress and stooped to retrieve it, grimacing in severe distaste as soon as his fingers closed around the finely tooled hilt. Its filmy cardinal coat alarmed him but he kept his anger in check. His evaluation of the room's occupant's did not reveal anyone even remotely fitting the description of Legolas supplied by Galadriel's vision in the Mirror. He thus presumed, correctly again, the source of the gore. But he was not rash in decision-making and would not condemn the Woodland King yet.

At least not until I learn whether the outcast still breathes.

Thranduil tensed, rigid apprehension suffusing his frame as he watched to learn what reaction this respected refugee from Thingol's court would manifest over for such an abomination: the chillingly beautiful perfection created by the hands of his wife's first cousin besmirched with the vital essence of his nephew. He met Celeborn's eyes staunchly and knowledge passed between them; indeed the King did not seek to deny that the weapon was in his hand when it received its crimson annointing, nor that he would swear to justification for the act. But neither could he conceal his guilt and dread.

The silvan Lord assimilated all this in escalating wrath and severed the connection as he held the weapon away from his body, point down-facing, and looked to Haldir. The worthy Galadhrim extended his hand but Celeborn then refused to relinquish the knife, reconsidering his options. This earned him a disgruntled frown from his March Warden which he answered with an apologetic half-shrug. He searched the chamber expectantly until at last his gaze lit upon the Brown wizard posed near the inner wall at the extreme back of the room, a youthful silvan at his side.

"Ah!" Celeborn bowed politely and signalled for the Maia to approach. "Mae govannen, Aiwendil! I am pleased to find you here. I had hoped it would be so, for your messages to Lorien were carried by avians of the forest rather than of the river's edge near Rosgobel." He looked the wily wizard over with a mixture of bemusement and concern, for clearly the Istar had participated in the fracas, evidenced by the loss of the sash for his formal robe and his bulbously swollen nose that must be quite tender. Nonetheless, the stout staff had spared the Istar much and he had fared better than most. "If you would be so gracious as to keep this unworthy blade out of reach for a time, my thanks would be limitless."

"As you wish, Lord Celeborn, and I am equally grateful for your auspicious arrival. However, an order has already been made to dissolve the relic," replied Radagast with a cheek-wrinkling smile and a respectful bow as he received the hilt from the valourous silvan. Without hesitation he dropped the hateful object into one of the pockets of his outer robe as if it were some worthless trinket. The very mountain seemed to exhale a sigh of gratitude for its concealment.

"Indeed? With that I concur!" Celeborn remarked with feeling, smiling rather coldly at Thranduil even as he gripped the wizard's shoulder warmly. "Hold it then until the furnaces are lighted."

"Aye, it will take special care to dispel the evil held in thrall within it. I do not wish such an entity freed to wander hence to Dol Guldur, there to be reborn in some new and loathsome form," added the King. By this time Celeborn had resumed his pace and Thranduil stepped down from the platform to greet his kinsman with a warrior's salute. The pair shared a long look fraught with the edgy strain of unvoiced accusation and latent distrust. "I had begun to fear your delay was due to an encounter with the less pleasant inhabitants within my woods."

"And so it was!" Celeborn averred. "Just before Talagan reached us we were attacked by spiders. No one was killed but two were bitten and I was unwilling to leave anyone behind in this blighted forest. Thanks to your worthy captain and the habit of supplying his soldiers with antidote for the poison, we were able to continue after a matter of hours in recovery rather than days. Truly, but for that our journey would have brought us here before dawn."

"I regret you were forced to defend your lives within my lands," pledged Thranduil gravely. "But at least it is plain enough why discord from within cannot be tolerated when so much tribulation assails us from beyond our borders."

"Aye," to this the Lord of the Golden Wood nodded. "Then we agree the Judgement of Erebor has proved divisive and detrimental to the silvan people."

"Indeed. I was about to have the last of the testimony regarding the unfortunate events stated for the Record when an unexpected…interruption occurred."

As the two leaders conversed through the enforced politeness of diplomacy, the people calmed and gave them their attention, relieved that the brief insurgency was over with, eager to at last hear the final resolution of the Battle of the Five Armies.

"I see," Celeborn made no effort to camoflage his dissapproval of the current state of affairs within his kinsman's government. "Where is the condemned archer?"

"In the vaults; he has the key," Iarwain spoke up finally, having worked his way from the outskirts of the chamber back into its centre once more. "Welcome, Lord Celeborn! I lament your exposure to the aberrations marring our world, and yet I am gratified that your presence has restored a modicum of civilised conduct."

"Oromëndil!" Celeborn could not suppress a chuckle at the elder's ingratiating tone. "I am honoured to attend this session of Greenwood's Council. If my participation provides some benefit here then I humbly offer whatever assistance is mine to supply. But as to Legolas, what is he doing in the vaults, may I ask?"

"Searching for Sauron's Ring," replied Aiwendil with a sad shake of his head.

"Nay, he is not." This quiet statement came from Lindalcon, standing just at the wizard's left shoulder, having followed when Celeborn summoned the Istar. The sombre apprentice valiantly attempted to present a dignified appearance despite unruly chestnut locks, a sleeve torn loose at the shoulder seams, and his purpled, tumescent right eye.

Celeborn's gaze fell upon him and he knew at once this was the other silvan elf in his wife's premonition. He smiled congenially at the youth, for it was apparent he was under some great duress, and motioned him forward.

"Do not attempt to protect him; everyone in this room observed the morning's events," warned Thranduil and the venom in his words caused the Lorien elves, including Celeborn, to startle.

"It is true! Legolas did all of this to prevent Maltahondo's testimony!" asserted the son of Valtamar. It was comprehension that had only just arisen in his mind, for he did know Legolas well. "My brother would never have permitted so dangerous a token to remain amid his forest world only to broach its existence at such a crucial moment. Search as much as you wish; the Ring is not in Greenwood." His speech raised a low hum of surprised, indistinct comments from the crowd. "You did not have to hurt him; never would he have so much as nicked your hide!" He pointed emphatically at Thranduil as he ground out this sentence.

"He drew his weapon and attacked!" Thranduil shouted, face scarlet in outrage as he attempted to get past Aiwendil to the insolent elf.

"Peace! Do not start up this contention anew!" pleaded Iarwain.

"Keep your place, son of Oropher!" boomed out Aiwendil, wheeling to block the King's advance.

"Let all remain calm!" commanded Celeborn and stepped between the Sinda and the Maia's dueling glares. Each retreated a pace and the Lord of Lothlorien exhaled a disconcerted breath through his nostrils, flicking a swift communication to Haldir through slate coloured eyes.

The March Warden responded instantly, relocating to flank Lindalcon. He found Thranduil's furious leer upon him but remained unruffled, returning the livid look with cool nonchalance and a faintly lifted left brow.

"How serious is the injury?" the Lord of Lothlorien addressed the apprentice, discounting the momentary abeyance of civility.

"I know not," Lindalcon shook his head. "He left here on his own power and our healer followed, but he truly did go down to the vaults, for we have heard his screams. Fearfaron is there now also, yet nothing more has been revealed." 

"But why would he do such if he did not believe the foul ornament resided within?" queried Celeborn gently, a consoling hand offering strength through its emplacement on the young diplomat''s shoulder. "He generated a great deal of strife and confusion yet now that it is all past, still may the corpsman speak of Erebor. The banishment is to be lifted; surely this is something your friend must desire greatly."

"Brother," corrected Lindalcon, albeit politely and with a respectful dip of his head. "Legolas and I are brothers through Taurant and Gwilwileth, Lord. I do not understand why he insists upon it, but the Tawarwaith claims the Judgement must stand or our siblings will come to harm."

"Tawarwaith?" Celeborn's brows rose into arched astonishment. This was a portentous title to convey upon an outcast kin-slayer. From the humans he might expect it, for they were a superstitious lot and wont to look to the eldar co-habitating the woods as magical and even close to the status of Maiar. From the Wood Elves he had imagined such old beliefs to have waned over the passage of time. Now here was the ancient, prophetic nomenclature reasserting itself, attached to his lowly cousin!

"Aye, Tirno is our Tawarwaith." A voice attested and a swarm of confirming 'yeahs' and 'ayes' succeeded the syllables, echoing ratification from the soldiers and the citizens alike, from those unswervingly loyal to Thranduil and the ones who had futilely opposed him. Whatever may have divided the silvan folk, it was indisputable that not a single one would deny their exiled prince his rightful place among them now.

It is no wonder Thranduil views him as a threat! 

The Lord of the Golden Wood realised his task might be much more complicated and difficult to achieve than even Galadriel had guessed.

TBC


	80. Chapter 80

italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

Na Ennyn [At the Gates]

The pounding of his feet upon the stone and the racing of his heart beneath his ribs were nearly indistinguishable one from the other. In and out his breath blew, a ragged paper-tearing sort of respiration enhanced by his thundering pulse, demanding parted lips and flared nostrils combined to draw enough air to keep him going. The sounds of his physical distress were so loud Legolas had to strain to hear the second set of footfalls pressing ever closer from behind.

Not heavy enough for Thranduil, stride too short for Fearfaron; it can only be Gladhadithen or Lindalcon.

A flash of anger razed through his mind and lent renewed speed to pumping legs. It was Thranduil he expected, Thranduil he required to complete his little drama.

Can he never do as he should for me? Valar what obstinacy! 

"Legolas!"

He heard the healer call out faintly as from a great distance, but knew she must have caught sight of him to prompt the pleading cry. He ignored her and hastened even faster, though that seemed to be regrettably sluggish; his body unwilling to obey the commands sent to it.

Probably losing too much blood, he remarked to himself dispassionately.

It was true the wound bled freely, yet many times in the deep of the forest, far from any healer's care, Legolas had borne injuries at least as serious and still managed to move and act with agile legerity. He had not stopped to bind the gash, however, and did not intend to do so. Legolas pressed harder against the seeping shoulder and grimaced at the shooting blast of pain this initiated. Shiny and slick with the vermilion liquid, his fingers managed to hold onto his souvenir of the conflict. Absently he marked the soaked and dripping sleeve of his good hand, assized the tunic's degree of saturation where it adhered, heavy with the fluid's weight.

He did not care.

The bite of Caranthir's dagger left a peculiar sensation of icy emptiness. It felt like some part of him had been torn loose and yanked free and the resultant hole ached and trembled as the exposed nerves responded to contact with open air. His shoulder simultaneously protested the lack of the blade within the torn muscle and sinew while an incessant, throbbing wet heat coursed through the region as tissue and capillaries, vessels and flesh laboured unsuccessfully to re-knit, stem the crimson flood, and close up the vacancy. Legolas decided this end would be preferable to the solution he had envisioned and was for once glad about Thranduil's indifference.

Better to die without another confrontation, especially a hidden one, for that might give people enough cause to demand an accounting from their Lord. 

As matters stood, it was indisputable that the King had acted instinctively out of the need for self-preservation and nearly the entire population could bear witness to that fact. No doubt he has thought this through already and come to the same conclusion; thus, he does not follow. I am always wrong when surmising what he will do. 

The comprehension was unwelcome; Legolas had no wish to examine his underlying motives for baiting Thranduil. He could not entirely comprehend the perverse craving to force recognition from Greenwood's monarch beyond a desire to punish the Sinda for Ningloriel's many departures throughout his life. Instead he favoured the more noble concept of salvaging his siblings' happiness. And it was not merely self-delusion, the desire to think well of his deeds and lend them purpose, but a true sacrifice. If he must sunder his immortal essence from its failing house there were any number of places he would choose to spend his last moments and none of them included this dank abyss of suffocating murk to which he was drawn.

Berenaur's slumbering form, tucked neatly under the down quilt on their new feather bedding, curled up on his side with the long ebony locks strewn across his shoulder, naked and warm, entered his internal eye. Legolas halted and a shattered wail of despairing torment left his body, echoing in grating, screechy tones indicative of anger as much as sorrow, filling the passageway. He leaned the broken shoulder against the wall without even noting the vehement protest of the abused flesh so great was the twisting spike of woe within his chest.

Everyone he had ever loved had been taken from him: Naneth, Malthen, Elrond as an ideal father, Taurant and Gwilwileth, and now Berenaur.

Not so. It is only those I sought love from that have been denied me. 

That was an equally dismal thought and Legolas shunned it, forcing the piercing mirage of his mate's allure from his mind. This was but a precursor of the real agony to come and he had tasted that before. In contrast, the fear of the Gates was minor and he straightened up, resuming progress with baleful determination. 

Legolas arrived at the kitchen stairs and stumbled down them, gratified he was not going up, one hand holding the delicately decorated device staunchly against the injured shoulder as if it would bestow restorative benefits. The other limb, rubbery and leaden, slid along the knobbly wall to steady his shaky balance, sending stabbing jolts of anguish through his frame with every ridge and crevice encountered upon the stony skin. The pain was welcome, forcing him to concentrate and stay alert when what he truly wished was to sink down upon the steps and sleep.

"Nay! Daro!" [Stop!]

Gladhadithen sounded frantic but again he refused to acknowledge her having reached the landing where the way branched. One sloping corridor led to the underground cistern, the other to the vile dungeons and the King's Vaults. The image of the deep, still pool in the softly lit cavern filled his mind, its silent, motionless surface reflecting a replica of the torch-brightened interior within its untouched depths. That path continued on to the gardens; if he chose it he could seek the sheltering centre of Ningloriel's maze and there doze undisturbed.

Anor will be shining on the evergreen yew. 

He could verily feel the warmth of the sun and detect the chuckling trickle of the hurrying brook. He would be refreshed there and could tend his shoulder properly, bathing away the jagged bursts of excruciation with the clean cold water. It was but a second's hesitation, however, for there was no peace for him anywhere without Berenaur. Neither would he suffer his young brother and sister to fall into despair and perish. Better for the little ones never to remember him than to bear the shame and grief of their mother's treachery. Lindalcon would watch over them in his stead. 

Legolas was overcome with sadness upon acceptance that fate would prevent him from sharing the secret of the living puzzle with Taurant and Gwilwileth. He would never hear Gwilith's laugh again or his baby brother's voice, nor see them grown, assuming their proper places among the Greenwood's community. Disgusted infuriation replaced the self-pitying malaise and drove the morbid introspection out, for this was a future of his own design after all.

Nonetheless, he could not suppress a bitter curse against the Royal Consort for her part in all that had come to pass. Legolas plunged into the gloomy tunnel that would take him to the Vestibule of the Three Doors.

"Nienna's Tears! Why are you so stubborn?" the healer exclaimed as she came to a stop upon the landing a few breaths behind him.

Gladhadithen heaved an exasperated sigh and glared into the impenetrable darkness, hands fidgeting with the ends of her long mahogany braids. For a brief span she had hoped he was going to co-operate and allow her to take him to the healing ward. She could hear Legolas' feet retreating and evaluated the health of the body producing the inconsequential noise, finding it alarmingly depleted. More than this, his shrill cry had raised goose-bumps upon her very soul and a dark wet patch on the wall attested to Legolas' increasing instability.

Whatever is down there, the archer is unfit to confront it. 

She was, however, thoroughly cognisant of what awaited the Tawarwaith. Another short snort of air left her nose, equally expressive of determined resolve and the agitated annoyance she called forth, her shield to ward off the encroaching mephitic malevolence emanating from the black pit. Gingerly she embarked upon the loathsome trail but stalled again after but a few paces. Like a solid barrier the bleak division between the comforting jig of lamp-cast shadows and the complete extinction of perception inhibited her passage. A stronger epithet confirmed her anxious ire. Not only would the lack of lumens hinder her skill, Gladhadithen had no medicinal supplies at hand. 

Below, the object of her concern hurried onward. The absence of sight was a shock for it was absolute and nearly instantaneous upon rounding the turn in the stairwell. Legolas inhaled a short gasp and swallowed to choke back the rising swell of panic and terror. The second he lost his dominant sense the others became uncomfortably acute.

Damp and musty, overprinted with the acrid tang of faeces and urine from crawling bugs and eye-less lizards residing in the depths, the smell of the chiselled rock assailed him. The sour odours mingled with the rich metallic aroma of his blood and the combination induced the urge to vomit. With effort he mastered it.

He heard the displacement of air as three slithery reptilian tongues darted out and catalogued his descent. An unpleasant patter of minute, four-toed feet racing over the ceiling and down the wall on his left made him shudder. He pulled his hand from the stone at once, for the idea of brushing upon one of the blind creatures with his sensitised fingertips brought bile to his throat again.

Up came his injured arm, stiffly reluctant, as he pressed slightly numbed digits to lips clamped tightly against the surge of bitter juices. Another forced gulp and the acids retreated. Legolas paused, shrouded eyes swivelling to the place his hand should be, diaphragm pushing out a relieved breath. Feeble it was in the sticky viscous mire of palpable black air but his pearlescent nimbus was discernible nonetheless. Sight was not truly lost merely disabled by the lack of light and this was a comfort to him. He inhaled and held the air, attempting to squelch his illogical fears, but it sounded like a moan when he blew it back out.

Silence is a rare thing for an elf. he thought and the incongruity of the concept with the dire circumstances raised a smile. Any distraction was welcome and he encouraged his mind's little rambling walk into trivia as he followed the winding stair. Vision needs light but audition is impossible to prevent. There is always something resounding through my ears, even if that is only my heartbeat. How strange never to realise this before! 

The soles of his shoes scraped and rasped against the fine film of dust louder than Fearfaron's plane shaving wood. Like the pads of his fingers, the balls of his feet achieved perception, supplying his intellect with information he would normally discount were his eyes functional. He noted that the carved steps were bowed in the centre exactly where the toes touched down, worn away into a shallow depression, the accumulated effect from thousands upon thousands of years bearing the impact of Thranduil's boots going and coming from the secluded chambers.

A draft blew across his face as his right foot landed upon the broad floor at the base of the narrow passage. The left joined it and he stood still. He was in the arched entrance of the Vestibule.

"Legolas! Can you hear me? I am going for a torch! Do not move!" Gladhadithen called from above, her voice a wispy waft in the strangely thick atmosphere. "Answer! Do you hear me?"

"I hear," he called back and the words echoed in other voices around him. "Do not return. Send Fearfaron."

The name reverberated in magnifying decibels that grew steadily in venom and hatred, reaching a cacophonous crescendo before exhausting the energy his lungs had supplied. Legolas was left with only the noisy rhythm of his pulse to accompany his panting respiration. He suddenly wished he had not sent the healer away for he was not alone.

The Guardians of the Gates were tangible, indefinably substantive within the subconscious, distinctly manifest despite their incorporeal state and essential invisibility. They raised a crawling itch beneath his skin strangely reminiscent of the horripilation created by the Release of Annaldír. The ghosts advanced, a rolling cloak of glacial ether heralding their encroaching menace, and inspected the intruder. Barring his way and crowding close they hovered in hopes of chasing him out.

Swifter than the coursing rapids of the Forest River the mood shifted. An audible long drawn sigh filled the space, a deep exhale of intense satisfaction that was nearly post-orgasmic in timbre.

A jolt of gelid agony stabbed the Tawarwaith's shoulder as formless frigid fingers probed the wound and he ground out a renitent grunt, lurching left deeper into the anteroom to evade the contact. Legolas buttressed his shivering frame against the wall as a sub-audible wheezy buzz circulated through his thoughts, damped and distorted by the deafening roar of his over-stimulated vascular muscle. The meaning was intelligible, however.

No longer ordering his retreat, instead they questioned his identity, arguing with each other, discussing whether this was the same elfling encountered centuries past or not. Two concurred it must be for well they knew their own blood. The sight and scent of it, boldly garish and sweetly ferric, splattered over tarnished armour and unhelmed hair. Its texture, thickly unctuous, cascading over skin to nourish barren earth beneath bodies crushed and cleaved. The taste of it, acerbic and brash, as it filled mouth and nose, spilling from lips exhaling terminal gasps. Such was the catalogue of perception's last record. Unquestionably, here stood a descendent of Oropher's failing lineage and a fitting drone to accomplish their vengeance.

They demanded his hroa.

"Make haste, Gladhadithen." The Tawarwaith held his ground and fought the incursion. "Light would be welcome," he mumbled through chattery teeth.

Light would be welcome, a voice in his mind mimicked in mocking tones and a deriding guffaw floated through the stifling chill. 

Immediately three torches braced upon the rocky walls burst into flame, one after the other, revealing the Gates in an eerie contrast of dancing shadow on cold black polished gleam. They looked to be made of obsidian rather than iron, so glossy was the surface of the austere design. In the instant before he blocked the image, Legolas realised the entirety of the construction, both its form and composition, its shape and the pattern of the intricate geometric filigree, was an instrument of incarceration. The Gates were not obstacles to prevent thieves from breaching the vaults but a prison created to hold the spirits fast. 

Legolas cast his arm across his eyes, shielding them from the sudden flash of brilliance. The unexpected display of the three spirits' abilities was more than astonishing and he inhaled sharply in stupefied amazement.

And drew them in.

Deep down into the core of his being the freezing essence of the unhoused feär poured into his soul. A convulsion jerked his rigidly immobile spine and he exhaled with a painful intensity that emptied him to the bottom of his lungs.

"Ai!" Legolas unleashed an unholy shriek of terror and rage combined as the reaving entities fought with one another to seize control of his body and drive him out. Sides heaving for oxygen he could not seem to retain, he trembled with the icy fire of their bloodless energy. He found himself on his knees bent low, propped up with the right hand pressed against the floor, still grasping the gore-coated key. He shook his head wildly for he could hear them clearly now. They had ceased contesting for dominant possession, realising they would need to combine strength to gain control of their surprisingly resilient vessel. 

Relent, for you are ours. Yield and we will not expel you. Surrender and join us, kinsman. 

Within his mind a vision materialised and Legolas beheld a writhing dragon, iridescent in colours of leaping flame, and about its neck was bound a chain of gold. Ivory teeth gleaming and ebony talons bared, the beast radiated outrage and lust for revenge. This bizarre configuration held two distinct souls, this was clear, forced to assume a conjoined manifestation. Beside the scaly snake stood an elf, an archer clad in green, and he held the fire-drake leashed.

"Nay!" Legolas whispered, desperately fighting the compelling chant of the foreign voices. "You are no kin of mine!"

Abruptly the vile mantra ceased and the spirits stilled. Within his brain he felt their wondering curiosity.

He does not know. 

The unspoken voice belonging to the deceased woodland archer was low and lucid, brimming with remorseful urgency. With it came a sweeping concurrence between the triad and instantly knowledge of their identities was thrust into Legolas' comprehension. They were not nameless, formless, spiteful demons nor abominations of Melchor's divinations, as he had believed. Here confined to metaphysical slavery were the King's elder brothers and a silvan warrior slain upon the Sinda's entry amid the trees. 

Every memory that belonged to them gushed over into Legolas' mentality with all the concomitant emotions associated with Thranduil's betrayal, so complete, so merciless. Disoriented and stunned, Legolas physically flailed as though this would fend off both the information and the uncomfortable infusion of so much ensorcelled energy. He could not encompass it and proximity to such horror nearly caused him to desert his hroa in order to escape. 

"Ulunn! Ulunn gortheb ar huneb morn! Nay!" [Monster! Vile and black-hearted monster! Nay!]

Raw and rancorous the words flew from his lips and condemned the woodland King, a resonating knell that penetrated into the minerals of the very rock and carried to every pocket of open space within the fortress. The Tawarwaith could not but react to the festering accumulation of hatred these lost souls bore for Thranduil. Indeed, he had reasons enough of his own to reciprocate this wave of antipathy. 

Tê-telch. [Straight Stem]

The long-dead Wood Elf gave his name, quickly assaying Legolas' approaching collapse, hoping to distract him from the disquieting truths to which he had been so harshly introduced. Though Tê-telch now had his prey at the point of expulsion, the fey feä reversed his intent. He no longer desired to claim this one's existence, for he detected something familiar within the elf, akin to the fragrance of Ithillyth [Moon Flowers] under a midnight sky or the scent of rain upon wind. Recognition washed through the insubstantial apparition, recollection of a splendrous moment from his childhood, racing through the treetops just for the joy of it, chasing the dip and swell of the breeze-brushed limbs. Thus he had first encountered Tawar. It was an experience he was positive his prisoner shared.

Tê-telch's hold upon the golden chain tightened and the dragon thrashed in impatient belligerence, claws poised to rip the vulnerable, exposed soul of their quarry to shreds.

Cautiously the trespassing phantom pressed for entry into his host's psyche and found the way blocked. Again the silvan projected his surprise; few could withstand the onslaught of possession and none before had prevented the spirit's inquiries from yielding up a complete reckoning of his victim's persona. Tê-telch reverted to the ways of the living for the news he sought.

Man eneth lín? [What is your name?]

By this point Legolas was huddled on the cold rock floor, eyes still sealed, curled up with the key once more pressed against the injured shoulder. He gave no answer.

He is ready. Why do you hesitate? One of the Sindar questioned from within the shimmery foaloke. Unleash us. 

There is another way. We must invoke it, for he will never accept alliance. 

He has not the choice. This is a debt owed to us and he carries the blood of our tormentor; thus, it is right he should accommodate our feär and conform to our will. Leave if you would but do not hinder us. 

A rather rattlely laugh startled the three spirits from their discourse and returned attention to their host from whence it issued.

"I will not do your bidding. I owe you nothing. Even were that false, there are other debts due ahead of any you may claim. Stay if you like but I will not submit and together we will all die, the three of you the second time!" Laughed Legolas.

Die? Why would you wish this? What are these other obligations? 

Tell us, we are your father's siblings. We would know you. 

"Know me? You only wish to cast me out and use my body to execute your long-contrived retaliation. That is counter to my goals. You have other kin through Thranduil's seed, and these would I protect from your wrath."

Who? Name them. The dragon ordered, intrigued.

None of us wishes to punish innocents, yet Thranduil must account for his wrongs. Tê-telch added more diplomatically.

"It is one and the same thing. If the King is lost, how shall the little ones bear it? They have no comprehension of the depraved cruelty of which their father is capable; they only feel love for him and security in his keeping. Thus it shall remain; you will not contend with him through me."

Legolas had never seen a dragon for even Smaug had been felled by Bard's arrow days before the Wood Elves reached Erebor. Yet despite this lack of personal experience he was quite certain that it was uncommon for such a beast to smile. This one was grinning.

The elder sons of Oropher could not fight the surge of appreciation for the tone and manner of their defiant captive. Here was a temperament they were well acquainted with and one they missed and mourned. The appearance was not similar, but the elf in their clutches was more like their father in personality than were they. Tenacious beyond reason but also passionately protective of the young and defenceless, in life Oropher would not be turned from his duty once he had defined it. There was no need to confer; their silvan keeper was correct, nothing would sway such intractability.

The pair found they could not maintain their fanatical thirst for destruction and lost the heat of their fury. Eagerly they longed to promote such a genuine reproduction of their father's character. Thus the Sindar brothers conformed to their fellow spectre's efforts.

Muindorion [Brother-son (Nephew)], we are Tramborlong and Thurin'aur [Heavy-fist and Hidden-flame], Sindar from Neldoreth, the first and second born of Oropher, Thranduil's siblings slaughtered at our father's side at Dagorlad. Speak your name and teach us your part in our history. 

Now it seemed to Legolas the three beings squatted beside him though he knew they had not withdrawn from his body. The sense of perilous danger vanished, the symbolic ferocity of the fire-drake dissolved away revealing his kinsman as once they had been: proud, noble, and arrogant.

Dressed in the sturdy armour they had worn into battle, bereft of the rips and rends and stains of carnage, the brothers presented the valorous glory of the First Age rather than the desperate intrepidity of the Second. Tall and fair, broad and strong with the bearing of swordsmen, their similitude of face and form with Thranduil was undeniable. Tawny tresses bound back in Sindarin manner; aristocratic brows, high and smooth, topped noses straight and refined; eyes, one set a pale olivine, the other pair darker than highland spruce; mouths resolute and grim, the family likeness documented their shared heritage with the Woodland monarch.

Thus shall Taurant appear some day. the Tawarwaith thought, forgetting in the moment his reticence to divulge himself. 

Tê-telch discerned the slight relaxation of the elf's prodigious defences and immediately acted to initiate a complete removal of the barricade. The silvan reached out as he would to any wild thing of Arda, enveloping the reluctant being in the stanza of the Song particular to his own essence, pouring out this bit of sentient Music upon his host, offering not only friendship but entrusting his feä to his hostage. Even as he had suspected, Tê-telch felt the resonating chord of empathy within the resistant soul and encouraged the reciprocation.

For his part, Legolas at first panicked and sought to retreat, but then the essential anthem of the intruder lulled and soothed his fears, for it evoked the gentle harmony of the Greenwood with all the life it sheltered. He felt as he had in his elfling days, resting in the Sentinel, snugly cradled in the interwoven arms of the ancient beech, removed from the tumult and turmoil of the mountain fortress. His instinct was to trust this silvan spectre and he acceded, allowing himself to be drawn into the comfort of an understanding mind.

This unhoused warrior had known the communion of Tawar and yearned for it even as Legolas did, cut off from the great entity far below the stony solidity of the forest stronghold. Together they shared a lesser mingling of mental conjunction not unlike his internal interchange with Mithrandir. He comprehended that through Tê-telch, the brothers of Thranduil were able to divine the essential facts if not the entirety of the mystical experience. Just as Legolas' education had occurred subitaneously so perception of his predicament was delivered with precipitate entirety to the invasive souls.

All that he had endured was revealed to them and though these three knew better than any the depth of Thranduil's malevolence, even so were the bound souls overwhelmed with aversion and disgust for the wrongs the King, both wilfully and through blatant neglect, perpetrated upon his first child. The Sindar and their silvan partner found the scars upon their victim's feä as severe as theirs and were moved to compassion. For an instant the dragon reformed, suddenly desirous of claiming the unwilling body and adding Legolas' injuries to the catalogue of crimes their brother must redress. The weakening hroa of the wild archer protested anew and Oropher's sons reverted to more natural representations.

Legolas, Tirn-en-Tawar, Tawarwaith. Tê-telch intoned reverently and once more sought to mitigate their medium's elevating distress. Forgive us; we would not harm you more. 

Not only was the truth of his haphazard upbringing laid bare to them, the ghosts learned the purpose of the Tawarwaith's presence in the Vestibule. Through his memory they beheld the contentment and joy encompassing the brief time spent with the Woodland Realm's prince and princess. Legolas' determination to ensure for his young siblings that which had been denied him was unshakeable, as they had already perceived. Added to this was the retention of responsibility for three Lost Warriors and the fallen archer's commitment to fulfil this final obligation and set them free. Lastly, the knowledge of Berenaur and the burden of insurmountable grief his status engendered set the three phantoms to keening despair, for all bore the same agony over sundered bonds of heart and spirit.

The martyrdom Legolas was prepared to undergo in order to expiate this collection of miseries was indisputable.

Nay! We would not have you perish, the brothers exclaimed as one. No other can check Thranduil's scheming conceit. 

Death is not the only option to achieve what you seek. claimed Tê-telch.

Nor does separation of hroa and feä remove the ravages of heartbreak. We know not the disposition of our loved ones and for all these centuries have carried the dread that Thranduil's spiteful malice ensnared them also. If you have any capacity for pity, tell us the fate of our mates, our offspring. Tramborlong, being minuion [first son], spoke for both.

"I am not Thranduil!" Legolas bristled at the implied flaw; he was not lacking in compassion. He understood their intent was to force him to consider the repercussions of his chosen solution, however, and could not fault them. His decision would indeed be difficult to bear for many he counted as friends and for Fearfaron might prove unendurable. Legolas sighed, realising the break with sanity his persistent pursuit for extinction reflected. His single-mindedness was in some respects unpleasantly comparable to Thranduil's obsessive behaviour.

Is this horrendous imprisonment the result of derangement following after grieving? he wondered.

Do not concern yourself over such; no resemblance to him do we note in you; either in form or mentality. What of our families? Tramborlong pressed.

Shifting uneasily, the Tawarwaith fretted for he did not have the answer they sought, and at once this was transmitted through the link with Tê-telch. He felt the brothers rising frustration, sensed the re-emergence of the appalling spectacle of their unquenchable wrath, and hastened to forestall it.

“I am not certain. Though I have at times discerned the presence of distinct beings within Tawar, it is not easy to determine identities of specific individuals. They are but fleeting impressions; a face I have never seen before, a memory not my own. I know not if any of your children that died in battle are among these.

“Rumour shared within the ranks of warriors attests that your mates departed for the Undying Lands upon learning of your demise; there they survive. The same is noted in the Record concerning your sons' wives and heirs. All that remained of your House have gone West, for none could abide the jurisdiction of Thranduil yet had not the desire to confront him, fearing more bloodshed and the schism of our people. More than this I cannot say."

Truly, he did not wish to reveal his supposition; that the feä of any elf lost at the Last Alliance, be they Danwaith or Sinda, was either dispersed within the Greenwood's trees or ever-drowning in the Enchanted River.

If a ghost had the capacity to blanch, all three of the uninvited guests inside the wounded Wood Elf would have done so, for again the juncture with Tê-telch granted insight to Legolas' ruminations. Placid darkness filled the place of the vivid image that had dominated the Tawarwaith's awareness as Tê-telch withdrew, comprehending the need for the brothers to converse with their nephew privately.

A second more the Sindar remained, soul-shocked to learn from their kinsman the ultimate fate of their offspring, for each had a sole son felled at Dagorlad, diffused amid the Greenwood's trees within the consciousness of Tawar. In silence they gazed upon Thranduil's first-born a moment, struggling to harness the resentment this notion conjured. That their captor should have not one but three living descendants was bitter to digest. Yet the entrapped warriors had never imagined they could feel sympathy for the progeny of their gaoler, and they mastered the virulent rage for Legolas' sake.

A better doom than ours. Tramborlong [Heavy Fist] relayed this assessment of their heir's ends as his image returned, wavery and wan. Release us; we would join them, for the will of Mandos is denied them now and to endure eternal isolation from all they have believed must be unbearable. 

Ai! Such is not the way when the deceased merge with Tawar. It is peaceful and a unity you cannot perceive is achieved. Nonetheless, willingly would I undo Thranduil's evil, yet I do not possess the knowledge of such magic. 

You reside within the enlightenment of Tawar, corrected Thurin'aur. Thus within you are we whole. You possess the key; indeed, you are the key. Look upon us as our brother truly holds us bound. 

Legolas did as they bid and gasped to see the tattered remnants of noesis that floated freely in his mind. Their feär were torn asunder, one part incorporated in the sturdy mechanism securing the Gates, the other insinuated within the convoluted pattern of molecules comprising the mithril devise clasped in his palm. It radiated a heat he had not questioned before, assuming it was absorbed from his blood soaking the implement. He saw this was untrue; the faintly pulsing energy discharged from the shining surface had its origin in immortal essence.

He understood then why the pair had displayed a single representation. Even that had required the assistance of the silvan to maintain, for Tê-telch's life-long devotion to Tawar had left him with the ability to facilitate such linkage. Without him, Tramborlong and Thurin'aur would have degraded into revenant poltergeists devoid of reason. 

"Nay! This cannot be!" Revulsion rippled through the wild elf as a sob broke from his soul over the heartless brutality that had designed such a destiny.

Forgive us; we would not impart further affliction upon you but there was no other way to make plain our need. Release us, Legolas. And the next instant the unhoused spirits left him.

"Ion edwen!" down the curling steps the strident call flowed, preceding the clatter of the carpenter's bounding feet as he descended by threes and fours to reach his adopted son. Hearing the distress and anguish in Legolas' cries had spurred the lanky craftsman's pace considerably and he burst from the darkened stairwell in a panting frenzy before the echo of his voice diminished.

"Ada?" Legolas stared at Fearfaron in confusion, uncertain about the passage of time during the unlooked for communion with his uncles and the silvan archer.

"I am here." The pragmatic talan builder was already kneeling in the congealing crimson puddle collected beneath Legolas' body. Quickly he tore open his son's new tunic and ripped out the garment's sleeve to press against the gaping gash. "Ai! A constant worry you are to me! More so than Annaldír ever was. This is deep and should have been bound at once."

Much less dramatic was Gladhadithen's return mere moments later, torch in hand and a medicinal pack slung over her shoulder. She stared at the lighted braziers ringing the anteroom and scowled, shoving hers into an empty bracket near the stairway portal. The volume of the ruby liquid smeared across the granite made her frown deepen. Beyond that she saved her comments for later and took over from the carpenter, settling her patient carefully back into the taller elf's supporting arms. 

"Why is he still bleeding?" demanded the anxious father, gently lifting the unruly golden mane away from the injury to make her job easier. He was glad for Legolas' compliant acceptance of their aid, having feared he would attempt to hinder them and thus expire. The Tawarwaith's head rested on Fearfaron's shoulder but he was staring off toward the Gates with a disquietingly intense expression, for there was nothing to see but the elaborate iron-work of the barred entry.

"An artery is punctured; did you not sense this?" the healer shook her head in disapproval as she answered one and interrogated the other. With exigent celerity she strived to halt the flow. "Legolas, does it hurt or is it cold and numb?"

"It burns but the rest of me is freezing."

"What does that signify?" asked the carpenter.

"Nothing, she is trying to determine if I am still coherent," Legolas murmured, grateful for the warmth infiltrating his body from his foster father's form.

Gladhadithen huffed and tossed her long locks petulantly but smiled at the remark in spite of her worries. She did not encourage further banter, however, and had to enlist the distraught carpenter's help in order to get the broken conduit stitched shut before Legolas succumbed to shock. His response to the treatment, entirely too docile for the nature of the reconstruction, underscored his dwindling physical capacity. She worked as rapidly as skill and caution combined permitted, and at last the healer sat back, satisfied the immediate danger was past. Galdhadithen bandaged the closed incision and rose to her feet.

"Keep him still but do not let him sleep yet. I am going for blankets and fresh water." She did not wait for a response as these were orders not supplications and she had no doubt of the carpenter's obedience.

Fearfaron sighed and gently squeezed Legolas round his middle where both arms were firmly wrapped, kissing the warrior's sweat-beaded temple.

"I am sorry," Legolas mimicked his father's melancholy exhalation. "I did not mean to cause you more strife. I refused to consider what my choice would cost you."

"Never mind that now. I should not have yelled at you over this. What is done is done."

"Ada, this key; you must get in into the lock and open that door."

"Please, Legolas, do not spare any further thought about the Ring. Above us the hearing of Erebor goes forth, though Thranduil sought to follow you down. Let go of this plan of yours for it has failed."

"He did? Then why is he not here? He should be here!"

"Nay, Ion Edwen, he does not belong anywhere near you right now. You must stop this!"

"Ai, Ada, you misunderstand. That is not what I…there is something here far worse for not unlike Sauron is our Sinda Lord."

"What are you saying?" Fearfaron was uncertain if his charge was completely rational.

"The key."

But the voice that uttered these two words did not belong to Legolas. Frail and muted, the syllables drifted to their ears from the locked vault's ornate barricade. Turning to follow it back to its owner, the carpenter and the Tawarwaith gazed upon the vague and shimmery apparition of Tê-telch waiting there beside the weighty latch of glistening onyx metal.

"Valar!" Fearfaron whispered and clutched Legolas tighter.

"Open the lock." The spirit's gauzy outline faded away before the meagre strength of his speech failed.

"We must do more than that," the Tawarwaith's weary tone yet held his disgusted outrage over the nature of the Vestibule's prominent features. "They must be dismantled and melted down. I hold one half of Tramborlong and Thurin'aur's feär in my fist while the remainder is isolated in that lock. Within the beauty of the polished iron scroll work you see is Tê-telch held captive. All for Thranduil's pride has this been done. He is worse than a kinslayer. He should die!"

So saying, Legolas pulled free one of the carpenter's callused palms and slapped upon it the sanguine key.

Aghast, Fearfaron stared at the small object resting in his hand. He lifted stricken eyes to Legolas' determined ones and could not deny the truth there. Carefully lowering his adopted son to rest on the uninjured elbow, the carpenter arose to accomplish this task.

The instant the metal pieces connected the tumblers aligned themselves and unaided the Gate swung free in soundless motion upon its hinges. Once more the anteroom was permeated with the presence of the unhoused spirits but no malignancy surrounded the wounded warrior and his kindly protector.

Fearfaron nonetheless hurried to Legolas' side and gathered him close to his heart. Even as he watched, the empty space created by the opening of the barred portal took on form and substance. He beheld an unlikely triad of ethereal comrades: Thurin'aur and Tramborlong, the elder sons of Oropher, and Tê-telch, who had felled the Sindar's cousin so long ago, standing shoulder to shoulder expectantly.

"Speak the words," Thurin'aur usurped the prerogative of eldest from his brother and spoke for all, though his image could not be described as actually forming the sounds from the disembodied spectre of his soul.

"I know them not!" Legolas replied in exasperated dismay. He uplifted his disgruntled visage to his adoptive parent. "That is what I wanted Thranduil here to do. They need to be freed from this unnatural entombment. He invoked the spell that bound them and knows the incantation that will make it null."

"Speak the words," Tê-telch encouraged and managed to convey a feeling of having smiled upon the Tawarwaith.

"Valar! By Eru, if I could see it done you would be liberated from such a vile hell as this! I cannot even reach Tawar inside this disgusting place much less find means to…" Legolas stopped speaking mid-sentence for he was quite suddenly no longer in the dreary cave. He gaped at the startling glitter of sunlight skipping over the tree tops of the forest's canopy and realised at once he was ensconced within the ancient arms of the Sentinel at the boundary of the stronghold courtyard.

A subdued laugh drew attention to his left and he gazed into a set of deep green eyes belonging to an elf he never met in life but whom he now recognised as well as he would Lindalcon. And who knows all about me also. The idea did not produce embarrassment or shame, however, for the impression of acceptance emitted from these calm and thoughtful orbs was unimpeachable. And there was something else, sentiments Legolas had seldom encountered from his elders: appreciation and gratitude. 

"More than that. It is respect you see. Is this so unknown to you?" Thurin'aur was fully aware this was the case and reached out to gently rest a palm against his nephew's cheek, noting the surprise in the sparkling azure eyes.

"You hand feels warm with life!" the Tawarwaith blurted, staring from one to the other, for all three were present.

This was no dreaming encounter as when Annaldír had reached out to him. Every detail of the eudaemon's physical appearance was substantive and notable, from the strands of hair escaping their braids and flouncing amid the breeze to the weight of their bodies upon the branch. Legolas marvelled at the intensity of the transfiguration. Eternity might pass by and yet he would never forget the sight and the sound of these elves.

"Aye, you do well in this element. We will not be this distinct to you ever after this, however. But I wished it, and Tawar loves you well," Oropher's middle child replied to the unspoken thoughts.

“The confluence with this Forest Spirit is more soothing than you indicated. We are insulated no longer but mingle freely with all of the others comprising this indescribable being,” Tramborlong noted with a peaceful smile. “Our sons await us. We shall not be unhappy here.” 

"You are no longer confined?" Legolas managed to ask.

"Nay," confirmed Thurin'aur. "The binding spell has been retracted but your insight was accurate; to complete the extrication the gates and the key must be destroyed. Within the molten metal were we cast and thus only from the liquefied alloy may we completely arise." He carefully grazed his fingers over the new, white bandage beneath Legolas' ripped and ruined tunic. "We could not tell it was so serious an injury. Our senses were diminished in that condition of division."

"Aye, too near to death do you play. You are needed alive; this fixation with self-immolation must cease," added Tê-telch. "You will find no solace that way, nor grant it to any other. It is not the voice of Tawar that whispers such lies to you. Be cautious, for your soul is open in reverie and vulnerable to those who would abuse it."

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Legolas warily.

"Hebo rîn uin falas." [Keep remembrance of the beach.] said Tramborlong seriously. "That was more than a dream."

"Ai! You mimic my own words to Mithrandir!"

"We know not who was behind it, but it is a subtle and powerful entity, slipping past the protection Tawar extends, fooling you into believing such horrors arise from your latent desires," continued Thurin'aur.

"How shall I combat what cannot be defined?" Legolas demanded urgently, observing that the coherence and clarity of the apparitions' presence was fading.

"We cannot advise you," Thurin'aur shrugged apologetically.

"Men maethyr, alistari," [We are warriors, not wizards.] reminded Tê-telch.

"Hannad mín, hîl od Oropher!" [Our thanks, heir of Oropher] called Tramborlong with opened hand and heart uplifted.

Legolas could barely hear them and the light of Anor had dimmed; its warmth retreating as a dry chill invaded to the Tawarwaith's marrow. The lacy interlocked limbs of the Sentinel receded, replaced by a featureless, cheerless dull black and grey domain of formless shifting shadows. Someone was shouting and Legolas tried to cover his ears. At the same time his entire frame was vigorously rattled and the newly-stitched muscle of the stabbed shoulder screamed its protest.

"Legolas! Awaken, awaken! Nay, Legolas, you are not to sleep!" the strident voice was Fearfaron's, volubly concussing his foster-son's ear-drums as he forcefully jostled the lax form.

"Daro! Ada, saes!" Legolas' eyes focused in a trice and he snarled out a reproachful moan as he fastidiously cradled his injured arm against his chest. "I was not sleeping. The three spirits of the gates have been delivered."

With the realisation that he was still in the frigid anteroom, Legolas comprehended it was he that had withdrawn from the unfettered feär, not the other way round. He smiled up into the concerned brown eyes of his patient benefactor, a subtle, enigmatic reorganisation of his features that bespoke his incredulity over the revelation.

"I am not ready to join them."

TBC 

Odd Words, seldom seen?  
ensorcel: v. to bind or curse by sorcery or magic.  
gelid: adj. very cold.  
horripilation: n. the uplift of hairs on the body due to distress.   
legerity: n. swift, graceful, nimble  
mephitic: adj. noxious, poisonous, foul smelling, suffocating.  
noesis: n. awareness, perception, cognition, the cumulative psychological amalgamation of same.  
olivine: n. a ferromagnesian silicate mineral, (MgFe)2SiO4, significant component of mafic-ultramafic igneous rocks, magmas, and basalts. Its natural colour is pale, translucent green to citron yellow.  
reave: v. to take by violence.  
renitent: adj. involuntarily, reluctant, resitant  
revenant: adj. returning, recurring.  
subitaneously: adv. immediately, instantly, suddenly, abruptly.

 

TBC


	81. Dambeth od Erebor [Erebor's Answer]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

[ **Dambeth od Erebor [Erebor's Answer]** ](http://www.tawarwaith.com/)

  
For all the uncounted centuries following the Great Journey, before the rising of Ithil and Anor was even imagined, the silvan elves of the Teleri clans had dwelled amid the wooded lands east of the Misty Mountains. During these un-numbered days, no difference of great distinction marked the folk that resided in the vaster sections of the huge forest east of the Anduin and those that made their homes amid the more temperate southern seclusion of the wood betwixt the Celebrant and the Nimrodel. Indeed, for all of the First Age as well they considered themselves one people and the meagre leagues separating the settlements around Amon Lanc from those beneath the Mellyrn were insignificant, not barriers at all.

Converse and trade abounded, they defended one another valiantly, marriages went on as before the long march from Cuivienen, the language of one group was the same for the other, and a growing comprehension of the Spirit of the Great Wood marked the cultures of both colonies equally. They were not then divided, Nandor from Galadhrim, for all were Teleri and belonged to the tribes following the leadership of Thingol, until Dân turned back and a large sector of the population joined him, preferring the secure comfort of the forest and all its many blessings to the unknown dangers and trials of the mountain crossing and the lengthy traverse over the unexplored lands beyond.

That a schism developed could not be denied and the explanation of its cause emphasised this loss of unity, varying widely depending upon whether the query was made in Lothlorien or Greenwood.

Under the canopy of the darkening majesty of Mirkwood's mighty oaks and beeches, the Danwaith had a clear notion of what prompted the alienation and a date in time to go with it. The troubles all began when Celebrimbor fell under the influence of Sauron and forged the three elven rings. Then, comprehending at last the twisted Maia's intent, the master craftsman sought to hide the jewelled vessels of latent power by distributing them among the Noldorin refugees of the War of Wrath and the destruction of Beleriand. To Gil-Galad went Vilya, the ring of air, most potent of the three, for it was said the aquamarine gem housed the very breath of Manwë in its depths. Nenya, the ring of water, the ring of adamant, second in puissance, was entrusted to Galadriel, the daughter of Finarfin, banned from Valinor for her dark deeds upon her journey to Middle-earth. The ring of fire, Narya, was sequestered by Círdan the ship-right, an unlikely Keeper for the red crystal.

Though this was considered the weakest ring by the Noldo King and the golden haired grand-daughter of Olwë, it was the small fiery stone that played the greater part in Sauron's ultimate defeat. Carried by the White Wizard, Narya roused the failing hearts and flagging courage of the Rohirrim at Helm's Deep, rallied the leaderless troops of Gondor during the great battle of the Pelennor Fields, opened the spirits of the remnant armies of the free people to the stirring words and commanding presence of Isildur's heir as he charged the hordes of evil at the gates of Baradûr. This burning flame of ferocious determination leaping up unexpectedly in the souls of the Men of the West deflected Sauron's attention from the path of the Ringbearer inching toward the Cracks of Doom.

Before that day, in the year 1693 of the Second Age, Galadriel and her silvan mate fled from Eregion across the Hithaeglir. Their path carried them to Amroth from whom they begged asylum among the people residing in peaceful harmony with Tawar amid the majesty of Yavanna's exquisite creations. Making much of her kinship to the Teleri through Olwë, something she never did before or later, considering herself a Noldorin princess by virtue of her father's lineage, Nenya's Keeper pleaded with Lothlorien's King and won his favour. Did she assure Amroth that Lorien would have the protection of her new acquisition? Was her use of magic learned at Melian's knees the bargaining piece that earned her a place among the cousins of the elves massacred at Alqualondë?

Indeed, so thought Oropher and Iarwain, and neither were pleased with their silvan kinsman's decision. Long the three leaders argued and debated, trying to find a middle ground upon which to base a continued alliance between their peoples. In the end, Oropher could not forget the tally of bodies that accumulated in the Noldo lady's wake, stating her hands were stained at both the first and the second kinslayings, for none had heard what part she played in the destruction of Doriath. For his part, Amroth would not break a pledge already given, for such would be dishonourable, and demanded proofs of the charges that Oropher could not produce.

The Sinda Lord and the Eldest elder urged the Danwaith to pull back from the southern-most corner of the Greenwood toward the dense cover of the central regions. Many did so, yet not all, for the ties to Lorien could not so easily be broken when families would be sundered, mothers from children and grandchildren. An uneasy truce reigned until the Last Alliance. Then, differences were thrown aside and Oropher rode out with his woodland archers beside the host of the Galadhrim collected under Amroth's banner. Oropher was wrong to depend upon the ancient loyalties and ties of kinship, for Amroth's folk did not come to his aid as the Greenwood's defenders were cut down before the Black Gate.

It was not a fact missed by Thranduil nor one he would be likely to ever forget. Indeed, it was a bitter memory festering in the hearts of many of the Danwaith, for betrayal is not an easy sin to forgive.

With their numbers so drastically reduced, the Wood Elves retreated even further to the north and abandoned any pretence of aid to the humans in the central regions or to the remaining settlement of silvans at Amon Lanc. Thranduil considered these elves citizens of Lorien more than of Greenwood and cared not when the destruction of the Necromancer descended upon the unarmed colony and destroyed it. Though he was loath to have the evil tower of Dol Guldur arise amid the smouldering ruins of the elven city, he knew his forces were insufficient to mount a counter measure and run the vermin out. Lothlorien was unable to help either, having suffered significant losses in the war, and while together the divided Teleri tribes might have bested Sauron's glamhoth, trust had been broken and no accord could be reached. Amroth watched in dread as the black spire protruded above the treetops, providing the Shadow an unobstructed view of the Redhorn Pass and any activity around the gateway to the west through those imposing heights.

But Galadriel kept her word, and the vile followers of Melkor's disciple were unable to pierce the cloak of obfuscation she wove around the Mellyrn Taur.

The final break with Lothlorien happened upon the loss of Amroth early in the Third Age, when Durin's Bane wrought such brutal destruction upon the Golden Wood. By the time Celeborn and his Lady assumed leadership of the Galadhrim, the Wood Elves considered themselves distinct from the People of the Trees. Behind the impenetrable barrier of the Lady's magic, the silvans of the Mellyrn had changed. It was a subtle metamorphosis and slow, yet its effects could not be denied, nor were the Galadhrim against it.

They felt blessed by the presence of the beautiful Keeper of Nenya and eagerly heeded her teachings, altered their ways, adapted their culture. Tawar was replaced by the panoply of Aman, an accent as of Quenya entered the spoken dialect, and a fighting style more reminiscent of Gil-Galad's army developed. Tales and legends from Beleriand and Eldamar replaced the fables of Oromë and Yavanna. The Galadhrim increased their knowledge in all things, and while this is an improvement among any civilisation, yet it lent the hidden realm a bit of snobbery as well. They considered they had advanced while their northern cousins had stayed the same, or worse, reverted to even more primitive philosophies.

Emissaries between the two lands exacerbated the Galadhrim's haughty disdain. Tales came back to Lorien of the rustic talans of the common folk compared to their King's rich luxury; the Wood Elves were no more than serfs of the Sinda Lord. The well equipped warrior's under Celeborn's direction scoffed at the silvan archers' use of stone-tipped arrows while Thranduil's Sindar captains had armour fair and rumoured to be enchanted. The Danwaith's worship of Tawar, in spite of their understanding of the glory of the Powers, depending upon superstition, soothsaying and ancient prophecies, and a plethora of barbaric Laws raised contemptuous sneers from their neighbours to the south. The frequent visits and voluble complaining of Greenwood's less than exemplary Queen did little to enhance perception of her peoples' character and moral stability.

Now such attitudes cannot be blamed on the populace at large, for it was undoubtedly true that Galadriel had no respect for either Ningloriel or Thranduil and Celeborn possessed only a slightly higher tolerance for his distant kinsman than did she.

As the company of soldiers under Haldir's command surveyed the bedraggled and bloodied congregation of Wood Elves collected in the Council Chamber, they made no attempt to hide their aversion to such a display of unruly behaviour and undisciplined vulgarity. The very concept of relying on violence and resorting to infighting, brawling like beasts over a scrap of bone, to settle political differences was absolutely repugnant to the refined sensibilities of the Galadhrim. It was no wonder these backward people could not progress, given this propensity to dissension among themselves.

Grouped in pairs about the huge cavern, Lorien's warriors whispered to one another, pointing out deficiencies among the Greenwood's troops and the weaknesses of her self-proclaimed King. The Council of Elders was scorned, for obviously they had no real power and could not command the respect of the citizenry. The notion of the Tawarwaith made the bold visitors' eyes roll heavenward and spawned pitying leers upon the more vocal Wood Elves proclaiming their devotion to this enigmatic warrior-prophet. A stray snickery snort or two at the Wood Elves' collective expense was not checked.

Gradually, the crowd permitted this open arrogance to distract them from the events in the room's centre. At first, they had been pleased, if somewhat embarrassed, for the timely interruption by the noble Lord of the Golden Wood for the Danwaith held the un-proclaimed King of the Galadhrim in high esteem. Amroth may have failed them, but it was Celeborn the Wise who had convinced Gil-Galad to salvage the fierce bravado of Oropher's host before they were vanquished to the very last elf. The Wood Elves long remembered a wrong unrighted, but equally lengthy was their gratitude for gallant deeds on their behalf. Nonetheless, there is a limit to the amount of insolence a people may countenance from outlanders, especially within the august halls of their seat of governance.

Resentment replaced relief and focused an intense emission of angry attention upon the small clusters of Lorien's fighters scattered in their midst. Just as their loyalty to the Tawarwaith was a unifying force among them, so this lack of respect from the soldiers of Lothlorien rejoined the severed factions. It was one thing to dispute among themselves and with their leaders or take action when demanded, but quite another to have their country's internal affairs so openly derided by these friends of the Noldor. That these foreign elves were now interfering in their Council and the fate of their champion rankled. The Danwaith gathered their resolve.

Unbidden by either Thranduil or Iarwain, Greenwood's soldiers reconfigured their positions, surrounding the small numbers of Galadhrim with the menace of their daunting reproach. The Lorien elves found themselves hemmed in, trapped between a multitude of indignantly wrathful silvans, who had already demonstrated their willingness to strike a neighbour down given enough provocation, and the marginally controlled peril of Thranduil's armed warriors. As Celeborn gently probed the young son of Valtamar's knowledge, his elite company regretted their hasty dismissal of their Mirkwood counterparts.

Now it was certain the wily leaders grouped before the dais realised this readjustment of the Galadhrims' impressions was occurring and no one attempted to interfere. Celeborn the Wise understood the need to reunite the Wood Elves and had no desire to allow the influence of Dol Guldur to spread to the very gates of the stronghold. The son of Oropher was a rogue, in his opinion, but a staunch foe of the Shadow and not easily replaced. His armies were well trained and seasoned veterans, fearless and determined to stave off the encroachment of evil into their world. If Greenwood fell, untold numbers of innocent lives would be lost and the remainder taken prisoner by the Wraiths, subjected to tortures and horrors severe enough to pervert the very nature of the feä. Then, Lothlorien would be next.

Thranduil likewise preferred the coherent support, even if born of stubborn pride rather than sincere respect, of his lowly subjects to the mutiny so recently suppressed. He did not really care what Celeborn's motives might be, it was plain enough the kinslayer's mate was not prepared to abet the overthrow of Oropher's House. Even Iarwain did not want the Lady of Light overseeing Greenwood's affairs, no matter how much he might wish for Thranduil to vanish. For Radagast, such machinations were a bore, but he merely gave an internal sigh, for thus had Iluvatar designed the First-born, and the wizard would not gainsay his Maker's purpose.

Thus, Thranduil once more had his leadership validated and came just short of gloating over it.

"Then," spoke Celeborn, "this emerging prophet and the condemned archer are one and the same elf?"

"Indeed," spoke Thranduil, noting his visitor's perplexed expression. "The outcast kinslayer has become the peoples' champion. And neither is their opinion unwarranted, for the Tawarwaith has displayed a deep commitment to ridding our homeland of the Darkness that ever looms, while diligently seeking to alleviate the disgrace placed upon his fallen comrades. I allowed old grudges to obscure my comprehension and initially believed Tirno was part of a foreign endeavour to weaken my Kingdom. While it has been proved such was the intent of Imladris, no assistance to such treachery would Legolas lend, and he has come to further harm for his loyalty. I believe his actions today were prompted by loss of reason due to overwhelming sorrow. He has become obsessed with completing the Tasks of Release and will brook no rescinding of the Judgement."

The King blatantly played to his peoples' emotional attachment to their wild, unacknowledged prince, and they fairly loved him for it. This was exactly what they wished to hear, and if he had not yet claimed the Tawarwaith as his offspring, surely it was but a matter of time and the proper moment that delayed the proclamation. The ugly image of Thranduil holding the dripping dagger receded under this new portrayal of contrite and grateful appreciation for their Tirno.

Lindalcon's jaw gaped to hear these words and he was literally struck dumb by the audacity of such speech and the willingness of the population to accept it.

"For my part, I have no wish to further hamper his heroic efforts in Greenwood's defence and would fain ally the unconventional warrior to my Realm. Even more, through the tragedy of Erebor has arisen the delight of my heart: my new-born heir and his sister. A father feels the need to express gratitude, thus was the sentence to be lifted. Yet, all this may become moot, for Legolas has chosen a path that leads only to his certain death."

"The Guardians of the Gates!" a female cried out in misery, and the congregation gasped and moaned, chattering in anxious fragments of speculative terror. Likewise the Galadhrim grew uneasy and shifted in discomfort, whispering together, for the tales told of this King's sorcery were legendary. But among the Greenwood's warriors few believed it likely the unhoused ones could hinder the Tawarwaith, and argued this opinion emphatically.

"Is this true," Celeborn blurted as his eyes grew wide in shock, "the rumour spread far and wide of captured souls that seek to steal the body of any that venture uninvited to your vaults?" Honestly he did not expect Thranduil to freely admit that such was the case.

"It is," spoke Oropher's youngest boldly. What use was there in denying what the outcast's absconded hroa would reveal soon enough? "I have need of their protection, for the concept of the Dark Lord sending some well disguised spy into my homeland has long been a concern of mine. I have not his Ring, but he does not know that. Long has he yearned to learn what I do and do not possess, one way or another." Thus the King justified his use of powers usually reserved for the Maiar and satisfied his peoples' desire to understand his insistence that the vaults should not be searched.

"The ultimate disposition of unhoused feär falls under the auspices of Námo; this is the will of Iluvatar. By what right have you done this thing?" demanded Aiwendil in horrified outrage. Gossip was open to doubt, hearing the Sinda's own voice confirming the tales so tacitly, as though such a procedure was a common means of protecting personal property, demanded censure. 

"By the right of responsibility, both to these lands and its people, by the obligation of lordship and by debts of blood owed unto my House. Eru gave us this Middle-earth and then permitted the Powers to abandon us, never explaining the purpose of our dual halves: imperishable flame cloaked in fragile flesh. Iluvatar has forgotten the folk of the forest and the Valar cower in their palaces amid the perfection of Aman."

The Wood Elves murmured their agreement with this reasoning; no help could they depend on even among elf-kind and to expect the Lords of the West to aid them was unimaginable. For all his flaws, Thranduil had stuck by them when he could have abandoned the forest folk at the end of the Second Age.

"I have taken whatever measures necessary to ensure the safety of this Realm. Do not pretend ignorance of the source of vitality in the elven rings, wizard! My methods may be different but the result is the same, for the identical substance supplies the strength of these various implements. You do not chastise Galadriel or Elrond for manipulating such tokens, why should the Wood Elves be left to suffer the cursed Shadow, exposed and vulnerable? Are the moriquendi so much less dear to Iluvatar's heart than the Noldor?"

"Nay, do not make such bold challenges to the One; all, First-born and Second, Aulë's children and even the voiceless things of the world, all are beloved of Eru. And your supposition is incorrect; the elven rings harness and magnify the Music itself, not individual notes within it," argued Aiwendil.

"And how can that be done? I say to you, no Song can be sung without the single tones combined to form its melodies. You should simply ask Galadriel what is held bound in Nenya's crystal planes; that is if you trust her to be truthful in answer!"

"Daro! I will not hear my beloved defamed and mocked by anyone!" warned Celeborn.

"I beg pardon," said Thranduil, turning to his kinsman with a deep bow. "I meant not to imply the Lady of Light would choose to misspeak, merely that she may feel it best to remain silent, believing that the fewer beings in possession of such knowledge, the better will matters be for all."

"It is so," admitted Celeborn, and bowed in turn. "I hold no grudge against you. As to the nature of the gems; even I do not have insight into this, though I was in Eregion when Celebrimbor wrought them. Nor have I deemed it necessary to press Nenya's Keeper for the information. You believe fallen souls are housed therein?"

"I do, most likely Noldor kinslayers and oathbreakers, for such is the way in binding. A blood debt must be owed. For such, incarceration is generally preferred over facing Námo while their sins are still fresh. If I do not have the right to determine how a debt owed to my House shall be paid, then who does have it? The Valar care not for the sundering of child from parent, brother from brother. It is of no importance to them, the suffering of Eru's children, and they do nothing."

Again the citizens resonated approval for such sentiments. Long had the silvans settled such debts in their own manner without need of consultation with the Powers.

"You are wrong, Thranduil son of Oropher!" claimed Aiwendil. "Furthermore, you have perverted a holy and compassionate liturgy, meant to grant peaceful rest to wandering feär, into a selfish scheme to garner greater control over the hearts and wills of the silvan people. This is a serious error! You dare to place yourself level with the Valar?"

"I do dare it, for if I am lesser than they in substance I am easily their better in devotion to my duty. I am not the one who has deserted these lands and forsaken her people. If Námo is so jealous for these lost souls, let him come and claim them!"

"Such profane speech will needs be answered! In your prideful rationalisations, you have taunted the Vala second only to Manwë! I caution you, Thranduil, to undo this atrocity against nature!" boomed Aiwendil furiously, his grip upon his staff firm as the top end gave off an incandescent glow of crimson heat.

"You do not hold jurisdiction in Greenwood, wizard! If Eru sees everything, then let him be my judge rather than Námo. Still, should the Powers care to chastise me for my beliefs, it shall be easy for them to locate me. I am here, now, and so shall I be until the end of things. Greenwood shall never be defeated nor the Wood Elves neglected to fend for themselves while I still breathe!" 

"And you believe the way to ensure this is to set a sentient shield about your horde?" Radagast asked in dry disapproval. "That is safe while everyday Orcs let silvan blood to nourish the Greenwood's roots and darker grows your forest."

"The wealth of the Woodland Realm is needed for her defence!" Thranduil thundered, face stained a florid scarlet under the implication of personal avarice.

"Peace!" Celeborn cautioned in a voice steeped with the timbre of disappointment over his kinsman's blatant manipulation of forces he failed to respect and appreciate. "I do not wish to discuss the worth of the Keep's contents. I would hear the condition of this outcast warrior. Radagast, would you please go check on his health, and of the two elves who went to his aid?"

The wizard gave a curt nod to Celeborn and a dreadful scowl to Thranduil and turned to go, but before he had taken a step bustling agitation among the soldiers still milling near the interior exits garnered everyone's attention.

"That will not be necessary, Lord," a female voice floated out from this zone and all heads craned to see the healer's re-entry into the Chamber of Starlight. Abruptly she halted and with undisguised disbelief stared at the numerous elves sporting ripped and ruined garments, bruised and bloodied faces, favouring sore arms or ribs, or pressing soaking handkerchiefs over crooked noses to stem flowing nostrils. "By Elbereth, what has happened?"

"Gladdie! Is Legolas well?" implored Lindalcon and hurried to her as she approached.

"Nay, not well, but when has he been thus over these last twenty or so years? Fie, even longer has it been that he has suffered deeply! He will recover from the injury to his shoulder, however."

"And the spirits?" queried Iarwain.

"I know not," the healer shrugged. "They were not there once I entered. I had to secure light and supplies first." But she shuddered over the memory of their hair-lifting presence enveloping her even from the stairway landing above the anteroom.

"What do you mean, 'not there'?" demanded Thranduil in alarm. "They cannot leave without a host to bear them! Where is the outcast?"

"In the Vestibule with Fearfaron," she answered warily. "He is resting, for blood loss was significant. I left them only to secure blankets and reassure Lindalcon of his status."

"Valar! Did you not perceive a change in him?" the King demanded but turned to Celeborn before awaiting the reply. "He is possessed, even as I feared! That is why I set guards over my private apartments."

"He did not appear unusual in any way, to me," declaimed Gladhadithen uncomfortably. In reality, however, she had no idea how to determine the state of a being's soul. Her expertise involved the hroa, not the feä.

"Let us not make assumptions without evidence," remarked Aiwendil. "I can easily determine if he has acquired any unwanted 'guests' and force them out if so."

"I will accompany you," asserted Lindalcon firmly.

"Nay, remain here. I promise to return as soon as I am sure of the matter.  You must handle the other issues," the Istar instructed the chagrined youth.

"Aye, go quickly, mellon," urged Celeborn and Aiwendil hurried after the healer's lead, for he had not been in the bowels of the stronghold before. "Why would these unhoused ghosts seek to harm your family?" the Lord of Lothlorien asked of his kinsman pointedly. "If you are their Keeper, would they not seek to punish you instead?"

"Manwë's Wind! Do not be obtuse!" the King railed, terrified both to have the souls' identities become known and for his elflings to suffer. "I can defend myself against this forest warrior easily enough while my innocent babes are helpless. The spirits have no wish to lose their host but every desire to avenge themselves. What better way than to destroy those I love, for surely this would put an end to my existence also."

"I realise your distress is great, yet I would request your refrain from derogation. I am here out of concern for you and for your people," Celeborn's voice was frosty and brittle.

"Fine, fine; as you say," the monarch brushed the reprimand aside, more concerned over his offspring. "I must go and determine that Talagan is apprised of the situation and has every entry to the apartments well covered." Thranduil did not wait for any acknowledgement and indeed was already striding for the exit as he spoke.

This left Celeborn, Iarwain, Haldir, and Lindalcon alone in the centre of the room amid the uncertain and uneasy populace. Before they had time to do more than raise a low hum of indecipherable conversing, the Lord of the Golden Wood seized the opportunity to increase his knowledge.

"Tell me of Erebor," he asked the young elf gently, "at least, as much as you can."

Instantly the onlookers quieted.

"I know next to nothing and far too much," replied Lindalcon moodily. "I see my father's struggle and his gruesome end, but nothing of Legolas' part in it."

"In reverie you endure this?" Haldir was immediately sympathetic, having experienced similar torments after his parents' deaths.

"Aye. My father's feä wanders and seeks me, tries to impress upon me that the real story has never come to light, emphatically leaves behind the notion that he will never be free of his cursed limbo until the full account is made. I understand Legolas' worry for our siblings, but I feel he is mistaken in how to protect them."

The March Warden opened his mouth to address this statement, for he found Lindalcon's view much as was his, and he had been terribly wrong. Before he could begin, he was cut off by the Eldest.

"True, for no one can rule the fates besides Manwë, and even he is subject to Iluvatar," averred Iarwain sagely. "We gathered this day to hear Maltahondo's testimony of events from Legolas' perspective, high above the battle ground on the isolated ridge. Mayhap we should proceed as planned." The cunning councillor was eager to have a turn at interrogating the corpsman without the Sinda monarch present, convinced all the former guardian had relayed to him earlier was a farce.  

"Aye!" Lindalcon gave a brisk nod to emphasise his concurrence. "Let us have Malthen's speech."

"Agreed, I think most would have this witness testify," Celeborn said, turning to the assembly searchingly. His gaze found the battered soldier though he was scarcely recognisable as the disciplined guardian that shadowed Ningloriel's every move while in Lorien.  "Maltahondo, come forward and relate what you have to add concerning the mistakes made at Erebor."

Every eye turned to seek the corpsman, still huddled dejectedly near the far wall of the cavern, nursing his bruised abdomen and staring blankly upon the visiting Lord through one dark brown orb, the other being sealed shut under purple lids swollen tight due to contusion.  Stilted was his progress as he moved out toward the dais and strange was the deja vu he experienced as the crowd parted to allow his passage. He reached the centralised knot of relevant figures and paused awkwardly.

"Forgive me, Lord Celeborn, but I can make no statement to this Council," the warrior's words were barely audible as he folded down in a painful bow.

"Nonsense! You will speak!" commanded Iarwain.

"Legolas bade me be silent; his wish I shall respect."

"Oh that is rich!" sneered Lindalcon. "Dare you utter the word, considering your acts?"

"Aye, for once do as you should for our Tawarwaith!" shouted an angry silvan archer as he tried to get through the crowd and reach the contemptible elf.

"You are foul! Orcs would not claim you for kin!" a Sinda soldier shrieked, pointing.

"Speak of your treachery, we already know you are behind it!" this from one of Talagan's own lieutenants.

"Silence! Be at peace!" commanded Aiwendil, returning from the Vaults at this juncture. He moved swiftly through the crowd and resumed his place at Lindalcon's side. "Enough violence has transpired here this day. Think on what serves Legolas in this contention and cease at once."

The soldiers grumbled but could not argue that the wizard was right. No wish had they to undo their communal vow to protect the fallen prince from additional humiliation and degradation.

"How fares our Tirno?" demanded a silvan citizen.

"No invasion of his being can I detect; he is in complete command of all his faculties and his hroa. The carpenter is watching over him."

A raucous outpouring of gratified exclamations filled the room as the Woodland folk professed their relief over their champion's disposition.

High above them in the uppermost chambers of the mountain fortress, Thranduil burst into his wife's rooms, short of wind for having run the stairs by twos and threes, frenzied over the low wailing emitted from his tiny son's weary body, for the infant had begun crying anew. The King found his family gathered in the consort's study. There Talagan was seated on the floor before the fire, trying to distract Gwilith with a board game as Meril paced the room, the bawling heir tight against her shoulder.

"What is amiss?" she queried immediately, shocked at Thranduil's dishevelled appearance and bloodied face. Talagan had said nothing about the near overthrow and the apartment was too far above the ground level Council room to allow her to hear what went on within it. More than worry over her mate lit her eyes, for she feared the guards were there to prevent her departure rather than to protect her children from dangerous intruders.

"Ada!" cried Gwilwileth and leaped from the floor to race into her father's outstretched arms. "You are hurt! What happen? Orcs coming here? We going into the black tubes? Where Lindalcon an' Limlas? Tauron not stop crying and I want him to!"

"Nay, sell dithen [little daughter] do not be afraid; no Orcs are coming here. I had a clumsy accident, that is all. It is not so bad, not really; just a bump and a cut, nothing more. Tomorrow both will be healed." Thranduil tried to console his fair princess, gathering her close against his shoulder so he could tuck her copper ringlets under his chin and squeeze her tight. His eyes sought Meril's over their first-born's head. "How is Taurant this day?"

"As you may observe, he is miserable! Indeed, he will not nurse and though he wails, yet he is listless and weak. Whatever is going on in the Council is not to his liking!" the Royal Consort hissed, but her eyes betrayed that the aggravated tone of an affronted heart carried in the words was a sham.

"I believe you are wrong," murmured Thranduil, and a strong pang gripped his heart to see his beloved nearly quaking for terror of what he planned to do to her. _She truly believes I would allow harm to befall her. How little has she appreciated my love to think this possible._ "The Council is setting right the hasty assignment of guilt at Erebor. A charge so grave should never have been decided on the field under the conditions that day. The Judgement will be lifted, but that is not what frightens my son."

"Why is Talagan here?" Meril demanded shrilly and her distress raised her children's anxiety ten-fold. "It has to do with the outcast; I know it! Who will bear the blame for Erebor if not Ningloriel's child? What tales have been told within the starlit chamber below?"

Gwilith's head pivoted between her parents in dread, for never had they spoken to one another with such rancour before, and with a tearful whimper she hid her face against her father's shoulder and wept.

"Hush, hush now, Echuiross!" he consoled the toddler soothingly and gently rubbed her back, shooting his mate a scathing glare of reproof. "All will be well, do not fret! Talagan is here to make sure everyone is safe, that is all. There was a rumour of some malice afoot, but no harm can find you here while my worthy friend guards the rooms."

"Aye, worry not; I will stay and ensure personally that none save you shall enter," asserted Talagan. "What news of Tirno?"

"Aiwendil is trying to determine this as I am here checking that every precaution has been made."

"So, you accept that I was right all along," Meril could not help tossing her head in indignation. "It is his arrival you dread, is it not?"

"Nay," Thranduil stared at her with icy fury. "It would not be him. I am convinced Legolas has no desire to harm his brother and sister. There are others, as you are aware, who would not be so kindly disposed."

At this Meril caught her breath and clutched her babe closer against her breast, eyes and lips wide in amazement. Never had she heard Thranduil speak the outcast's name or claim him so openly. 

"What wrong, Ada?" Gwilith implored, her brother's name spoken in these terms of dissension generating fresh panic. "Limlas come here?"

"Nay, hen lend [sweet child], not this day. Another time, mayhap, for Limlas is resting and the healer has sent Fearfaron to watch over him. He is not feeling well today and got hurt, too." Before he had finished speaking, Taurant suddenly ceased his wretched lament and expelled a whispery sigh prior to lapsing into sleep. Thranduil shared a smile of encouragement with Gwilith and set her down upon her feet again. "You see? Taurant is trying to tell us not to worry. Everything will be fine, sell nîn. [my daughter]" He bent to give her a final hug and kiss before facing his trusted captain. "Remain on guard, mellon brûn [old friend]," the King commanded gravely.

"I will," Talagan replied and held out his hand to Gwilith, guiding her back to their hearth-side game.

Thranduil advanced to Meril and she recoiled a few steps before mastering her dread, resuming respiration when her husband only stooped down to lay a light kiss upon his youngest's crown of fluffy gilded locks.

Thranduil graced his wife with a final mournful glance and left the room. Silence reigned in the deserted corridors and he met only his most loyal guards as he descended to the lower levels. Once within the central hallway leading off from the Council Chamber he was able to discern voices and the topic of the conversation prompted him into a run. The hearing had resumed in his absence.

"That is well," remarked Lindalcon as soon as the volume of speech fell lower. "Yet we must hear the truth finally. I bid you, Maltahondo, to reply to our questions not with the plot agreed upon between the King and yourself under the duress of incarceration and punishment. Answer what is real, what resides in your memory of that day. Please."

The quiet desperation in Lindalcon's voice moved everyone to compassion and several voices bolstered his request.

"Impudent upstart! How dare you impugn my methods of discovering the facts?" growled Thranduil, bursting into the chamber just as the youth's defaming words met the free air of the space. He shoved his way brusquely through the throng to reach the former usurper and once more found Haldir blocking the way.

"Far! [Enough!]" groused Aiwendil and lifted his staff to forestall further argument between the King and his consort's son. "We will cover that charge at some other time."

"We shall do nothing of the sort, for I shall address it now!" Thranduil's eyes flashed with livid wrath over the Istar's presumptive dismissal of Lindalcon's effrontery. "Is this Greenwood or Rhosgobel? Here the will of Oropher and the Council of Elders holds sway, not the Brown Wizard or the White Council. None have leave to over-rule what has been sanctioned under our sovereign laws."

"That may be, yet the Messengers of Aman will not be hindered by any Realm, be it of elves, dwarves, or men," Aiwendil replied staunchly. "This controversy must be untangled, to this you must acquiesce having called for the hearing this day rather than wait for less turbulent times, and lesser grievances must be set aside until it is accomplished. If in my eagerness to advance this cause I have given offence; then I humbly beg pardon."

Thranduil's jaw was set and his glare unrelenting, but he could hardly retort when the Maia's words were accurate and ended in apology. He wished for the completion of the trial, more so than any other present in the room, and so after mulling over the formal words of atonement he gave a slight nod.

"Mayhap you are right," he ventured to say more calmly while simultaneously regarding Maltahondo with open loathing worked upon his noble features. "Lindalcon's opinion is of no consequence, after all. It is more important to be done with this false Judgement. What of Legolas and the unhoused ones?"

"He is not possessed. No indication of them could I find, and he is safe in his foster-father's care. A most extraordinary tale Fearfaron reported, yet that must also be saved for other venues than this."

The King's vision snapped back to the Maia's face upon hearing these words and saw within the piercing remonstrance of those ebony eyes that the wizard understood all. A deep breath he drew to steady his reeling senses, for if the Tawarwaith was not inhabited and the three feär were no longer in the Vestibule, then Legolas must have determined how to free them. Thranduil blinked, stupefied, for while there had been blood aplenty to coat the key, he could not comprehend how the outcast would know the emancipating words.

Celeborn and Haldir exchanged concerned glances over the strange concentration between the two and Celeborn cleared his throat.

"Another feat of valour to add to the Tawarwaith's list of exploits, then, alongside the tale of baiting the Wraiths and the luring of Orcs to their deaths in great fields of pits. Aye, such stories have reached the ears of the Galadhrim," he nodded as murmuring surprise, definitely pleased and proud, whispered through the room. "But Aiwendil is right; let us have that narration another day. For now, let the guardsman make his case."

"Consider your words carefully, Maltahondo," threatened the Sinda Lord, "but speak you must."

As for Malthen, he had not been paying attention to the unspoken conversation between his Lord and the Istar, for he could do naught but stare into the sullen features of his comrade's only son.  He had respected Valtamar and counted him a friend in life. Indeed, Lindalcon was so much the image of his father now that it was impossible not to feel a sharp stab of regret for the horrid end that warrior had courageously faced. A deep compassion for the grieving child left behind, orphaned, fatherless, forced to give up his true calling in exchange for the privilege of his chosen brother's company, filled the disgraced guardsman. He understood that Lindalcon was cognisant of his affair with Legolas and despised him for it, yet despite this the youth had risked injury to extricate Malthen from the violence of the incensed warriors, and likely saved his life.

_Thus is his character consistent with his physical appearance; in all ways he favours Valtamar._ 

The corpsman made his decision, reluctant to disobey his former charge but finding himself in agreement with the councillor's apprentice. Lying about Erebor would grant no guarantee to the youngest siblings' happiness.

"I will tell you what I recall, but I fear it is very minor. I have not the remedy for this puzzle."

Maltahondo took a deep breath and held it a moment, noting how loud was its expiration within the absolutely soundless room. Every ear was attuned to his slightest utterance and all attention documented each nuance of movement and demeanour.

The Wood Elves collectively refrained from suspiration as the seconds swiftly raced away, awaiting at last the resolution of the most terrible event endured among them since the tragedy of the Last Alliance.

"We were concentrating on the canyon floor, watching for any chance to bring down the Goblin King. Legolas was so tense he was shaking, though that may have been rage, for he watched as our troops were being obliterated. Our company was reduced by a third in mere minutes. I think…I believe he wanted to kill those goblin guards, but he did not."

"What prompts such a speculation?" asked Iarwain.

"It is intuition; long have I known Legolas." the guardsman winced as a deriding snort arose from among the soldiers. "Plus, he cursed vilely as he watched the battle, and twice fought the urge to loose his arrow. That much I can attest to without compunction. He truly believes he should have acted, and in failing to do so caused the warriors their lives."

"What do you believe?" queried Celeborn.

"It was not his decision to make," Malthen shook his head. "He was untried in battle before that day, though he fought well enough under the shelter of the trees. He did all that was in his power to do without defying the orders and plans of his commander. Perhaps if I had counselled him, he may have chosen a different course. But I did not. I did nothing."

"That is a lie!" shouted Thranduil. "I charge you under the strain of your oath as a warrior and the blood-debt that binds you to Legolas' service to speak the truth! Admit it! You caused the fall of rocks that struck him just at the moment when victory was at hand!"

"Gwarth! [Betrayer!]" bellowed a silvan swordsman. "I name you Morn-gûreb! [Black-hearted]"

"Aye, confess your wrongs that day, for we know worse about you!" a Sinda spearman concurred and in no time the whole of the Greenwood's troops were clamouring for the banishment of the detestable guardian.

"Peace! Peace!" called Iarwain stridently. "Let the inquiry continue! If he is false he will reveal himself; if he is guilty the Council will punish him."

"Be cautious of whose cause you abet, Elder," Thranduil warned. "This is not an elf worthy of your protection."

"I understand the source of your abhorrence and desire for vengeance," noted the Eldest as he calmly met his liege lord's infuriated expression. "Yet still what happened on the ridge is separate from these other crimes. Only one issue may be resolved at a time if justice would be served."

"Justice!" Now it was Lindalcon who sneered at his mentor in undisguised indignation. "When has this Council ever treated Legolas justly? Nay, we must hear it all not to satisfy some lofty concept which you daily denigrate by plotting and scheming solely for your own benefit. Mention not your interpretation of fairness here! Maltahondo must be allowed to continue in order to dispel the tormented misery of the Lost Warriors, and of Legolas." 

The rumbling hum of the citizens' agreement reinforced Lindalcon's vehement statement and Celeborn raised his hand wordlessly to signal silence. When the assembly hushed, he turned again to the witness.

"How do you plead to your King's charge? Did you cause the failure of Legolas that day?"

"If by that you mean did I wilfully attempt to divert his aim and mar his skill, then nay; of that I am not guilty," the corpsman proclaimed.

"You cannot believe him; his very breath manifests deceit!" claimed a shrill female voice and Ben'waeth stepped out of the crowd and strode to the centre of the conflict. "I will swear here and now that he has defied his oath to Ningloriel and to her son, despite the doom such dishonour bodes! He is wholly devoid of conscience!"

"Be silent!" urged Thranduil, wild-eyed for fear she was prepared to disclose the defilement of the outcast for all to know. Well did he appreciate this elleth's predilection for gossip and nosiness, and her long acquaintance with Meril. And once begun, there was no telling how much her narrative would divulge or whom she might implicate with her loose tongue.

Celeborn's eyes narrowed as he surveyed this exchange, sensing at once that some darker secret lay buried which the King desired to keep hidden, so burdened with dread was Thranduil's manner. A brief scrutiny of the Eldest, Aiwendil, and Lindalcon told the silvan Lord that these three likewise were aghast to have this unforeseen source of information come forward. What more Legolas might have suffered Celeborn could not imagine, for he had already departed the borders of the Golden Wood ere the message from his grandsons arrived at Caras Galadhon.

"I will gladly remain quiet," Ben'waeth snapped back, hands on hips as she glared up at the monarch defiantly, "if you will ask him. Go on! Ask him if he has ever betrayed Ningloriel! Demand his account of how he cared for her child!"

Once more the congregation subsided into tense silence as focus pinpointed the King and this servant of his House.

Thranduil was spared from responding to this challenge, however, for Maltahondo groaned aloud and buried his head in his hands, swaying as though he must collapse upon the floor.

"It is so," the muffled syllables slipped between his fingers. "I was no guardian to either of them. I have deepened the debt owed by my lineage a thousand fold, for I was charged with the care of innocents and betrayed that trust. I do not seek to hide my shame. Willingly I will face whatever punishment my actions warrant, even if that be death."

"Stop trying to minimise your doom by this pretence of contrition! It is far too late in the day for such ploys to work!" Lindalcon balled his hands into fists and had to be restrained by Aiwendil to prevent an attack upon the corpsman. "I yanked you from death by pummelling for one purpose only, and that was to hear your version of Erebor's battle. Now you have turned everyone's mind from that horror and I will not suffer it! I lost my father and I would know why!"

"So be it!" ground out Malthen through clenched jaws, still covering his countenance in mortification for his deeds. Minutes passed by as he attempted to regain composure and continue his elocution. At last he drew a heaving lung's worth and lowered his hands from his tear streaked visage.

"I do accept the fault for the losses at Erebor, for this reason. I was not paying attention to the ridge at our backs, as was my duty. I was charged not only with supplying Legolas' ammunition but with his protection should our position be compromised. In this I most certainly failed, for I did not see the enemy that loosed those rocks."

"Are you saying it was not your hand that initiated the cascade?" Iarwain asked a second time, for the Record.

"Nay, I did not. Yet I was negligent in permitting any foe to get that close and placed the mission in peril. Indeed, my lack of vigilance ruined any chance of Legolas' success, and ultimately resulted in those needless deaths, for I say to you honestly he would never have missed that shot otherwise. Nor could he recover fast enough to repeat the move under the attack that followed."

Thranduil exhaled a relieved sigh, for this would suffice. No one else could dispute Maltahondo's claim, for no other had been present. Meril's name would never be linked to these egregious atrocities and none would hold Legolas accountable for the deaths any longer.

"Hold, I recall that Mithrandir stated no goblins had reached the ridge," said Lindalcon, perplexed.

"What?" Thranduil stared at him, dumbfounded. This was not the source of such argument he would have expected. "A wizard has not the sight of eldar nor was the ridge his principle object of observation. Mithrandir cannot be certain; he may have missed the moment when the vile spawn of Melkor slinked into position, unheeded."

"Indeed?" asked Celeborn and his brow furrowed in confusion as he looked about amid the throng, searching. "Where is Mithrandir? I had assumed he would also be here for he has a way of turning up when crisis foments."

"And so he is," confirmed Aiwendil. "He and Aragorn are watching over Erestor, awaiting his recovery in the Tawarwaith's talan."

"Aragorn! Here?" Celeborn was astonished for the Dunedain's presence had been completely obscured, not only from his perception but from the oracle of Galadriel's mirror as well. More, he was rather shamed for having completely forgot about the seneschal from Imladris in all the excitement of the unsuccessful coup, unhoused feär, and the ensuing hearing.

"What ails Erestor?" demanded Haldir, likewise eager to correct the oversight of failing to learn the advisor's whereabouts. "I am brother to his mate and would know of this at once."

"Really? Of which; I hear he has three," sniped Thranduil derisively, though he knew full well Haldir was the brother of Orophin. He was pleased to see evidence that he had got under the cool March Warden's skin as the Galadhrim warrior turned the unmistakable shade particular to boiled beets and took a step forward to answer the slur, only to have his Lord's arm block his advance. The Sinda monarch ignored Celeborn's admonishing scowl.

"Erestor was subjected to the Enchanted River and this is my doing, though I never intended such a disaster. He lies deep in slumber until the magic wears off. No other harm should result. Except he may not have all his memories intact when he awakes," explained Lindalcon disconsolately.

"My Lord, I would like to go verify this with my own eyes, for Orophin and Dambethnîn are beside themselves in agitation over his fate," pleaded the March Warden.

Gladhadithen, Aiwendil, and Lindalcon simultaneously recoiled in misery to hear these words.

Celeborn noticed and passed an inquiring gaze to the Istar, who sighed and shook his head.

"The seneschal will be fine, Haldir," Radagast said in soul-weary tones. "Mithrandir will send Aragorn to tell us should he rouse before the Council concludes. Be at peace for his welfare; he has not been ill-treated. At least, not more than he deserved."

"What are you implying?" demanded Haldir angrily.

"Daro!" ordered Celeborn. "I trust to Aiwendil in this matter and so shall you. There is nothing hinted; he has said the seneschal earned some of his misfortune and so it may be. Until it is proven false, I accept the wizard's evaluation. There let it rest." 

Chastened but disgruntled, Haldir relented and let the issue drop, sending the Wood Elves' King a smouldering look promising suitable retaliation for the insult to his brother at the first possible moment.

"Another unfortunate tale to relate, but at some other time," droned out Iarwain. "If we might return to the Erebor situation? I feel confident that enough evidence has arisen to cast doubt over the validity of the Judgement pronounced upon Legolas. If there are no objections, I would confer with my fellow Council members that a decision may be announced."

"So noted!" declared Thranduil gleefully, grinning at Fêrlass.

"Nay!" called out Lindalcon. "Nothing has been explained! I have not heard who this enemy is that wrought my Ada's demise. This hearing shall not conclude until that is revealed."

Now once more all fell under the cloak of worried assonance as the raw pain of the warrior's surviving descendant overshadowed the relief to have their champion cleared.

"Lindalcon, the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether the Judgement was warranted, not necessarily to uncover the cause of the rock-fall," Iarwain reminded calmly. "We may yet investigate the possible factors responsible for your father's death, but that is separate from the retraction of the Tawarwaith's conviction."

"There may be no way of learning what you seek, Lindalcon," warned Aiwendil carefully. "If the perpetrator was concealed during his cowardly deeds, how shall anyone testify to his identity?"

"Nor does having this information guarantee that your Adar's feä will find rest," added Haldir softly.

"True," agreed Celeborn, "yet completing the picture often allows the heart to stop reliving the scenes. If we can aid Lindalcon in doing that I am sure none would object to a little more effort. There may be evidence that has escaped notice because it did not appear worthy of mentioning. Oft is it the case that error is the result of something so ordinary that it goes overlooked." He graced Thranduil with a piercing stare, for he was certain the Sinda was holding back, and transferred the same discerning scrutiny to Maltahondo. The corpsman dropped his eyes at once, unable to endure the unspoken accusation.

"Verily, there is something more," Celeborn fumed in vexation and paced across the floor before the dais a few times.

"I tend to agree, Lord, but no others among our folk were there," Iarwain concurred morosely.

"Ah!" Haldir exclaimed, "the humans may have seen what happened." He had suddenly recalled the woodsmen in the courtyard, patiently waiting their chance to speak on Legolas' behalf. As the trial had not seemed to require it, their presence had been neglected.

"Mortals!" Thranduil audibly groaned. "What can they behold that elven eyes could not? This is a pointless waste of time, besides they reside in Laketown and to call them hence would engender a delay of at least five days."

"Not so, for two of those worthy fighters migrated to the woodsmen's settlement in the central forest near the Gladden Fields. They are outside with the rest of my warriors awaiting the opportunity to speak. Even if what the say is not definitive, what harm can come of it?" demanded Celeborn testily. "If there is any chance they witnessed the ill-fated event, it behoves us to hear it. Do you prefer having an un-named enemy dogging your troops and hindering your best archers?"

"Please, I would hear these humans' words," pleaded Lindalcon, turning to Aiwendil to affirm his request.

"Let them enter, Thranduil. No doubt they feel a connection to Legolas, too, for he has been their champion all these long years of his exile. Would you turn away a chance to strengthen ties with those that dwell on the fringes of the forest?" Radagast asked.

"Perhaps it would be wise to allow this additional testimony. If we do not let them make their statements, forever will there be those who claim this trial was biased and justice befouled. What the eldar decree has about it the brand of eternity; let us then take care in what we  propose for the Record of our history." Iarwain offered his thoughts.

"Far! You were not careful when you made the Judgement," hissed Lindalcon. "Why did you care so little for the facts then? Valar! I resign my apprenticeship, for I will not trade my convictions for the false gilding of personal status. Give me a bow and a sword; let me defend those that I love for no greater distinction could I desire."

"Well said, mellon," Haldir gripped the youth's shoulder in support, for he felt a strong affinity with Lindalcon's lot in life. "Yet now let the woodsmen come forward and mayhap some peace shall return to your dreams." 

"Fine! Bring forth your human friends," snapped the King. He was growing increasingly resentful of all the foreign interference in his Realm's affairs. "If this will speed the process and allow the Council to render their decision without qualms, then let it be so." It mattered not; they could not even be aware of Meril's existence.

Solemnly the Men walked through the columned arches of the Chamber of Starlight, preceded by two of the Galadhrim, grimly determined to show forth their worthiness and do right for their peoples' sake and for that of their feral atheling. Heavy on their hearts was the serious nature of the proceedings in which they would take part, and the sense of stepping into a place apart from the rest of Arda, yet strangely central to its well-being, could not be shaken. Daunting it was to stride unwavering amid this host of First-born, a forest of elegant forms, faces fair and bright-eyed but stern, staring upon them in silent evaluation, marking them as they passed.

The woodsmen could not help but note the tattered disarray of recent strife, and strived to keep their astonishment from showing in their eyes. They had no wish to incur the disfavour of this throng of cantankerous Wood Elves by displaying their curiosity and morbid fascination over the troubles in the community. Well aware were they of the cutting words many of the silvans used to disparage them: intruders, usurpers of their lands, or even agents of the Darkness spawned by Dol Guldur. 

Yet never had Tirno spoken thus and instead came to them as a servant to further their cause when truthfully his arrival had been as a saviour amid their most dire extremis. The Tawarwaith's persistent defiance of the evil to the south had granted new vigour to failing hopes and thwarted courage. If one elf alone in the wilds refused to surrender, what Man, aided and supported by his peers, could fail to stand and fight, even did he possess but a fractional measure of Legolas' fortitude? While the Tawarwaith dwelled within the forest and pressed to take it back from Shadow, there remained a chance Mirkwood would someday slough off its shameful appellation and become again a green and giving world for all that called it home.

Now these humans had seen the armies of the elusive woodland folk at Erebor and marvelled then that such graceful physiques of long lines and slender frames could house so fierce and aggressive a fighting force. Likewise they had been impressed by the majesty and might of the Galadhrim battalion with which they had ridden into the Wood Elves' stronghold. Yet those were soldiers, and among warriors accustomed to face death and destruction such mettle was a common trait. Here amid the common folk of the Woodland Realm the Men beheld this identical, understated capacity for lethal force as an ominous, ambiguous alert of the nervous system warned that even the weakest among this multitude could break them utterly should they so wish.

With laudable self control, the woodsmen refrained from reaching for one another's hands.

Soon enough they arrived at the dais and found themselves before some of the most esteemed figures in all of Middle-earth: Radagast the Brown, their ever-present healer and unofficial soothsayer; Celeborn the Wise, a figure relegated to myth and legend of times long past revealed in life to be both honourable and bold; Iarwain, an elf alive since the awakening of all Eru's children who had hunted Orcs with Oromë and feasted on the kill; Thranduil, King of the Wood Elves and master of magic, stealer of souls, brutal, cold, and undefeated in battle.

The Men knelt before these distinguished and imposing people, keeping their vision upon the smooth granite, where they startled to see the unmistakable smear of drying elven blood and their Tirno's own dagger. Warily they traded fearful glances and felt their pulse rates double.

"Arise and be welcome, we are grateful for your desire to participate in the Council of Erebor," intoned Thranduil with majestic but hollow tones so that they knew he did not mean these words.

"Thank you, Lord, for allowing our humble presence here," one Man said just as falsely and earned a grin from Haldir for his defiance.

"I am promised you have some news of the battle?" queried the King, ignoring the March Warden.

"We were both at Erebor for the Battle of the Five Armies, Lord. We have heard that Tirno is under some sanction for his efforts on that day. We wish to state for all our people that he does not deserve such punishment." The second Man spoke out boldly and met the wintry gleam in the piercing cobalt gaze of the King, if only for a minute.

"Yes, we have heard previously from one of your messengers of the gratitude the villagers extend to the condemned archer. Tell what you saw not what you feel; had either of you a view to the ridge where the sniper was positioned?" demanded Thranduil.

"I did," said the first woodsman, fidgeting slightly from foot to foot as his eyes darted to Radagast for support. A nod from the wizard and a benevolent smile encouraged the harried Man and he continued. "I was situated across the valley almost directly level with the Tawarwaith's nook. I saw his movements clearly and can tell you he did not show himself to the soldiers below."

"And how can you claim that? If you beheld him there so might others. Besides, at that distance your vision is not keen enough to be certain of identity."

"Nay," the human was shaking his head vehemently. "I could see him only because I had assistance in doing so for I own a sighting tool common among the Men who sail the sea. With it I could descry every detail of the elf and will swear it was our Tirno I beheld. He was still as the stone and only the flaxen hue of his hair allowed me to spot him, even knowing I should be staring right at him!"

"Indeed? Show me this object," demanded Thranduil. He had a small collection of these made in Ages past by Men of Numenor and was always eager to add another to his catalogue.

The Man reached to his belt and unhooked a long thin tube of battered and tarnished metal, tapered at one end and set with clear crystals at both openings. He extended this to Thranduil.

The Woodland King took it up eagerly, turning it over and inspecting it carefully, deftly opened it to its full extent and tapped the polished, transparent curved, crystal on the larger end. He raised the narrower side of the devise to his right eye and aimed the tube toward the courtyard beyond the open colonnade. With a small grunt of half-contempt he lowered it and slid the inner cylinder back in place, extending the spy-glass back to the human.

"Crudely made and the lenses are both poorly ground and imperfectly aligned, but it will do. I accept that you could indeed make out sufficient detail to identify the archer," he said. "How came your kind to knowledge of its making? You are not of the race of Numenor."

"Nay, Lord," the human bowed his head, hoping to hide the rosy colour that flushed his face. "My folk were but simple fishermen before we wandered north. The making of such things we understood not, but its value to our craft was certain, and such items can be bought."

"Humph! Corsairs, more like," sneered the Sinda King, "and stolen rather than purchased, I would wager."

The Men scowled darkly but made no retort.

"But who told you to look for an elf there?" asked Celeborn, sending his kinsman an exasperated glare. He was determined to have the full account with minimal acrimony. "Surely that was a secret communication among his commander and colleagues."

"Aye, Lord, but the whistled code was not unknown to the ravens, and many were there that day. As for me, I have Aiwendil to thank for understanding some of their calls and screeches. I discerned the sounds they use for 'Wood Elf' and 'archer' and 'half-high'. I strained to see what they meant and could make out nothing until someone moved on the crest just above and then the wind caught Tirno's hair and fanned it like a banner."

"What? Who was on the crest, Goblins? Wargs? Did you see the rock-fall?" Lindalcon shot out his questions with impatient velocity.

"Only elves were on the spur, positioned along every available crevice up and down its sides," answered the second Man. "One took position above Tirno's ledge."

"And unwittingly sent the debris over the edge. I believe he was leaning out trying to get a better view of the action in the canyon," continued the first. "He pulled back quickly, as though the ground was giving way beneath him, and the rocks came pouring down."

The room erupted a spurt of volatile and excited remarks as the citizens and soldiers alike disputed over this unexpected testimony.

"Ai! This is maddening!" cried Lindalcon in despair. "Could you not recognise this warrior, then, if you had that seeing tube? Look among the soldiers and tell me which it was."

"I mean not to distress you, young Lord, but that elf is not here. We checked when first we entered the hall," the second mortal informed him.

"Then he or she met death on the battle plain and the debt was paid that day," said Malthen.

"Nay, that cannot be, for otherwise my father would not remain lost," countered Lindalcon. 

"Tell us what you can by way of description," urged Iarwain, "Was it ellon or elleth?"

"He means was the warrior male or female," translated Radagast amiably.

"Aye; we know enough elvish to comprehend that," groused the first woodsman. "Definitely male, dark haired and fair as are all the Wood Elves, but I think mayhap he was Sindar…"

"Or half-breed," commented the second Man by way of revenge for the King's unnecessary denigration. Instantly his indignation wilted under the wave of bristling outrage this epithet invoked among all the elves present. "That is to say, of combined ancestry," he whispered and fell back to his knees.

"…for he was taller, bulkier, as a swordsman or spearman would be," his comrade continued as if no interruption had occurred, and in their eagerness to have the identity of this miscreant the populace let the insult pass. "Yet he had only a bow and quiver which he did not utilise, thus I thought it was very strange for him to take a position requiring a long range weapon."

"Aye, for after causing the crest to crumble, he did not reappear upon the spur, at least not near at hand. We did not see him again," the apologetic voice of the second concluded.

"Rochendil," said one of the Sinda warriors and Thranduil almost jumped. This was not a name he had expected to hear.

"Aye, that had to be the horsemaster, for everyone else is accounted for and he was left to hide the animals and prevent their destruction. He oft stated only a bow was beneficial in his task and never carried sword or spear," another commented.

"Well the horses were not quartered on the spur," another remarked, "so why was he up there in the first place?"

TBC   



	82. Ben Nestaron [According to the Healer]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

**Ben Nestaron [According to the Healer]**

  
"I was only an elfling when Oropher and his sons led the Sindar into Greenwood, and a mighty force they seemed to me. We did not keep horses under the trees before then and to see these imposing warrior elves, seated tall and proud astride their sturdy chargers, cantering across the Old Ford from out of the Hithaeglir, banners waving from ash-wood shafts of spear and pike, armour gleaming and noble crests upon their bosses, was a heart-stilling sight. The cavalry's thundering hooves threw up a screening spray of sparkling water that dazzled the eye under the noonday sun like beads of silver and crystal tossed into the air!

"It looked as if the ranks were unending, for the host rode four abreast and stretched from the centre of the ford back onto the knees of the mountains, and following behind them came a multitude on foot. The disciplined warriors flanked and guarded the citizens and ox-drawn wagons bearing their provisions and personal goods. Onward forged the van toward the tree-line, a continuous, living column of invincible magnificence.

"Our silvan archers filled the limbs of the beeches just inside the cover of Greenwood's shadowy half-light, for we knew not if they came as enemies or as comrades," spoke Gladhadithen, the tranquil antiphony of her melodious voice returning to envelop the three elves camped before the Vaults on the vestibule floor.

Three trips up and down the dreary staircase she had made, gathering what she could find in the way of comfort for the Tawarwaith under her care, having conferred with Aiwendil and agreed Legolas was in no state to return to the Council and endure the stressful recitation of Malthen's testimony. All trace of blood was gone from the granite, for she had quickly soaked it up and tossed the soiled rags into the scullery's ever-blazing hearth, replacing the crimson splatter with an insulating layer of woollen blankets that separated the wounded elf's body from the cold, unyielding stone. Next the healer had sought out a fur-lined cloak in which to wrap her shivering patient, taking away the torn and ruined tunic to be burned as well.

On her way back through the kitchens, she paused to throw off the gore-sullied brown physician's esgal (cover, apron) traditionally worn over her garments and snatched a fresh blue one from the cook's pantry. A quick scrub of her hands and a swift run of a comb through her tresses returned her to the customary crisp, professional appearance she fastidiously maintained. It would not do for the Realm's principal Nestaron [healer] to go about mussed and mired with evidence of her calling plain for all to see. Before exiting the pantries, Gladhadithen had procured a bottle of strong spirits and hastily compiled an appetising assortment of sweet pastries and nuts. Finally back in the vestibule, she had located the small brazier Thranduil kept in the upper chamber of his treasury and dragged that out into the anteroom.

In mere minutes the resourceful healer had transformed the gloomy, forbidding cave into a cosy, inviting nook; a safe shelter from the harrowing events reordering the wild elf's world in the Chamber of Starlight above. Gladhadithen sat cross-legged before the radiating warmth of the small stove, opposite Fearfaron and her weary charge. She took a small sip from the bottle of lavender alcohol, having forgot cups, and passed it to the carpenter before she continued. No word did she utter of the violent demarche that nearly unseated the Sinda Lord, nor of Celeborn's unprecedented arrival did she speak. The affairs of state and the Erebor debate she ignored, instead embarking upon a reminiscence of her young years, for Fearfaron had relayed to her the true nature of the terrifying spirits even as he informed the wizard. If it surprised her that Legolas had secured their freedom, she did not give sign of it.

"We were aware of the incursion two days before the Sindar reached our trees, for border guards spotted them the instant they emerged from the mountain pass and sent word back to Iarwain. I was but 40 years of age then, and certainly no elfling should have gone along with our archers to watch from the eaves at the valley's verge. But, I was a curious one, and already learning the ways of herb-lore and the workings of the hroa. With the sense of personal responsibility only a child can muster, I believed my assistance was invaluable even though I could hardly do more than brew a soothing tea or crush the ingredients for my mentor's medicinal concoctions. If there was a chance a healer's hands might be required, I did not want to let any suffering linger when my presence might allay it.

"Not one to beckon trouble, however, I made sure none of the adults learned of my proximity to the momentous events! I climbed all the way to the top of the canopy and watched the soldiers approach, in one part hoping they would turn and head south following the course of Anduin toward Lothlorien, the other half longing for a closer look at these foreign, exotic First-born. For all I knew, they could have been Calaquendi returned from Aman."

Legolas was sprawled against his foster-father's sturdy chest, snugly ensconced between the lanky ellon's long legs and clasped close within the encircling comfort of the carpenter's arms. Limp and drowsy, head tilted back in repose upon Fearfaron's shoulder, he peered at Gladhadithen from under down-dropped lashes, faintly smiling as she slowly drew him into her vision of the Greenwood as once it had been. The sonorous pitch of her gentle words filled the room with the familiar cadence bound within the structure of all grand tales, whether told by elves, Men, dwarves, or even Hobbits. Willingly he succumbed to her enchanting spell of recollection and followed the winding turn of her thoughts back into a time before his existence was merely a dream among the trees.

Fearfaron took a swallow of the potent liquid and held the vessel to Legolas' lips, tipping it enough to give him just a taste. He understood that the healer hoped the drink would grant his adopted son some relief from pain and warm his thinned blood, but did not wish him to lapse into unconsciousness so soon after the emergency was past. Indeed, the talan builder could still feel the trembling that ran through his son's depleted body despite being swaddled in an exquisite cloak of black, velvety panther pelts that had not seen service since Oropher's death. He wondered where Gladhadithen had found the article as he absently caressed Legolas' uninjured arm.

"Oropher rode a dun-coloured mare with mane and tail of inky strands so lengthy the fringe of hair on her neck, even braided with ornaments of mithril that tinkled like bells in a breeze, fell longer than its breadth while behind her the ground-sweeping plume soon became soaked as she paced through the ford. Her muzzle and ears were also dark and each leg looked as if she had stepped knee-deep into tar. Her forelock shone with coloured jewels and was also plaited, for otherwise I believe her vision would have been occluded so thick was the thatch of coarse tendrils between her ears. I imagined she must surely be the mate of Nahar, for her gait was proud as well as swift and the boldness of her heart fairly blazed from the liquid depths of her chestnut orbs. I heard the Sinda Lord call her Emmelin [Yellow Bird].

"Now your Miny'adar [grandfather] was no less impressive, and truly I thought he was Eldar, an emissary from Oromë come back to learn how the Danwaith fared, bringing wisdom and strength to ease our tribulations. Never had I seen an elf this tall and broad, for such were the Sindar then, even as are the remaining elders from those days, though the stature of later generations has lessened in the mingling of our peoples."

Legolas' heart leaped to hear Gladhadithen speak thus, as if it was the most natural thing for him to have such ties of kinship and the right to feel justified pride over so esteemed an ancestor, yet it was only when the words found life through her voice that the full measure of this new reality settled within his comprehension. For so long the shame of not knowing the fundamental relationships bestowed through his father's lineage had tainted his existence and darkened perception of his place in Arda. He found he was breathless with amazement. Oropher, beloved of the Silvan and Sindar alike for his devotion to Tawar and his staunch sense of duty, who had salvaged the people of Neldoreth from the destruction of Beleriand, sought to re-unify the sundered brethren of the Teleri, and boldly challenged the evil of Sauron at the Last Alliance, was his Miny'adar [grandfather].

"He wore no helm and his hair was the colour of golden pinewood just beneath its hide of knobby bark. Three thin braids tamed the flowing locks at his temples and two thick four-part twists gathered the filaments behind him, for he was an archer and would not have the distraction of wind-blown strands hampering his vision or tangling in the bowstring. His weapon was in his fist rather than stored upon his back and the quiver of arrows across his shoulders was but half filled as though he rode from battle. It was so; we later learned there had been trouble in the mountains and some of his folk had perished there.

"Travel worn and stained from the skirmish his raiment was, no doubt, but it was clear the manufacture was of finely woven silk and rare furs from game never seen east of Hithaeglir. Indeed, he was wearing this very cape that warms you now! A long sword was belted at his hip; its scabbard dotted with white and green gems while the hilt of it was capped with an expertly faceted, translucent tourmaline. High boots reached over his knees and a fine shirt of gilded chain overlaid a sturdy jerkin of hard, tooled leather, protecting his vital organs. No gloves burdened his fingers' deadly gift but his vambraces were wrought to match the body's armour. Now this archer with such noble bearing sported the colours of the Danwaith, breeches in nutmeg and tunic of jade, and this amazed us all for it was as if he belonged to us, somehow, before we even knew his name.

"At his right rode Tramborlong [Heavy Fist] and on the left were Thurin'aur [Hidden Flame] and Thranduil, so obviously his sons for the resemblance was keen. Upon the eastern bank of Anduin, the four alit and disbanded, each attending a portion of the multitude, organising a bivouac upon the meadow-lands. Under their efficient command and with laudable co-operation, the Sindar soon established a neat and tidy array of pavilions, all perfectly aligned in rows as straight as an arrow's shaft, and each group of tents had a cheerful fire blazing. Just at tinnu, Oropher and his sons mounted up once more and turned to the trees."

Gladhadithen ceased and reached out for another sample of the sharply biting liquor, smiling through merry eyes when Legolas frowned over the lengthening interval of the interruption.

"Ai, do not stop! What happened?" he demanded.

"This you know," she shrugged one shoulder coquettishly. "Iarwain welcomed the Sindar Teleri back among the Wood Elves."

"Nay, that cannot be all to the story," Legolas complained. "Was there trouble at all? Were you spotted amid the branches? Did you meet Oropher and his sons? What was he like, Miny'adaren? [my Grandfather]" And Legolas smiled shyly upon possessively pronouncing this word for the very first time.

By now Gladdie was chuckling warmly, for she was quite pleased to have distracted the Tawarwaith from his dire fate, even if only for a short while, as he delighted in hearing his family's history told to him. She spared the carpenter a happy grin as he gently squeezed his foster son in joyous commiseration.

"Aye, there is more. Patience, Tirno!" she admonished. "Fearfaron, I do not think Legolas has eaten even a single bite from that basket, has he?"

"You are right, as usual, Gladhadithen." The carpenter smiled as he shook his head, seeing where she was heading with this question. "In fact, it is past midday and neither of us have taken a meal since yesterday."

"Oh Valar, will you coerce me by promising more narration only if I agree to swallow down a tart?" fussed the Tawarwaith. 

"Nor have I," she commented, ignoring Legolas' outburst. "I really must insist that we break fast now, especially you, Legolas. How about a blueberry scone?"

High above them through nearly thirty metres of igneous intrusions and four levels of delved and excavated caverns and corridors, the elves crowded into the Chamber of Starlight gave no thought to hunger or thirst, for the events at Erebor had taken an unexpected detour. The implication of Rochendil in the expert sniper's failure had the room's occupants embroiled anew in raw emotion and discontented argument.

"Nay, it could not be so, for his Hervess [wife] was killed in the aftermath of the rocks' damaging rain," said Iarwain incredulously.

"Mayhap he did not mean for it to happen; it was all a terrible accident," a silvan female offered.

"Still, he was not given orders to desert the horses and those were no where near the battle," countered a Sinda lieutenant. "All the animals were hidden away amid the rubble between the western spurs beneath Thorin's Back Door. There was once a secluded cove in the mountainside there, ruined by Smaug, but in this case his destruction was a boon for us, limiting approaching enemies from both the south and north. Rochendil had no reason to leave his post."

"Aye, whether it was unintentional or not is meaningless, for his presence on the crest was the cause of the Tawarwaith's failure. The horse-master was the guilty one and should have accepted his fate," a silvan archer posited.

"True, we demanded no less from Tirno and he was then Greenwood's heir."

"Valar! Rochendil destroyed his own mate!"

"And Adaren [my father], then allowed Legolas to take the blame! He even tortured him for it and yet that traitor incurred no punishment! I cannot abide this!" Lindalcon could not contain his agitation and paced distractedly back and forth in front of the dais.

"Not so, for we banished him to Valinor for his evil perversion of Chastisement. I am certain his sentence is fitting," reminded Iarwain.

"Indeed, I would not spare too much grief over his absence here today," affirmed Aiwendil. "The Will of the Valar is remorseless and all but eternal. Whatever penalty Námo deems correct, I doubt Rochendil is likely to find peace for many andrann [100 Valian Years, each equal to 137 solar years.]."

"I do not believe it! If he is under censure in Aman, why is my Adar still trapped here? Nay, there is something amiss!" cried Valtamar's son as he came to a halt before the wizard.

At this the crowd increased their grumbling for it was impossible to hide how unsatisfying Aiwendil's assurance of justice was to their minds.

"Who can say what the Valar would consider an appropriate sentence?"

"And Lindalcon's point cannot be ignored; what of the Lost Warriors?"

"Aye, and how could the Valar allow the dreadful suffering and abuse perpetrated on Legolas, innocent of any wrong in the deaths of his comrades?"

"Nay!" rebuked Aiwendil. "It is not the Powers who have ratified these abhorrent Customs and Laws among you! You cannot have it both ways, saying the Valar ignore the Wood Elves and refuse to act while also impugning them in the deeds done within the gates of this city! The harm inflicted upon Legolas was wrought by the hands of his own people."

The population's discourse subsided as the impact of these words settled in their collective conscience. The Wood Elves had shown little concern for their talented sniper's misdirected destiny until it benefited them to have a brave and stalwart champion committed to their defence, and none could deny this truth.

"This is a dark day for Greenwood." An anonymous voice uttered this summation of the public consensus.

Silent and sombre the Lord of the Golden Wood and his March Warden listened to this depressing discussion, sharing their growing chagrin in furtive glimpses between equally concerned grey orbs, for they were fully informed on the details of Rochendil's part in Legolas' sentence. Galadriel's interrogation of the Mirkwood miscreants had yielded this name as belonging to the principle tormentor of the fallen archer over the long years of his banishment. Their news would not be greeted with benevolent tolerance. So grave was their demeanour that they failed to note the anxiously morose expression colouring the King's contused features.

Thranduil held his tongue and scarcely breathed as his gaze wandered from marking the various speakers to resting with disquieting intensity upon Ben'waeth. The last thing he wanted was for her to join this troubling exchange of ideas and opinions. Too well he recalled Meril's bosom friendship with this inu and a startling thought had presented itself. The apprehensive father worried whether Ben'waeth might be privy to the connection between Rochendil, his wife, and Erebor. That he had not pursued this line of inquiry before attested to the disordered distraction of his thoughts raised by his emerging grief over Meril's lack of faith in their love. Thranduil's compelling concentration caused the stronghold servant to fidget and he relaxed slightly when she eventually retreated behind a knot of quarrelling warriors. 

"Hold, can you be certain this elf is truly Rochendil? The Man's description is not very detailed and many a warrior is forced to drop sword and spear in favour of knives when fighting becomes eye-to-eye," cautioned Celeborn, for he was hoping the ellon's identity might yet be mistaken. "Could there not be another elf of the woods given this agnomen?"

"Nay, he is the only one. It is not a common appellation among the Danwaith," stated a silvan archer. "From the Sindar's arrival in the forest until his banishment, no other served as caretaker of the chargers." 

"And though to you folk my years seem short and my vision poor, yet never have I seen a swordsman stop in the heat of battle and unbuckle his belt and scabbard, discarding them without thought," retorted the human, "and I am thinking none of you have either! This elf had neither girdle nor sword, he was not with any of the troops, and he fled when the deed was done."

"Aye, that was Rochendil, for he was never eager to be in the front lines," a warrior scoffed.

"As to looks, he is Sindarin and of Thranduil's height, hair the colour of oak bark and eyes to match placed close together and deep-set. His face is long and lean, with a straight nose and full lips. Seldom does he smile and he is often short of patience with edhel, holding devotion only for the horses," added a swordsman from Talagan's old company.

"I still cannot fathom what purpose prompted his desertion of his duty," grumbled Iarwain, for he knew not the connection between the Royal Consort and the humble soldier. This was not the sort of warrior he had envisioned would be allied to the suspect inu. "How do we truly know it was he with only these insubstantial suppositions? Many elves meet this description. How is it none of our own noted his presence on the ridge?"

"We were not standing around taking attendance, Elder!" snapped Thranduil. "We were fighting for our lives."

"Excuse me, my Lord, but someone did notice he was not with the horses," a subdued feminine voice spoke from amid the silvan soldiers and all in proximity to the sound stepped aside to reveal the source. It was Ben'waeth.

"This is not the place for idle story-weaving." The King clenched his hands into belligerent fists as she hesitantly shuffled forward. "You were not there and I will not permit you to speak for another. If there is anyone in this room who did observe the horse-master's actions, I charge that elf to reveal him- or herself now!"

For a lengthy span of seconds not a breath stirred or a nerve quivered; all remained frozen in anticipation of additional revelations, but no one ventured from the cover of anonymity to answer Thranduil's mandate. Finally, the tension subsided and an uneasy, low decibel susurration again flowed upon the ambient air.

But Iarwain held the lowly elleth's eyes and pondered her sudden interruption. Although she presented elevated distress, he could not fail to sense her determination, for she did not turn from his inspection; rather her doe-brown eyes fairly implored him to understand. _Clearly, no elf with this knowledge is in the chamber, but that does not signify no such person exists. _The counsellor searched the room as if taking a mental tally of the soldiers present, and in a jarring flash he comprehended whom Ben'waeth sought to implicate.

"My Lord, not all the warriors who fought at Erebor are here. Now that Aiwendil has ensured there is no threat of a possessed elf harming your children, please send for Talagan."

If the stone of the mountain might be described as a still, unmoving mass of unfeeling matter, the living beings crammed inside its hollowed core projected a fitting impression of being comprised of the self same stuff in that moment. Everyone's perception fixed upon the King, awaiting his reaction to this subpoena of his life-long friend. That this was an unimagined occurrence was plain for all to see in the blank gaze of confused denial plastered upon the Sinda Lord's stern countenance.

Thranduil recovered his shock with admirably swift fortitude, giving the briefest signal with his hand for the captain's second in command to fetch his superior. His eyes found Celeborn's and transmitted the heavy leaden dread the Counsellor's request cast upon his heart. Talagan was to the King as a brother, regardless of his hot-headed nature, the last alive in all of Arda who had been at Thranduil's side through the tragedies that claimed every member of his immediate family. To surrender the captain to the harshness of the Council's Judgement would be another rending torment upon a soul already scarred by overwhelming loss.

The wait was interminable but at last the warrior returned, downcast in embarrassed defeat for Talagan had refused to follow, holding to his Lord's command to safeguard the prince an princess until Thranduil rescinded the duty. The King had to go retrieve the captain himself and, upon his departure, loud was the clamour of speculative discourse over the re-calling of this primary witness. It was Talagan, after all, who had condemned Legolas on the spot and reported his failure to Thranduil.

A lesser delay preceded the re-entry of the two Sindar fighters, pacing briskly into the chamber from the interior corridor, the King leading with stoic gravity moulding his visage while the captain, disconcerted wariness revealed within his candidly bewildered expression, followed. Their arrival initiated the total abatement of further voiced conjectures amid the populace.

"He is here, Iarwain," Thranduil said coldly, "now ask your questions and be done with this hearing."

"Truly, I welcome your queries, Elder; I am not seeking to obscure my faults." Talagan spoke quietly but with sufficient distinction to make certain his words would be audible to everyone. "Already have I stated, in this room and before the assembly of our people, that I hold myself responsible for the errors committed by the elves under my command at the Battle of Erebor. If it is the Council's wish to render Judgement; I am prepared to accept this sentence."

"We are not here to impeach you, captain," Iarwain began.

"And why not?" demanded Lindalcon hotly. "Is it only silvans of lesser rank that must abide by the Laws of the Danwaith? I say if this Sinda acted in collusion with his traitorous countryman then he must bear the same punishment imposed upon Legolas!"

"Aye! Someone must reconcile the life-debt!" This resounding shout fuelled a heated bloom of irate interjections.

"Banish him!"

"Nay, upon his shoulders lay the yolk of completing the Tasks of Release!"

"Imprison him in darkness!"

"Give him Tirno's dagger!"

Despite his courageous statement, Talagan's gut churned and his soul quailed to hear this list of punishments, for among them one he must endure. Still, he held himself with dignity, determined to obey his heart's demand to rectify the injustice his rash reactions inflicted upon the outcast archer.

"Dîn! Sith! [Silence! Peace!]" called Celeborn and raised his hand as his daunting glare swept the room and chastened the surly mob.

With many a scathing glower upon the King's trusted compatriot, the Wood Elves subsided into querulous grumbling.

"Hannaden [My thanks], Lord Celeborn," Iarwain bowed politely. "I wish to put before you but one more question, Talagan. Do you recall if Rochendil remained at his post among the horses or whether he may have joined the forces defending the southern spur?"

"The horse-master?" blurted the warrior, quite surprised for this to be the matter that had wrought the realignment of Thranduil's features into such severe and harsh lines. Talagan's brow wrinkled as he thought back over the events of the day. "Aye, Rochendil did enter the fray; a most unusual event. Somehow he must have heard the whistled command to organise a decoy for the goblin guards, for I did see him running along the crest toward the valley. I believe he was trying to get to Andamaitë and prevent her participation. He was too late. What does this signify?" The captain shifted his sight between the King, the Elder, and the visiting Lord in perplexity.

With a groan of bitter frustration Lindalcon cast himself down upon the stone step of the dais and bowed his head to his knees, hands entwined within his chestnut mane pressed against his temples. Aiwendil joined him and sat alongside, wrapping one arm over the young elf's shoulders, as Haldir spontaneously moved to Lindalcon's left and supplied a steadying grip upon the silvan's rigid shoulder.

The Wood Elves could not find their tongues, uncertain whether this admission should be received with gladness or disappointment. It was evident the Sinda warrior had no idea of the importance of his speech, thus no claim of conspiracy, either in action or dubious omission of pertinent details, could be sustained. The captain's responsibility did not extend beyond that which he had already confessed. The peoples' dissatisfaction was as deep as that of Valtamar's son for, while the troops benefited from Talagan's millennia of experience and his loss would be nigh impossible to fill, now there was no one at hand upon whom to foist their guilty wrath.

Thranduil and the Elder exhaled equally expressive breaths, one in relief and the other in irritation. Their eyes joined for a brief but intense exchange of flinty loathing.

Lothlorien's Lord grimaced as he absorbed all of this and gave a minute nod to Haldir. Both sighed dejectedly. The time was come; the enlightenment that had drawn the Galadhrim from the safe seclusion of Lothlorien must be revealed.

"Based on this report of Rochendil's appearance and actions, I am aggrieved to confirm that we sheltered an emigrant from Mirkwood who bore such a name," said Haldir quietly. "Undoubtedly, it was this very elf." 

"What?" shouted Lindalcon, head uplifting to gape at the March Warden with features as bleak as a cloud-blanketed sky of dingy grey. "Rochendil dwells in Lorien?"

The chamber once more resounded with noisy acrimony as everyone began shouting for the foul elf to be extradited forthwith.

"No longer," Celeborn held up his hand for silence. "Rochendil departed Lothlorien before our party rode forth. Eleven refugees entered the Golden Wood seven years ago and asked for citizenship."

"How came the Lord and Lady to grant this?" interrupted Thranduil. "Was no effort made to learn what drove them from their home?"

The King could barely contain his horror, equal to Lindalcon's affronted astonishment, and hoped his accusing words might distract the crowd from their thirst for vengeance. For now this spectre of disaster arose anew and the vision of his House destroyed returned; Rochendil in custody would present a potent and substantial threat to the well-being of his children. He had no doubt the horse-master would gladly implicate Meril if he were to be returned to Greenwood and charged with these misdeeds, hoping to draw attention from himself or lessen his sentence by doing so.

_Or even just out of spiteful nature, refusing to suffer alone. This elf is an abomination among Eru's Children, securing his pleasure from another's agony. Such a one would care nothing for the consequences that would befall Taurant and Gwillith if he names their Naneth an accomplice in this heinous crime._

"All were warriors and gave as reason for their relocation dissatisfaction over losses in the Battle of Erebor. We had no reason to suspect they would be involved in any injurious activity and welcomed the addition of seasoned fighters to our ranks," Haldir shot back, eager to defend the elves' presence in his homeland, for it had been his recommendation that yielded the Lord and Lady's sanction. The unwitting part he had played in this ugly mess was unsettling to his soul.

"Indeed, the folk of Lorien are certainly trusting of strangers. Never would such be allowed in my Realm, for too easily might spies infiltrate the ranks of my troops by such means," commented Thranduil. "Your oversight gave shelter to a convicted oath-breaker and his cohorts."

"And deeply do we regret this," Celeborn interceded, denying Haldir the opportunity for rebuttal, "assuming this is the same elf. Galadriel was warned of the soldiers' vile practices upon one of their own through the Mirror and under subsequent questioning the truth was revealed. However, Rochendil had already fled rather than face Hervessen's [my Wife's] soul combing."

"By Elbereth, we must hunt him down and force him to answer for these atrocities!" fumed Lindalcon. He arose and approached Thranduil. "I insist we send out word to the other elven realms of his treachery and even to Rohan and the settlements throughout Eriador. Let this coward not escape to find a haven among the Noldor or the mortals."

"It is not necessary to broadcast our tribulations among the entirety of the free peoples on Arda," countered the King. "He will not go to Imladris nor look for aid among humans or dwarves. Rochendil will be travelling to Mithlond."

"Aye, that is likely. Yet he knows we are aware of his sins and probably expects you to send notice to Círdan. He may thus be forced to seek shelter amid Men. Would the woodsmen be willing to aid this elf? Do the rest of your people understand who he is?" asked Aiwendil of the human with the spyglass.

"We have not the gift of reading hearts as is known among the First-born, yet I have heard here that even this talent is not unfailing. How then shall my folk determine this cunning liar's true nature when he evaded discovery among the wise?" he said.

"I think he might be on his way to Laketown or Dale. The people there will welcome one of the veterans from the Battle of the Five Armies. If he is skilled with horses, he will have no trouble earning his keep among King Bard's cavalry," said the second woodsman.

"My Lord, I suggest we draft a writ of detention and send this to both Mithlond and Dale," said Iarwain. "We can send two small contingents of warriors to search for and return him to the stronghold. If this is the elf guilty of Erebor's tragedy, then he has compounded his crimes by shifting culpability to another and participating in Chastisement. Such a depraved element among us is most disturbing!"

"Agreed, see to it, Counsellor," Thranduil concurred. He had his own ideas concerning the miscreant's fate and was sure the silvan soldiers chosen for this mission would not need too much encouragement to force Rochendil to take his own life, especially if they tracked him to Erebor. There had their comrades fallen and within the system of Nandorin lore, the battle ground yet craved a final watering with immortal essence. "And I believe that we have established both that Legolas was not responsible for his errors in battle and granted Lindalcon knowledge of the culprit's identity. Will this now suffice to conclude the hearing and lift the sentence against the archer?"

"Most definitely," averred Iarwain with a slight bow to his King and a meeting of eyes with his fellow counsellors. "No conference is required; we find the Judgement of Erebor to be false. Let the Record of our history show that all fault is removed from Legolas; the banishment is lifted and he is hecilo no more."

"So noted," added Fêrlass and thus was the ponderous responsibility for the Lost Warriors' Release lifted from the Tawarwaith.

A subdued jubilation swirled through the crowd, for while all were pleased to have their champion returned to full citizenship among them, the victory was tainted by the weight of the evils the wild elf had endured over the years of exile, none of it earned. The knowledge that the real perpetrator had not only escaped reprisal but enacted those very torments upon the misjudged archer galled. The Wood Elves' Laws had failed them, their faith had proved fickle, the King's boon companion and most trusted captain had eagerly laid the blame on an innocent, the elders had not even tried to pierce the fog of misconception obscuring the truth, and too quickly had the populace accepted the rendition of facts expounded by their leaders.

Ample was the volume of accountability for Legolas' misery and nearly everyone shared in the guilt for having promoted it.

TBC

Odd words, seldom seen?  
agnomen: a name that also describes some characteristic of the individual.  
antiphony: chanting or singing in two parts such that one voice (or choir) is answered by its counterpart (in this case Gladdie's echo).  
contused: bruised  


  
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	83. Coll o Gweth [Mantle of Maturity - Coming of Age]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

**Coll o Gweth [Mantle of Maturity - Coming of Age]**

  
_It must have been a fabulous feast worthy of the fétes thrown by Turgon for his beloved daughter Idril's Begetting Day anniversaries. Parties in her honour lasted at least pae eraid [ten days]. Life in Gondolin certainly became gloriously inebriating once I achieved Coll o Gweth._

These disjointed thoughts rambled around between the shattering concussions pulsing through Erestor's skull with each and every beat of his strong Noldorin heart. The last time he had known this level of discomfort had been following a skirmish with Orcs along the West Road through Eriador in the middle Second Age during the battles against the Witch King. The seneschal had not seen stars when his head had connected solidly with a stout club of petrified wood; the explosion of luminous fire was rather more as he imagined the Lost Silmaril looked when Maedhros cast it and himself into a chasm cut by a molten river of bedrock.

The weapon that felled the advisor, wielded by a particularly robust specimen of Melkor's engineered ghouls, had knocked him unconscious for nearly an entire day. But for the elegantly sturdy helmet, its metal body engraved and inlaid with mithril and gold in patterns both beauteous and dreadful, the seneschal would surely have perished. Only upon regaining his senses had he fully appreciated the degree of misery such an injury could cause.  

That was not a pleasant memory at all; thus, Erestor floundered through the pain stabbing his mind for alternative analogies until he recalled the rowdy gatherings hosted by the King of the City of Singing Stone. The symptoms were an excellent match: addled mental meanderings, every limb concurrently numb and weightier than the small yet massive black troll trapped inside his cranium, pounding against the bone in order to force a way out. And his eyes were closed; a sure sign he had either been wounded or consumed copious amounts of stimulants and intoxicants of various unidentifiable composition, both in liquid and sublimated states.

He did not really think he had recently been involved in battle and detected no other indications of serious injury. The agony coursing through his temples was thus more likely to be the result of unwisely combining a variety of dangerously potent chemicals to produce unforeseen heights of artificial euphoria and sexual prowess.

_Not that I ever needed any enhancement to my inestimable endurance and stamina, even at that tender age, but ten days is a rather long time to stay up._

A giggly snort squeaked out through the advisor's nostrils and was followed by a low, grating groan of excruciation as his head throbbed in protest to this unnecessarily abrupt expulsion of hilarity. Every flaring nerve in the space between his ears attested to the high probability that his inflamed brain must surely be ricochetting off the interior walls of its calcified confinement. 

_At least I hope it was a celebration. Various brands of Orcish poison have been know to produce just this level of unbearable affliction, without the preceding enjoyment of liberal excess. Am I still immune to Mordorian Asp Venom 29c? That is a particularly nasty one._

The noble advisor to Elrond's Council of Governance tried to make his thinking process less bright and jarringly noisy, for it was hurtful enough merely breathing and the effort to formulate coherent ideas was making the labour far more agonising. Had he been seated next to Celebrimbor's anvil as the Noldo hammered elvish steel the ringing sensation vibrating through his ear drums could not have been more horrifically intense.

A strangely humming echo reminiscent of the combined grunting and snuffling of a herd of swine rooting for truffles buffeted betwixt Erestor's irregular observations. He actually imagined he was staring past the pudgy snout of one grey-bristled boar into its close-set, front-facing, beady black eyes.

"Erestor!" the pig mouthed, its minute mesmerising orbs opening wide as its forehead wrinkled up, and then the distorted, high-pitched decibels of the word followed, insanely out of synchrony, and again the advisor sneezed out a laugh. The hog frowned and snorted a threatening grunt at this affront.

The seneschal slammed his eyelids down, only in that second understanding he had dared try to open them, but this sent his scrambled cognitive activities reeling as his heart lurched in irregular distress, for swine were not given to speech as far as he was aware. A whimpery wail of pain and fear, possibly a prayer for a more merciful demise than being devoured by sentient warthogs, dribbled from his gaping lips. Erestor gripped his head with either hand and curled up into a foetal ball as he attempted to turn away from the bizarre oinking and squealing that rose in an unbearable crescendo all around him.

The discordant ruckus only became worse, however, and he distinctly felt a cloven hoof prod him in the back as one repugnant rostrum worried his shoulder brusquely.

"Nay!" he shouted and thrashed out, satisfied when his altered hearing recorded a guttural gripe from one of the beasts and a surly snarl from the other. "Go eat grubs!"

For a moment all was quiet and he hoped the hogs were gone, but then a brash whoop of laughter sent his poor brain into an uproar of jagged flaming spiky anguish. The pigs were laughing at him. Erestor whined out a pleading entreaty for quiet and peace and rocked back and forth in place. It was at that moment he discovered he was in a very soft, plush bed of sorts, naked, covered over with a richly woven wool cover. He sought to burrow down into the fluffy comfort as far from the predatory swine as possible. The seneschal's next (semi)coherent thought was that hogs were not normally kept in domestic lodging. 

"Ai Elbereth! Erestor, awaken, old friend, this is really too much! You just kicked Mithrandir in the stomach and he is probably considering whether or not to turn you into a grub," these normal sounding words flowed out into the air behind the diminishing peals of echoing gaiety and again a slight pressure landed on the advisor's shoulder. "What say you, will you open your eyes?"

This voice was familiar and definitely belonged to no four-legged barn animal nor any wild boar. The importance of that spoken name was certainly right on the edge of his comprehension. Erestor struggled to make his mind obey him but was finding it hard to get past the idea of the surrounding swine and their sharp, paired tusks.  Some hideous amalgamation of warthog, human, and Orc bloodlines, mayhap.  Yet such a creature could not possibly speak Sindarin. This notion perked up his spirits mightily. 

"Open your eyes, son of Dammand!" a new voice commanded in deep majestic tones that allowed no obstinate refusal.

Cautiously Erestor's lids creeped up almost against his will until he had produced a narrow gap slightly wider than a boar-bristle's breadth to peer through. Two fuzzy figures were seated near him, hunched forward expectantly, awaiting his next move. Gradually his vision became more focused and the seneschal realised with great relief that he was staring at Aragorn and Mithrandir.

"Estel, Gandalf, please do not shout," he whispered through gritted teeth. The sighs of relief which left his companions' throats sounded more like a whistling north wind to his over-sensitised ears and Erestor winced.

"Good! You know us; that is something," said Mithrandir very softly.

"Of course I know you! Valar! The pounding is unceasing! Was I poisoned?"

"Aye, indeed you were," averred Aragorn seriously. "You told us to get out and eat grubs just moments ago, but even that was preferable to the lifeless stupor in which you have lain all these many hours. Do you recognise this place, Erestor?"

"I thought you were a herd of swine." The seneschal endeavoured to lever his head off the mattress in order to look about but this only served to make the discomfort far greater. With a groan he gave up, shut his eyes tightly, and dragged one sluggish arm across his face for good measure.

"It is too soon," Gandalf reproached Aragorn. "Perhaps you have a tonic that will ease the headache?"

"Eru's arse! I will not swallow any foul concoction designed to turn my guts inside out while it heals my hurts! Get me some miruvor if you wish to revive me. Valar! Why is it so bloody cold in here?"

"It must be an effect of the enchantment; Gladhadithen did say his body temperature had dropped quite low," murmured Aragorn.

"Enchantment? I thought you said it was poison."

"She did, that is true, yet the season has lent the evening air a slight edge. He may be overly sensitive to such fluctuations as the toxin leaves his system." Mithrandir replied to the Man as both ignored their patient.

"Perhaps." Aragorn shrugged.

"Pardon me, I am awake due to your jostling and shouting yet now you speak as if I could not hear you at all. Will you tell me what has happened?"

"In due time, Erestor, in due time. For now let Aragorn reduced the migraine and I shall see about retrieving more blankets," Mithrandir replied in placating tones, patting the advisor on the shoulder as he rose to fulfil his words.

Likewise, Aragorn left to gather his pack from the lower level sitting room, eager to ease his old tutor's agony and delve more deeply into the quality of the seneschal's memories. He could not repress an involuntary shiver himself, thinking on what effect the loss of recollection might produce in Legolas.

Erestor shuddered in achy ague, a subliminal, sympathetic tremor linked to the fatigued depletion of the Tawarwaith deep in the fortress' vaults. He twitched restlessly on the down filled bedding, uneasy distress filling his fe√§ as he tried to identify the surroundings without success. It was somehow very important, this location, and a dread akin to panic began building in his palpitating heart as he struggled to make the connection. He was very aware of two facts: he was no longer in Lorien and the seasons had changed from summer's end to winter's advent during the time he had been unconscious.

The dip in temperature that had spawned the early snow had moderated to a more tolerable and customary level of chill by the time the Council of Erebor had at last concluded to the satisfaction of the Wood Elves' King and his Council. Yet it was an inadequate resolution, stale and dry upon the palate, for the monarch's lately contentious and unpredictably unruly subjects. For the moment, the state of their uninvited guest's mental capacity was forgot as the intriguing inconsistencies in the tale recounted by the various witnesses' testimony were uncovered. Even though a formal sentence of this nature had never been reversed in all the Ages past, it came as no surprise that the Judgement was denounced, yet having the guilty one's identity exposed only made matters more perturbing. Had anyone bothered to demand a complete accounting seventeen years ago, no reprieve would have been required and Rochendil would not be free upon Arda while his victims continued to suffer. 

This was not victory.

Nay, success was meant to bring joyous exuberance and ecstatic expressions of congratulatory tidings between friends and kin. Too intoxicating would be the fullness of relief and the release of this excess of magnanimity would initiate an outpouring from every heart to the accompaniment of tears, endearments both whispered and shouted, and much grasping of arms and clasping of loved ones to the chest for snug reassurance that it was all true and real and good. An impromptu feast would be indulged, singing and dancing for long days and nights beneath the thinned shadows of the bare-limbed oaks and beeches. Many an elf would celebrate the triumph even Ages past, for it would be their begetting day. No such activity was likely to be spawned by this dreary conclusion of the Council of Erebor.

Lindalcon looked around at the Wood Elves collected in the Chamber of Starlight; friends and comrades, elders that knew his parents and theirs' also, vague acquaintances he recognised by sight but not name, others he could not place at all so far from the stronghold city did they dwell, hidden in small enclaves throughout the trees far to the north of Orod Ime'laith [the Mountain amid the Trees]. Everywhere were the signs of emotional strain and exhausted discomfort, mates assessing each other's injuries to determine whether the care of the healer was required, whole clans conglomerating again and sharing subdued talk of their experiences and opinions, their shock and dismay over the low estate to which their people as a whole had succumbed.

The warriors were stone faced as they watched the large number of their comrades, disgraced for their part in the attempt to unseat the King of the Woodland Realm, led away by Talagan and his Sindar lieutenants. Too many were included in this category for their punishment to involve expulsion from the guard, for Greenwood had need of every able blade and bow. It was likely, however, that many of these would go forth into the most dangerous zones of the Shadow's encroachment never to return.

That the majority of the soldiers came from the lower ranks of the Danwaith, archers and spearmen all, was no surprise, for the sting of prejudice inflicted by their Sindar counterparts was as a needle under the nails and for centuries out of time had they grudgingly borne it for the sake of their families' well-being. Thus the split among the troops was in part unhealed, for who among the woodland citizens could bear to see a brother or sister, son or daughter, parent or mated spouse brought to such an unmerciful doom?

Valtamar's son, so close to achieving Coll o Gweth [Mantle of Maturity - Coming of Age], marked this display of weary discontent, no less submerged in gloomy worry for those dear to his heart, but found he could not progress beyond the distinctly offensive sour rancour remaining over the cause for his father's death. He had so strongly held to the notion that acquiring this insight would allow him to put it behind him. Lindalcon had fully expected to receive a sign from Valtamar that all was set to rights again, balance restored and the riddle unravelled, the path to the Halls of Waiting revealed for the Wandering fe√§ to finally follow.

_Peace, that was the goal of all this upheaval, was it not? Why then does my heart still languish and my soul twist in the same dire torment that has plagued me these last seventeen years?_

The answer was not so difficult to define, for the culprit and true betrayer of the Woodland Realm had escaped unscathed. Lindalcon's vision scanned the diminishing crowd, his hands compressing into resentful fists as his spirit hardened in acrimonious disgust. His scrutiny likewise catalogued the leaders collected in the centre of the chamber before Thranduil's seat of authority.

Iarwain quietly conferred with his peers and the King over the exact wording of the writ of detainment, arguing over how much needed to be specified of the disgraceful failure of the Law and Custom to serve the cause of justice in this case. The Eldest felt as little possible should be shared and gave as his reason protecting the reputation of the Realm from humiliation among the lesser peoples of Arda. Thranduil concurred, stating his desire to forestall any possible implication of weakness such a gross error might present to the rest of the elven realms and the minions of Darkness as well. Celeborn agreed also, saying it was a private matter between the families affected and Legolas that must not be allowed to undermine the fragile stability of the Greenwood. Even Radagast voiced no dissension this time, for he considered the actual arrest of the miscreant secondary to removing the various enchantments of binding throughout the forest and abolishing the artefacts of Thranduil's crimes.    

_What a dismal lot we are. This is indeed an infamous day, one we shall all seek to forget and shove beneath the overlay of new and more pleasant events, even as was done after the Judgement of Erebor was rendered. Thus has memory and appreciation for the warriors who gave their immortal lives in that desolate canyon been shirked and ignored. I can see that Thranduil will have no difficulty steering his subjects' attention back to the delight over his new heir's health and happiness._

Lindalcon had no wish for his brother to weather any disagreeable circumstances yet it seemed wrong that Taurant should fail to understand exactly what price had been paid to ensure his welfare.

_Not only his future but his existence itself._

He was certain no one would be likely to expound upon Valtamar's gruesome demise or retell the shameful denigration Legolas had suffered in its aftermath, nor explain the further ignominies and tortures inflicted for so many years. Who could even comprehend what it had been like for Tirno, alone and forgotten in the worst of the wilds, the hunter and the prey both, much less tell of it to the prince and princess? It would all be pushed down into the depths of denial and the desire to restore order, equilibrium, and normalcy to their lives.

_None will demand censure for Talagan, when surely he should be stripped of rank and expelled from the troops. _the bilious lamentation continued. As he swept the room once more his gaze locked upon the dejected figure of the former guardsman stooped and defeated, eyes averted downward upon his hands. With a surge of jealous anger Lindalcon saw what held the traitor's attention there, for somehow he had once more come into possession of Legolas' dagger and clutched it tight as his fingers caressed the flat of the blade.

_And here is Maltahondo, free to go on about his business as though nothing untoward had occurred; daring to retain a memento of the elf he so basely used!_ A swift flare of rage coursed through Lindalcon's veins and he strode to the vile offender's location, avoiding the reaching fingers of Haldir who attempted to halt him one second too late.

"Why do you not use it?" he shouted at the flinching elf and his unexpected demand startled the populace into soundless dread, for they had endured as much of this upheaval as could be borne. "Legolas had no such hesitation, by your own account! Strangers stopped the knife from piercing his heart while his dearest friend stood aside and did nothing!" The virulent pronunciation of these syllables was venomous enough to chill the heart and steal away breath.

Radagast and Haldir met a scant foot from the youth's side and shared a rapid communication of the eyes before returning attention to Lindalcon.

"No good can result from such denouncements. Do not venture anew into violence," exhorted the wizard. "Legolas would not want this."

"Neither will your father benefit from it," added Haldir with quiet urgency.

"You cannot know what will aid Adaren [my father] or not," countered Lindalcon. "And I did not hear any calls for an end to the injuries done to Legolas all these years," he scolded the Istar. "Why was it impossible for you to intervene for him yet you will do so for this despicable example of the eldar?"

"I seek not to impede justice but to alleviate a burden from your soul, already overladen. What you do here will remain with you always. Be careful of the encumbrance you shoulder," said Radagast.

"As for me, I sought to alleviate the pain of my parents' deaths by destroying every entity of the Shadow's hold I could discover. Many years I spent in this endeavour to no avail. No matter how many lives I took my heart was not at peace. This is not the way," Haldir cautioned.

"It is our way!" hissed Lindalcon and turned away from the March Warden and the Maia to glare upon the round-eyed, white-faced elves still frozen in disbelief that the awful scene was not yet over.

"Thus is the Law of our people," the son of Valtamar began again. "We are elves not Orcs. Shall we suffer the vile practices of those perverted mutations among our own kindred?"

"Nay!" one among the warriors shouted back. "Maltahondo is worse than a traitor!"

"This Council is not the place to vent your wrath," complained Iarwain. "All that can be done to bring your father's murderer to account has been set in motion. You must be patient and‚Ä¶"

"Patient? Talagan did not remain detached at Erebor but demanded immediate justice, while this elf stood by passively and thus allowed a terrible iniquity to be inflicted on an innocent. He knew Legolas did not cause the rocks to fall nor allow his position to be observed yet did not defend him!"

"Aye, Lindalcon is right," another anonymous elf called out.

"We need to settle this; it is not only Valtamar and Andamait√´ that must be freed from this quandary," a third affirmed.

"Thranduil, it is imperative you stop this from going further," urged Celeborn, drawing close and couching his words in low tones so that the sound did not carry beyond the King's hearing. "Surely this rudimentary set of edicts cannot be encouraged to continue after nearly destroying your Realm. Now is the opportune time to renounce such archaic practices. Will you not interrupt this?"

"By the agreement arranged between Oropher and the Council, the Customs pertaining to the fe√§ remain in the hands of the Elders. The King has no jurisdiction over the fate of Lost Souls," Thranduil whispered in return, a rather smug grin stretched across his lips. 

The Lord of Lothlorien stared in astonishment at the hubris required to utter such a hypocrisy, for under the Greenwood's branches Thranduil had done more to hinder the unhoused fe√§r of the deceased save Sauron.

"Believe me," seeing this expression of aghast dismay, Thranduil leaned close to his noble kinsman and expounded, "there is good reason to permit Lindalcon this small vengeance. Maltahondo defiled a youngling."

Horrified to learn this, Celeborn whipped his gaze back upon the corpsman once more, taking in the bright glint of fearful guilt beneath the thin film of remorse coating his hazel eyes. Maltahondo had dropped to his knees with the Tawarwaith's dagger gripped between his hands as his vision shifted in rising terror from one disgruntled and disgusted face to another. Celeborn's vision darkened and he silently renounced his counsel, refraining from further admonishment of his kinsman in this case. 

"A blood debt you owe to me for the loss of Valtamar," Lindalcon accused the guardsman. "You failed on that ridge, for of what use were your long centuries of experience in battle if you could not even cover the safety of so valued a weapon as is our Tirno? Even then he was renowned for his skill, and your negligence rendered it inconsequential. Had you done your duty, Legolas would never have been endangered by Rochendil's actions on the heights above. Let everyone gathered here bear witness to the charge!" Lindalcon's arm stretched out and encompassed the assembly in an agitated gesture that ended with a resounding slap upon the corpsman's upturned face.

"Far! Daro! [Enough! Stop!]" Aiwendil spoke as he reached for the former usurper's wrist. His grip was impatiently flung away.

Haldir opened his mouth to speak but caught the subdued cough from his Lord, generated specifically to gain his attention. The March Warden turned to see the clear command not to intrude further upon the youth's speech and reluctantly held his tongue.

"Nay, alfar! [Nay, not enough!]" spat Lindalcon with an equally sharp glance at the wizard before turning back to berate the cringing warrior. "How do you answer?" But he did not pause to grant the warrior opportunity to do so. "Great are your sins against Legolas, both of aggressively selfish manipulation and passive omissions of obligations incurred by the previous trespasses of your ancestor. The Valar have placed before you so many opportunities to amend these errors and each one you have shunned in your haughty pride.

"You could have warned him of Rochendil's movements, but you were not minding the crest of the spur. Why? What were you doing? Was your confidence in Legolas so wanting that you felt the need to monitor every shift of foot, each twitch of a finger? But for this, my father would still be at my side to lead and advise me, to share with me remembrance of his own Coll o Gweth while I prepare for mine.

"Soon Vair√´ granted you a chance to impede the spread of harm due to that mistake. Blithely did you ignore it! Why did you fail to speak up when Talagan condemned your ward, the elf you were sworn to serve even before his birth? Was it fear? Admit it, you craven hypocrite; you did not want the captain's censure to single you out! You feared the Judgement would fall upon your head and eagerly allowed the Sindar to spend his rage on an innocent! How disappointed you must have been when the human stayed Legolas' hand."

"Nay, nay!" Malthen cried but his shadowed eyes revealed the truth of his accuser's words.

"By Elbereth, young one, this serves no good! Please cease this diatribe," urged the Maia sadly, though he knew in his heart the plea was not even heard, so overcome with emotion was Lindalcon at this point.

"Nay, it needs be answered!" the youth shouted and his piercing glare journeyed the room's circumference to share his outrage with his countrymen and his King, the elders and the guests, Galadhrim and woodsmen alike. "For if others may hide their guilt by shifting it upon another, I cannot. I, too, owe a debt to Legolas, for though it was unintentional I have wronged him nonetheless. Let me do what I can by offering recompense in this manner, by acting as his brother and demanding equity. Surely there must be others who share this view, for many aided the ill-planned joke that has become such a source of despair for our Tawarwaith."

"Lindalcon speaks truthfully. I would undo my part in this, but since I cannot then let the weight of the Law fall upon the guilty one who might have prevented all of the battle's bitter legacy," said one citizen and a host of voices raised a chorus of agreement.

"The Council concurs," responded Iarwain, "yet Maltahondo is not solely responsible or even principally to blame. We must wait for the capture of Rochendil for these proceedings to bear fruit. Only the true culprit can effect the Release of the Lost Warriors."

"That is a lie!" scoffed Lindalcon. "Legolas freed Annald√≠r and we have just established that the Task was never his to accomplish! What form of justice is this? Are we so selective in how our Laws are enforced? Why was Legolas deserving of our most severe sentence while this elf is not even asked to own up to his faults?"

None could answer such a query although it was undeniably pertinent. Many bowed their heads in crimson-hued shame. But the Lord of Lothlorien took up the role of reason's advocate, seeing Aiwendil, Thranduil, and Iarwain unwilling to respect the moral urgency of Lindalcon's grievance.

"I hear your words, son of Valtamar," spoke Celeborn as he slowly approached, left hand over his heart. "What would you? Maltahondo has already claimed these errors openly. Can more speech erase the burden of your grief or undue the damage to your brother?"

Lindalcon stood silently as his sombre brown eyes allowed the noble silvan to probe every crevasse of his ruptured soul. Nothing did he attempt to shield; not his thirst for vengeance or his sorrowful anger for the sense of abandonment the child within cried against; not his resentment of Legolas for Annald√≠r's freedom nor his terror lest an even greater betrayal by one even nearer to his heart be exposed; not his guilty shame for wishing, even if only in a fleeting moment of wrath, to trade both his younger siblings for Valtamar's return; neither his anguished longing to give in and fade, thus to become the guide his Adar required to reach the hallowed lands of N√°mo's dominion.

Equally did Celeborn open the interior of his heart, sharing compassion and lending strength, granting forgiveness, reassuring the youth that his reactions were neither unexpected nor unseemly. He accepted all of it willingly and without scandalised shock, acknowledging the maturity Valtamar's child had achieved in owning these failings without justification, silently declaring Lindalcon's right to demand the fullness of citizenship and its accompanying privileges, regardless that his Coll o Gweth was yet three years away. The duty to defend the honour of one's House and the declaration of a blood debt against it; these were included with enfranchisement and were still a component of the Code of the Galadhrim as well.

The nascent adult inhaled sharply and blinked to clear the blur of tears that inundated his vision upon receipt of validation from so esteemed and noteworthy a source. Lindalcon set his jaw in resolute purpose despite the raw emotions rampant in his heart and bowed to his regal protagonist.

"My Lord, what you say is true, and yet there are words to be spoken that would go far toward correcting this heinous abuse of trust and reversing the blatant diversion of justice. If I may continue?" the youth's countenance turned to Thranduil for this last request.

Thranduil was wise enough to understand his wife's first child had no wish to bring her low. After a brief survey of his subjects' mood regarding this anticlimactic outburst, which was unilaterally sympathetic to Lindalcon, the King gave a short nod of acquiescence.

"At Erebor you made your choice to abandon dignity and honour, turning your back on your comrade in order to save yourself. Thus, your initial error of distration was compounded by this egregious betrayal," Lindalcon's voice was calmer as he once more directed his harangue to Maltahondo, but if anything the loss of fire gave the phrases the weight and clarity of authority his impassioned outburst had lacked.

"I formally denounce you, kinslayer, equally to blame for Adaren's death along with Rochendil. Further, as Legolas' brother and in his stead, I name you oath-breaker and traitor. You have already stated your fault; now I demand the fullness of justice under the Laws of our land."

"So noted," declared F√™rlass.

The guardsman stared in boggle-eyed disbelief at his old friend's only son. No compassion was housed in the severe demeanour and dour visage trained so intensely upon him, however; and he quickly removed his sight to gauge the reaction of the soldiers and the common folk to this request. Maltahondo had scarcely credited his luck when no pronouncement of doom fell from Thranduil's lips following the completion of testimony and the reversal of the outcast's sentence. He had actually dared to hope he was to be granted a reprieve, a chance to find his own way to make amends to Legolas. The corpsman swallowed with difficulty as he garnered the unspoken evidence of the peoples' vituperation of his character and their heightened anticipation of his punishment.

"I accept the validity of Lindalcon's mandate," mumbled Malthen as he hung his head. "No explanation for my inaction can mitigate the results produced. Willingly I submit to the code of the Realm. I only ask that my earnest remorse and humble desire to atone for these wrongs be officially noted. I do not ask for remission of my errors, for such my deeds do not deserve."  

Not a whisper stirred the throng as all awaited the final adjudication of this reprobate ellon's fate.

"Nasan [It is so (Quenya)]," said Thranduil quietly and took a breath as he shared a glance with Lindalcon.

He appreciated what the youth was doing; Rochendil was beyond their reach for the time being yet resolution was desperately needed, for the populace as a whole as well as Lindalcon. The King was well pleased to have so visible a target upon which to direct his subjects' thoughts; indeed, this was nearer to realisation of his scheme than he had deemed possible after the riot. Readily he endorsed the request of Meril's first-born; every elf that was laden with blame for Erebor decreased the likelihood of suspicion gathering near her. Thranduil stepped closer, scowled down upon the despised guardsman, and stretched forth his pointing hand to invoke damnation.

"Maltahondo, your failure condemned your brethren, the victims of careless incompetence, to the Wandering. Your shameless treachery against your charge, permitting Legolas to accept blame and punishment for your fault, is beyond comprehension and unknown before this day among our people.

"The rights of the battlefield you have forfeited and you are forbidden to seek death by your own hand and will." Thranduil opened out his palm for the Tawarwaith's dagger and sneered at the voluble gasp the corpsman exhaled upon tendering it over. The King in turn passed the humble weapon to Lindalcon.

"I declare you abandoned and nameless, a kinslayer and an oath-breaker; no elven realm will grant you refuge. Neither shall you sail from the Grey Havens to Valinor, nor pass through death to Mandos. What family you spring from will know you no more. You are less than an Orc, for even as low as they are they would spurn you."

A second or two of silence followed the verdict's announcement, broken only by the subdued sobs of the defamed elf. Then Iarwain stepped forward and faced Maltahondo.

"Aran Thranduil p√≠diel [King Thranduil has spoken]," he intoned soberly, peering at the disgraced warrior with disdain before turning toward the ranks of soldiers still in the room. "Who among you rode with Talagan's company that day?" he asked.

Two swordsmen moved out from the mass of tensely rigid bodies of collected warriors and advanced to flank their former comrade. Without preamble they grasped him by the arms and hauled him to his feet, half-leading and half-dragging the now wailing elf out of the Chamber of Starlight and into the courtyard.

Lindalcon followed and indeed the room emptied as everyone jostled and shoved to witness the final step in the sentencing. In minutes the warriors had Maltahondo stripped, hands bound with his own belt, and forced him to kneel in the dirt in the centre of the gathering. In disgust one spat upon him and gave a brutal kick to his exposed thigh. Then both receded a few paces and waited.

Grouped in a tight cluster near the archway, the Galadhrim watched in fascinated horror as the bizarre ritual unfolded. They glanced askance at Radagast and Haldir, but though his features revealed his displeasure no action would the Istar take to intervene and neither was it the March Warden's place to extract the convicted elf from the barbaric proceedings.

Celeborn, Thranduil, and the Counsellors had remained within, even though by right the King should have participated on behalf of his rejected child. Thus, there was only Lindalcon to complete the degradation and banishment.  

Valtamar's son watched the blubbering elf a few minutes, unmoved by this display of remorseful distress and the repetitious pleas to the Valar for forgiveness and mercy. At last he walked with slow purpose to face Maltahondo, bending down to gather up a fistful of gravel and dirt, leaning in close to the corpsman's ear as he did so.

"I know. Every soldier here, even Thranduil, comprehends the purulence that oozes from your vile, unfeeling heart of lead. For what you did to Legolas, this is insufficient castigation. How dare you ask for clemency and absolution? I hope the Wraiths find you; Dol Guldur is too clean a place for you. May you be raped unto death by every Orc the Necromancer's Tower holds," he murmured in low and seething notes, coldly flinging the handful of debris in the despicable elf's face.

His heart contracted in painful regret, recalling the first time he had performed this action, but no pity could he spare for Maltahondo.

"I claim Warrior's Release from you and demand the full penalty of twenty-four years exile in exchange for the waste of Adaren's [my father's] honour and valour in battle.

"For your betrayal of Legolas, there is no length of years sufficient to remove the black abscess in your soul for never has a guardian so completely abused the trust bestowed upon him. Our Laws do not even have a name for what you have done. Let the burden of your sins thus remain until your fe√§ is released and speeds to N√°mo for either acquittal or expulsion into the void."

A deeply in-drawn breath confirmed Maltahondo's comprehension of the protracted nature of his liability and he hunkered down in submission, burying his face against the ground with his arms extended before him, finally accepting the weight of his crimes.  

Lindalcon leaned to seize him by the long braid trailing against his spine and yanked him upright to endure the revilement and contempt displayed in the eyes of his countrymen and peers. Then Lindalcon took his brother's dagger and sliced the thick plait away from the bulk of the guardsman's auburn hair.

"That is for my father; an elf you claimed as a friend and comrade-in-arms," he threw the woven strands upon the ground and cut away another handful. "This is for Legolas, who looked up to you, trusted you, obeyed you unquestioningly." A third time he brandished the dirk.  
"For Ningloriel, whom you also betrayed."

Valtamar's son chopped away at the glorious crown of burnished copper tresses, claiming a segment for the last warriors, himself, and each of his younger siblings as well. When he was done, Maltahondo was shorn and had ceased crying, staring in dull-eyed dazedness at the clump of locks before him.

Lindalcon stood aside, nodding to the pair of silent warriors standing behind their fallen comrade.

Together they knelt beside the collection of amputated tresses and a shower of sparks followed the ringing strike of steel on flint. The hair erupted into a bright, acrid column of yellow flame and thin blue haze; in seconds it was consumed. One of the warriors deposited a bundle of plain undyed linen garments beside the outcast, hurriedly supplied by the tailor's daughter no less, and the other cut his bonds. Wordlessly the courtyard emptied, leaving Lindalcon next to the corpsman.

As all the Wood Elves scurried away and the Galadhrim retreated back inside the Council Chamber, a lone figure was revealed at the perimeter of the courtyard. Open-mouthed he stared as Maltahondo hastily donned the clothing and staggered to his feet. The outcast broke into a dead run as he fled toward the docks behind the fortress.

"By the Valar!" breathed Aragorn, for it was he. "Is this what Legolas endured?"

Lindalcon gazed at him sadly a moment before realisation forced him to understand why the Man was here. Vehemently the young elf shook his head, backing away and holding his hands before him to fend off the ill news he could read within the human's solemn grey eyes.

"I will not be the one!" he shrieked in despair. "You must tell him; I cannot destroy him thus!"

He wheeled and raced for the garden, certain that Aragorn's solitary arrival could only mean the seneschal had awakened with no recollection of his time with the Tawarwaith.

TBC  


  
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	84. Gladhadithen Trenar Tolad Nost od Oropher [Gladhadithen Tells the Arrival of Oropher's House]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

**Gladhadithen Trenar Tolad Nost od Oropher [Gladhadithen Tells the Arrival of Oropher's House] **

  
"The noble Sinda Lord and his three sons rode forth from the bivouac at tinnu on the first day of their arrival, stopping just shy of the Ithillum [moon-shade] cast over the ground by the wall of the trees and the abundant cover of the canopy. I do not believe they could see our warriors, but it is certain Oropher could sense them, for he would not permit so much as a hair on Emmelin's charcoal tipped muzzle to leave the silver sheen spilled by Tilion's burden. Not even one centimetre further would he venture toward the forest.

"For three nights and two days he waited there patiently, calmly seated upon his mare's back barring the demands of nature, motionless as she stamped her hooves upon the turf and tossed her head, blowing complaints over the delay through open nostrils that sampled the secrets of the Greenwood. No challenge did he call out, no greeting passed his lips; the only sounds were his calming words to Emmelin meant to soothe her cross disposition.

"Oropher's sons mimicked their sire's reserved determination, holding their tongues admirably and refraining from any show of aggression. I am sure they could hear the creak and groan of a thousand bows bending as arrows were trained with lethal accuracy not only upon them but the warriors in the camp at their backs. As eldest son, Tramborlong rode at his father's right while Thurin'aur and Thranduil flanked his left.

"The younger sons were quietly scanning the limbs above, yet I could tell they were unable to detect our archer's positions with any certainty. It is just as well; for the branches burgeoned with Danwaith warriors as thick as acorns before autumn's harvest and such a sight might have forced the lesser princes into a rather embarrassing retreat to fetch a change of leggings.

"Tramborlong, however, was finding it difficult to reign in his mirth, for he had spotted me!

"How he discovered my perch I know not, so sure of my stealth was I, but suddenly I was staring into the warrior's clear, laughing green eyes as he fought off a smile. Then he winked. Aye, dour Tramborlong who slew six goblins on the route from Beleriand, winked at me!

"I nearly fell out of the tree and was terrified he would reveal my location, for it was this moment Iarwain chose to emerge from the obscuring foliage, stepping into the sunlight on that third day with two of the other Elders and five armed warriors bearing spears. But Tramborlong never betrayed me, even years later when I was full grown and a healer assigned to his provinces and the troops that guarded them."

Resting on the narrow twist of footholds leading up from the stronghold's water chamber, Lindalcon listened to the voice of Gladhadithen as it rose and fell in gentle rhythm, reflecting off the cool stone walls. As it skimmed over the quiescent surface of the spring fed cistern, the soothing plainsong absorbed some of the water's soul, becoming magnified in the liquid essence, and made the elastic boundary layer dance in minute imitation of ripples on a lake coaxed into fleeting undulation by the wind of Manwë's breath. Meshed together, words of air and fluid echoes created a euphonious chorus from her dulcet solo.

The son of Valtamar watched the faint shimmer of the water as each syllable tripped across the pool, listened to his own pulse join the harmony, felt the comfort of the shadowy cavern collect around him, a cocoon of protective concealment. At first he heard without his mind giving recognition to the meaning, granting the tones no more notice than the forest's everyday noises of birdsong or rustling leaves.

It was too much to expect otherwise; he had come to the silent cave to escape his exploded world. The sight of Aragorn alone in the courtyard had driven Lindalcon into the empty garden to evade participation in the next event Vairë chose to weave into the ungainly pattern of his elder brother's existence. For a second, anger had risen to the top of the emotional slag heap and he cursed her for using him in this way, making him take part in the agony just after having arranged that fleeting respite of bliss for Legolas.

_It is not fair! I had no desire to hurt him this way. How can the Valar employ me thus? _

And Lindalcon knew, for just that instant, that his attempt to make amends in the sentencing of Maltahondo would be another burden Legolas must carry, built with ease of his own conscience in mind. This was a facet of his character he had not found cause to examine before, and it was not one he cared to investigate closely. He hastily shoved the idea away; Malthen deserved his punishment. The guilt did not disperse, however, festering just beneath his conscious thoughts, and he felt for the first time in his life that his father would be ashamed of him for this act of vengeance, lawful though it might be.

Guided by the brook trickling through the elegant lawns and hedges, Lindalcon had found his way to the hidden conduit and eagerly followed it out of the sunlight where even his shadow presented a vulgar mockery of true friendship and brotherhood, and everyone that looked upon him must surely see this. Around the path skirting the reservoir he trotted, stumbling up the winding stair as he fought to control the outpouring of remorse and regret that surged up from his heart and threatened to burst it. He sagged down onto the unfeeling rock on the turn in the steps and found that, now ready to give vent to his sorrow, the tears refused to flow. 

He was weary and drained yet every nerve was screaming out in combined anguish and rage, fear and grief, denial and resignation. Simultaneously wound up in inscrutable knots while every fibre of his body felt strained beyond the point of tolerance, Lindalcon let the words break upon the jagged outcrop of his ravaged soul. The flowing vibrations washed over him, smoothing down sharp hurts, eroding away anger's exaggerated peaks of woe. Gladhadithen's little tale worked its tender treatment, needing no endorsement from his brain to enter in and instil the calming message of reassurance within the recount of such harmlessly mundane events.

Lindalcon silently climbed a few steps more, close enough to allow the acoustics opportunity to make eavesdropping easy yet still within sight of the underground pond. 

"In those early centuries of the Second Age, Tramborlong's folk spread out to the south and blended with the settlements clustered near Amon Lanc. I came to know him well, for he married a silvan maid who was a cousin of mine and more an aunt to me, like a second naneth. The Sinda prince had lost one mate to Orcs while in Beleriand, apparently on the same hunting trip that claimed his mother's life. The couple had not produced offspring and he told me it was a marriage of alliance between his father's House and another noble family of Neldoreth.

"The arrangement had not worked out very well for she had fallen in love with another ellon and was wasting away with pining for her heart's desire. Tramborlong explained he could not bear to insist she attempt procreation and their union was never consummated. He urged her to relocate to Doriath within the protective enclosure of Melian's Girdle, hoping the Maia could ease her distress and despair, but this was not within the Istar's gifts to give. Tramborlong blamed himself for his first wife's death, for he was sure she could have recovered from the injuries she had sustained if not for her broken heart.

"By his own account, this tragedy marked your uncle and altered his demeanour for the rest of his life. He believed he had revealed himself a coward for not standing up to their parents' designs and helping her secure a true bond-mate. Ever after he considered carefully before speaking but never held back his objections if a strategy for his people seemed incongruous with logic and reasonable action.

"He was a champion of the natural order, as he termed it, by which he meant the long tendrils of events that linked the actions of a single individual to the very fabric of Eru's design for Eä. The true disposition of an individual, and by extension the culture to which he or she belonged, was perfect in its own right; no change was required to enhance their part in the Music of Iluvatar. Thus, he and your father became bitter rivals for Oropher's attention.

"Thranduil found nothing but cause for altering our ways and changing our lifestyle, from the language we spoke to the material from which we constructed our garments. He urged Oropher to create a fortress and seal the forest from outside influence, meaning our kin in Lothlorien and the mortals settled in Dale and Erebor, boasting that he could replicate the protective barrier of Thingol's wife.

"He also desired for the Sindar to remain separate from the Wood Elves, saying we would diminish the might of their race and taint the offspring born of such unions with inferior intellect and backward religion. He called Tramborlong's union with my cousin, which was a true soul-bonding, an illicit affair and their children bastards. I wonder if he thinks on this now, with two children born of his second marriage."

"Ai, Valar! I am glad for kinship with Oropher, Thurin'aur, and Tramborlong, yet nothing but disgust can I feel for sharing the blood of Thranduil," Legolas hissed, ashamed to hear these notions, which of course he knew from his own experience. Yet now they were his encumbrances by birth and it was as if a whole new Task, more impossible to complete than the Warriors' Release, fell upon his shoulders. Somehow he must undo the injustices the Sinda Lord's tyranny had inflicted upon his people.

Hearing all this, Lindalcon's eyes widened and he trained his hearing more closely upon the conversation, curious at the conviction carried in the vehemence of his brother's pitch. No more did the Tawarwaith doubt the author of his existence, though the younger elf could not comprehend how this had come about. 

"Aye, but this is not a thing you can change and was never in your hands to control. Neither is it given to you to assume responsibility for Thranduil's deeds, for he is not a child and you are not his guardian," Fearfaron interrupted at once, understanding all too well where his Second Son's heart would guide him.

"Indeed. Even Oropher, whom Thranduil loved above all save his Naneth, could not convince the stubborn elf to open his mind to other ideas," added the healer. Her lips uplifted in a graceful expression of compassion, seeing the surprise bloom in the Tawarwaith's sombre eyes, and she reached out to gently caress his cheek. "Do not be amazed; it is true. You have noted the depth of feeling the King harbours for the little prince and princess; with the same fervour did he honour Oropher and, though it may be hard to accept, his deeds were ever prompted by a desire to gain his sire's approval and exalt his Lord's esteem."

"You are kind and generous of spirit, seeking for the good in everyone regardless of the heinousness of the deeds done under their hands. Yet I say Thranduil only sought his father's acceptance out of rivalry for his brother's higher position as first-born and heir. He does not like being second, much less third, to anyone and thus he wished for Oropher's blessing, thinking he could buy this regard with gold and treasures and dark arts," complained Legolas.

"You are not so different from me in this, Tirno, for I have not heard you speak of condemnation for Thranduil, even though you now know the full viciousness of his vile temper, but rather you have sought to keep him free of strife for your siblings' sakes," noted Gladdie. "If you did not find good in his interactions with Taurant and Gwilith, would you be so considerate? Nay, you would defend them even if this meant you must remove them from their father. But because you know the love he bears them is worthy, you would rather take upon yourself any task to keep that bond from whithering. Do you deny it?"

"I called for his destruction ere you came back with Aiwendil," said Legolas bitterly and sighed. "But you are not in error, for never would I follow through on such a statement." It was true; he could not allow the King to suffer or the little ones would do so in even greater magnitude.

"And so it was for Oropher as well. He could not think what to do to help his youngest son and carried the fault for all Thranduil's shortcomings in his own heart. Thurin'aur, who was closest to the patriarch in matters of the feä, confessed this to me once during a lengthy visit to Tramborlong's province. Your Miny'adar thought that by giving Thranduil into apprenticeship with a spirit hunter during the family's crisis over the loss of wife and mother, he had doomed his child to fall into the Shadow's grasp. Thus, he could not take his wayward warrior with the strange powers to task. He feared to drive him away forever."

"Thranduil was a spirit hunter?"

"Nay, from what Thurin'aur said he left his mentor before the training was finished, resuming his goal to become a warrior instead. But the gift was there and he learned enough to make use of it."

"Ai! Why did no one stop him?"

"How would that be achieved? Can knowledge be removed from the conscious mind that owns it? Could you forget how to draw a bow?" interjected Fearfaron. "Oropher tried to reason with him I am sure and his brothers railed and accused him of far greater horrors than he had done at the time, probably. Thranduil was unmoved. When he grew weary of the contention, he took his elite troops and departed Greenwood. Sometimes more than a century would transpire before their return."

"Aye, they all tried to dissuade him from his path. Tramborlong would say the youngest perverted the true order of life and was creating a future none of them would be able to bear. Thranduil countered that Tramborlong contradicted his stated belief in fate to speak thus, for it was in Thranduil's nature to seek a better situation for his father and their people than 'skulking in the shadow of trees'. Thurin'aur, however, was the one who could really infuriate his little brother, and the two oft came to physical blows over it. The middle child accused the youngest of wounding their Adar's heart and soul, adding additional grief to a feä already suffering more than any of them could know."

"Elbereth, what a stubborn lot!" Legolas shook his head over the image of all the arguing and dissension that had clouded the dealings of his kinfolk.

Above his head, Gladhadithen and Fearfaron shared their incredulity to hear him and simultaneously dissolved into snickery giggles. Hidden in the stairwell, Lindalcon rolled his eyes in agreement with their sentiments. None were as obstinate as the Tawarwaith if he thought his course best, nor would any counsel alter his decision once made.

"What is amusing about this awful history?" demanded Legolas, cheeks growing a healthier rose once he understood what they were laughing over.

"Nay, it is not funny; you are right. Mayhap you will be the exception to this flaw in the bloodline?" offered the carpenter and Gladdie fairly brayed her opinion of that.

"All right, I see your point. Yet it is right for me to undertake this remedy," he argued, "for I have not offspring that will be harmed should I fail or perish in the endeavour."

"Remedy? What do you hope to do?" asked Gladhadithen pointedly and was unaffected by the surprised expression that suffused her patient's visage.

"I hope to free our lands of the Shadow's influence. I wish to release the captive feär bound in the trees and the Enchanted River."

"And this will be done by what means?"

"By whatever means my will and strength permit," snapped Legolas, uncomfortable with the segue the healer's anecdote was taking. "I would rally our warriors and seek allegiance with the woodsmen, fight against the hordes of monsters, and unmake the Wraiths squatting in my woods." He faltered as to how to effect the second of his objectives. "I will force Thranduil to revoke the binding spells or have Aewendil assist in lifting the magic. Mayhap I will figure out the words required myself; even so did I free my uncles and Te-telch. Is this a dishonourable goal?" 

"Nay of course not, yet you cannot guarantee success, and you have used a phrase I have heard your father speak. This is what has led you astray," countered the carpenter. "Some means are unworthy, though your courage and determination are true, the outcome desired noble and honest. This is the same error that Thranduil made, and it is thus no wonder you fall into the identical trap, having dwelled in his shadow all these long centuries."

"What are you saying?" Legolas was shocked and pulled out of his foster father's arms to stare in stricken horror. "You liken me to him? I am so base as to manipulate hearts and imprison souls? How can you charge me with such?"

"I have not, nor would I ever do so!" Fearfaron gripped Legolas' healthy arm and shook him gently. "I am not accusing you of any of those foul acts, Ion Edwen. Hear what my words say! You are not Vala; the fate of Greenwood is not yours to decide nor is the future of your siblings a static dream you can shield from the influences of Shadow and Light. Both good and ill shall transpire throughout Taurant and Gwilwileth's lives and you cannot prevent them from knowing both.

"Your uncle Tramborlong understood this fact; never conceding defeat yet bending to the whims of fate, adjusting as necessary rather than hoping to halt change or undo events belonging in the past. He ceased trying to re-order the world according to his personal view for he understood the futility of such a notion. His desire to help his first wife did not prevent her death; his love for his naneth could not call her back to him upon hers.

"Tramborlong tried to achieve a balance between active resistance and capitulation to the vagaries of Vairë's loom. Yet even he was not always able to distinguish when to do the one or the other. His distrust of Thranduil caused him to back his father when in other circumstances he might have counselled against a frontal assault against so daunting a force. His guilt placed his soul in his brother's keeping. This is an example of pride, Legolas, and no one is immune to its more insidious forms. Clothed in self-sacrifice, bold courage, or deepest devotion, it masquerades as a virtue."

"I am not sure I understand what you are talking about," Legolas shook his head. "It is pride to wish my siblings a good life and happiness? It is a trap to pit my will against the disgusting minions of Sauron? It is not my place to try and undo the crimes wrought by the Lord of my House?"

"Not quite. It is pride to believe your siblings will not enjoy the life Eru means them to have without your direct intervention. It is a false notion to believe your only value is to be derived from a goal no one elf can bring to fruition. You cannot undo the wrongs your father has committed; they are part of our history and have become interwoven with the culture of our world.

"Would the feär granting the protection of enchantment wish to forsake their purpose? Like Tramborlong and Thurin'aur, those unhoused ones languished in culpability upon the moment of their deaths and accepted Thranduil's will in remission of failings. The same can be said for the souls immersed amid the trees and conjoined with Tawar. These are the ones who shield our pathways and prevent the spiders from choosing our city as best to spin their nests. Good has come of the ill-intent of Thranduil."

"Aye, but some of the wrongs have not been converted to ease and peace! What of Naneth? What of the Lost Warriors? What of Lindalcon's broken heart? And…and my mate, Ada, my Berenaur…"

"Ah, Ion Edwen, I know these are grave evils to bear! Yet not one of these horrors can any act of yours unmake. What then do you seek, revenge?" Fearfaron collected his distraught fosterling back into his embrace as he murmured these words.

"Nay, I do not want to punish anyone; I just want things as they were before." Legolas buried his face into the kindly wood-worker's breast and sighed loudly enough for Lindalcon to hear it.

The younger elf's heart lurched, for Fearfaron's admonishment sounded as though the spirit hunter knew he was there, was privy to all he had enacted in the Chamber of Starlight only moments ago. He could not but regret the steps he had taken without consulting his brother. Confirmation came in Legolas' own voice; he would not have allowed Maltahondo to accept the blame for Erebor had he known of it.

"Listen to yourself!" Fearfaron was saying. "In turmoil run your emotions, and this is not surprising after all that has happened. But you do not desire to change the past, not truly. Taurant and Gwilwileth are a joy to your soul and Lindalcon's place in your life is far greater than it would be had his loss and yours not coincided.

"If Ningloriel had remained in Middle-earth, she would not be at your side but in Lorien with her two lovers. While that would have spared you the grievous hurt inflicted by Elrond, likewise you would never have found your heart's mate for Erestor would not have come here.

"Vital to your sanity is the knowledge you now have regarding your father's identity and the elder sons of Oropher are free because of it. Thus is Tramborlong's philosophy borne out: even the actions you took in anger and desperation, intending to tender over your immortal life in payment for debts never yours to expunge, have been turned by the nature of your existence into benefits. How can you still not see this amazing and crucial role you play? Thus said Erestor to me just a day ago: 'His life is a disaster but he leaves everything improved in the wake of his passing.' This is how he views you and it is an accurate assessment."

"Aye, do nothing to alter this, Tirno, yet do not go seeking hardship for it haunts you!" Gladhadithen posited. 

Another soul-deep exhalation departed Legolas' lungs and then everyone was quiet for a time as he thought on the discussion. He frowned, determined to be the one among his House that could listen and adjust when reason pointed to wisdom he had overlooked. The carpenter's statement was correct; Legolas could not undo a single event that had come to pass yet the archer was still convinced he could have prevented any of it from occurring in the first place had he acted on his instincts at Erebor. The same old quandary confronted him: what he had set in motion he would not choose to reverse, and the guilt over this burned brightly in his conscience.

_If I loose Berenaur, then that will be fitting punishment and perhaps enough to balance the harm my failure brought to others._He could not halt the immediate reaction of his soul to this concept, however, and the searing pain such a future carried visited him forthwith. Legolas gasped and reached for the old wound with a shuddering cry.

The heavy tread of mortal feet descending from the kitchen mingled with the horrid sound.

It was too much for Lindalcon. He rose and tore down the steps and back through the garden, nearly colliding with Haldir in his desperate dash to avoid the impact Aragorn's words must have upon his brother. The March Warden leaped aside and then, having come in search of the young Wood Elf, gave chase when Lindalcon failed to provide any sign he had even seen the Galadhrim soldier in his path. 

"Ai! What is amiss?" Gladhadithen was at Legolas' side at once and together she and the carpenter turned him to his back and pulled away the clutching fingers.

"This is not necessary, Ion Edwen!" exclaimed Fearfaron. "You need not relinquish your love; have you not heard any of the words spoken here? Ai! Oropher himself would bemoan your stubbornness! Let go of this grief for it is unearned. Berenaur is yours; will you deny him now and wound him thus? What if he were to experience pain such as this over your decision, made without bothering to ask what he wills?"

"Nay, Ada, I would not refuse him! I would never do anything to harm him! But if he does not remember…"

Into this scene of woe the mortal son of Imladris' Lord entered, halting in sorrow to see his friend once more beset with the one illness he could not cure. Deeply did Aragorn wish his news held the answer. His healer's gift swept over the injured Tawarwaith in concern, for he had not had the complete account of the trial as yet. _He is not fit to face this reality; would that I had waited for the carpenter to seek me first!_

"Far! [Enough!] Stop giving Vairë temptation! It does not matter what he recalls; his feä has already chosen to bind with yours. This is not a trivial thing and cannot be forsaken without damaging his heart. You would protect him? Cherish Him? Answer!" Fearfaron shook his adopted child roughly, eliciting another sharp shout from Tirno's lips.

"Aye, you know this is so! Why do you torment me?" wailed Legolas.

"Then claim what is yours, if you truly desire it," challenged the talan builder.

"I could do this? Yet if he does not know me then how…"

"Woo him, silly elfling! If this is your soul-mate, can you stand by and let him journey away to his hidden valley and his dull duty without you?"

"Aye, he would never turn you down," Aragorn added and all three elves startled for they had failed to mark his entrance so absorbed was their attention. "Erestor has an eye for what is fine and you are exactly what would draw his interest. That is as good a place to begin as any I know."

"So he has awakened?" asked Gladhadithen morosely.

"Yes, and his recollections are troubled," Aragorn confirmed as he squatted down next to the healer in order to look Legolas in the eye, surprised to see him rally and determined to encourage the mood. _No need to attempt shielding him now; best to be direct._ "He cannot recall details but already his heart has told him his beloved is here; his feä sensed something dreadful had come to pass. Even Mithrandir, as close as he is to your mind, knows nothing of this new wound you bear. Yet Erestor spoke of foreboding blackness overwhelming his thoughts and a terrible vision of a fire drake intent upon devouring someone dear to him.

"I do not know if he will ever regain what was lost but Erestor is restless and distraught, has complained of chills and pains, and in his eyes is revealed a great fear the reason for which he cannot name. He said he feels as he did when he stood on the shores of Lindon staring over the vast sea where once had been Beleriand, knowing at last his family was gone. He grieves for you, Legolas."

"What did you tell him?" asked the anxious Wood Elf.

"Everything! He is quite upset over the results of his plotting with Elrond, for that he remembers in exacting completeness though its fulfilment is but vague vision. He said he knows not if what his mind shows him is memory or only as he imagined things would happen. I left him pacing the talan, fraught with worry for your well-being, berating himself for being so cruelly callous to an innocent. I am pleased to see the integrity I have long respected renewed, and if he is surprised to learn he has bonded with another elf, he is taking it quite well."

"You see? Perhaps in future you will heed my advice more willingly," Fearfaron smiled and helped Legolas sit up, for the spasm of agony was gone and forgot.

"Aye! What shall I do, Ada?" the excitement in Legolas words was a joy for his friends to hear. "How do I woo him? I have never tried, never thought I would need to…"

Gladhadithen laughed and rose to her feet, brushing the dust from her robe and apron. "I think I shall let you handle such instructions alone, Fearfaron," she said. "Perhaps I am needed above to set bones and stitch lacerations after the fracas."

"What?" Legolas gaped up at her. "Why would you be needed thus? What has happened?"

"Oh, let your foster father explain later; you have more important things to discuss just now. Yet, go slowly for your strength has been sorely tested this day." Leaning down to ear-level, she whispered her final precaution: "No Bench play!" and took her leave after enjoying the flush of crimson that told of Legolas' recovering vigour even as it attested to his heightened embarrassment. Intent upon seeking Lindalcon, for she had not missed the less than quiet retreat through the water vault and had deduced the source of the noise correctly, Gladhadithen left by way of the gardens.

"Indeed, Erestor is awaiting your return. He bade me come find out what the Council decided, which is that all charges have been revoked and you are a full citizen of the Woodland Realm once more, and to beg an audience with you," added the Man, grinning to see the soft light of hopeful anticipation that flared in his friend's eyes.

"He did so, truly? Ai Valar, what will I say?" Legolas gripped Fearfaron's tunic and tugged, not caring about the trial at all in light of this other prospect. "Tell me what to do!" he demanded.

"Elbereth! What is all this frenzy? Legolas, he is the same elf you have just spent four days with in the bonding talan. I think you will not need any instruction on how to proceed," laughed the carpenter.

"Oh, nay, I cannot… could I?…I mean, just…take him…" Legolas' ears, however, were already aflame with the idea and he could not suppress a very lascivious leer from transforming features drawn in lines of dolorous stress only minutes ago.

"Save the details for your mate, mellonen," urged Aragorn and rose, offering his hand to help Legolas up. "I will go tell him you will be home shortly and get the Istar out of the glade. Gandalf has been chiding Erestor non-stop, promising every sort of dreadful spell, threatening to reorder his natural constitution into something less pleasant should he treat with you in any manner but honourably. Over the course of an hour he repeated, ten times no less, that the rakish Noldo does not deserve to even look at you; I counted!"

"Hah! I shall expound on this theme also ere Legolas resumes the courtship," intoned Fearfaron with a curt nod, rising as well and wrapping his adopted son in a hug that perhaps gave more proof of Legolas' excitement than the Tawarwaith might wish to provide, for the younger elf squirmed as his thickening penis brushed against the carpenter's thigh. But Fearfaron only chuckled and patted his shoulder gently. "I will not be over long about it, though; do not worry!"

"Do not scare him off!" Legolas whined in exasperation and hurriedly extricated himself from the disconcerting nearness, red-faced and unable to meet his father's bemused gaze. "And what am I to do in the meantime? How will I know when you are done and he is ready? Oh Valar, I mean when he is prepared for me to come… Nay, that is not what I meant!"

Aragorn and the older Wood Elf were roaring out their laughter over these statements and the inelegant attempts to retract them.

"If it was me proposing, I would bring a fitting gift. A jewelled pendant, an elegant sword or dagger, perhaps even a ring?" suggested Fearfaron. "Here is the perfect place to make a selection; no finer collection of precious relics exists on Arda. By the time you have found the right item, your lover will be more than ready."

"Proposal?" breathed out the Tawarwaith weakly, the magnitude of the word hitting him with the force of a falling oak tree. "What if he should decline, for he has those other two already?"

"Humph! Since when are you one to accept defeat graciously? I did not think 'no' was a concept you made room for in your thoughts," countered Fearfaron. "Just be direct; tell him he is already yours and you are just making it all right and proper, for the sake of his reputation."

"Already mine," whispered the Tawarwaith in tones of determined jealousy. He nodded and smiled at Fearfaron. "I will do it."

Aragorn snorted over the need to protect from stain his tutor's moral purity and shook his head, marvelling at the possessive caste that suffused Legolas' visage at his foster father's recommendation. The mortal could not wait to learn how Erestor handled his unique situation and would dearly love to see the wild elf put him in his place, taming his roving eye and ending his promiscuous habits forever. _Orophin and Dambethnîn are not going to be able to keep their charming seneschal's heart all to themselves any longer. Valar, they will have to ask this one for permission to so much as gaze in their mate's general vicinity!_

"Go on then; I do not want to wait all day!" urged Legolas and was actually shoving Fearfaron toward the archway.

"My, so demanding! I think he has forgotten who his elders are and how to show respect," mocked Aragorn, but did not resist when the archer grabbed his arm and steered him in the same direction.

"You are certainly not one of them," sneered Legolas. "You are barely out of infants cloths! I would wager you are not even fifty yet."

"Humans mature so much earlier than elf-kind that you are still a child in comparison to me regardless the disparity in years."

"What? You are mad if you believe that!" Legolas sputtered in consternation. "Fearfaron, get him out of here before I have to demonstrate who is the henellon [boy child] and who is the seasoned warrior."

"Aye, follow me Aragorn, that is an argument you cannot win. Besides, we have preparations to make," coaxed Fearfaron and thus the pair, sporting matched conspiratorial grins, left their charge, ignoring Legolas' demands to know what they were up to.

 

 

TBC  


  
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	85. Tangadad Buiad [Establishing Allegiance]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

**A/N: Calenharn, it has been a long wait, but here is the chapter promised so many months (a year?) ago!**

  
**  
Tangadad Buiad [Establishing Allegiance]**

The Tawarwaith watched them go with only moderate misgivings over their plans, slightly uneasy due to the disastrous result of the previous scheme generated by his surrogate family.

_But Fearfaron was not involved in that; he will ensure the outcome of this project is as amicable as the talan he built for us._

The thought made Legolas smile, recalling that he had yet to secure the hammock, deciding it was the first task to undertake upon returning to the glade.

_Well, second, perhaps._ he revised, indulging a vivid waking dream of capturing the seneschal's sensuous lips in a kiss so deep and long as to make him swoon. The vision held him spellbound several moments before reason intervened, reminding that if he did not acquire a suitable ring and leave the stronghold, never would this delightful scene come to pass.

He turned from the arched exit and marched purposefully through the open iron-work portal into the massive treasury, curiosity overcoming every other consideration for a moment. Save for Thranduil, no elf had been within the guarded caverns; not even bearers toting new acquisitions made it beyond the vestibule for the King catalogued his goods personally and trusted no one. Even Talagan was not permitted within the vaults.

Legolas stared at the ranks of rugged oaken shelves, befuddled as to where to start his search. How would he find rings within this gargantuan haul of wealth? He wandered amid the aisles, peering into boxes and bins, and was soon diverted by the magnificent collection of swords and knives, armour and shields and helms all brightly shining and free of dust or rust.

_As if someone cares for them with diligent regularity._

And that this person could only be Thranduil struck him as amusing, for he could imagine the mighty ruler on bended knee, wielding a rag and polishing paste, scrubbing away at the prized possessions. A snort of jeering laughter reverberated off the walls and Legolas moved to another section of the room.

Long mahogany cases, four in all, stood closely side by side at the very back of the immense cave and to these the Tawarwaith drew near. Each one held eight drawers that spanned the width of the cabinets yet were shallow in depth. He pulled one open and gave a low whistle of astounded appreciation, for the bin was lined in creamy silk and packed with jewellery of exquisite craftsmanship adorned with all kinds of gems.

Rings and bracelets, necklaces and belts, coronas and circlets ranging in size from that which might fit an elfling to things only a giant of a warrior could put to use. He picked up and examined several rings with magnificently worked precious stones in glorious colours from fiery translucent red to murky, clouded, mottled sapphire. None of these were suitable for a bonding ring, however, and he shut the long drawer, wincing at its strident, rasping snap, and pulled loose the one below it.

In this compartment, likewise filled with finished gems, the stones were loose. While cut and faceted with the expert care and creative distinction for which the children of AulÔøΩ√´ were famous, not one was set into metal of sewn onto cloth or leather. As before, the kinds were more numerous than Legolas' knowledge of the terms for such and the vast selection was carefully organised by colour, grade, and size.

He marvelled over these as well, finding it hard to set aside an oval, egg-shaped stone exactly the hue of his mother's eyes. It was heavy and he had no idea what name the gemstone might be called, wondering if there were books that told these things within the stronghold library. The hard, smooth weight rolled easily across his palm, pleasantly cool, perfectly flawless and, though he had absolutely no use for such an item, Legolas slipped it into the pocket of his leggings.

In the front corner of the drawer was an oblong wooden box, simply made without carving or decoration, clasped with a loose hook and eye hasp. Its common form and humble appearance made the primitive container stand out in the company of so luxurious a gathering of coloured, ice-bound fire displayed by the jewels and his interest was engaged at once. Thranduil was meticulous and exacting in his desire for precision in all things, and this chunk of wood amid the gems was as a scrub oak in the midst of towering incense cedars.

The Tawarwaith took it up and opened the lid, drawing in a deep breath at the contents. The humble cask held a fortune in precious stones, the relics of a legend from the First Age, proof of the verity of the ancient tale whose principals were long departed from Middle-earth, victims of the chances of fate and the greedy fingers of death. Legolas beheld the Emeralds of Girion.

He could do nothing but stare, flummoxed; he had never realised the priceless ornaments were in Thranduil's possession and wondered at this, for such infamous objects would have been a favourite topic with which to impress visiting dignitaries from foreign realms. The King delighted in story telling and would have made the history of these gems one such that it would require three days in the narration. Legolas felt a keen disappointment, for he did not know the real tale of how the gems came to be as he was certain Thranduil must.

He decided it was likely the jewels came into the Sinda Lord's hands long after his majority, probably even post-dating his commission to the Guard and assignment to Talagan's corps. For once this career had been allowed Legolas seldom returned to his rooms within the fortress. Only to visit his Naneth did he set foot in the cavernous stronghold and, while she was fond enough of riches, Ningloriel had no use for the chronology of their existence.

_Yet surely she would have known if these gems were part of her husband's horde._

Legolas could not deny he felt a bit cheated, for throughout his elfling days the one enjoyable activity he had shared with his sire he had been those stories Thranduil told during formal banquets and feasts for the entertainment of guests. Wistfully Tirno pushed through the small, green stones of varying size, five hundred altogether, as bright and cheery as new leaves in spring's earliest moments. They were unbound; at what point in their history the emeralds had been freed from the delicately constructed golden necklace into which they had originally been set Legolas could not guess.

_How fine these would look fixed within mithril circlets for the prince and princess of the Woodland Realm._

There were more than enough to decorate a sword's scabbard and to create another less ostentatious necklace as well. _And for Lindalcon a hair clasp, and a ring and matching pendant to give to his love, whenever he should meet her._ A jubilant smile lit Legolas' sky blue eyes as he snapped the lid shut and tucked the plain wooden box under his healthy arm. He would see it done, from these gems would gifts be made to mark his siblings' twenty-fifth begetting day anniversaries and for each one's Coll o Gwedh.

Humming a merry little tune he had picked up from Mithrandir during one of the Istar's earliest visits in the Wood Elf's memory, the Tawarwaith shut the repository and moved to the next case. Surmising only more gems would be discovered in the first one's remaining compartments, he set the box of emeralds on top of the cabinet and pulled open the uppermost drawer. He found what he had been seeking immediately. Revealed within was an abundance of gold, silver, and mithril bands, each one plain and free of adornment, lining the bin the way leaves covered the forest floor in autumn.

"Ah! Herein does my treasure's token lie!" he exclaimed in soft tones of warm satisfaction.

He set about examining the rings one by one, setting aside those wrought from the purest gold of the correct size for his Berenaur's index finger. Many were inscribed on the inner surface, but this was no deterrent and in fact he deemed it a fair omen to choose a ring that had graced the hand of someone's beloved from days long past. Even if the wearer was removed to Mandos, still a true bond would never diminish, and the physical sign of such a trust would be a perfect emblem for his devotion to the Noldo Lord. And he hoped, though he dared hardly even think it, to find one that had belonged to someone tied to him by blood, perhaps even one of his uncles.

_Nay, be honest within the silence of your heart at least,_ he chided his hesitant reluctance to admit his goal, _you seek Minya'dar's own bonding ring._  

With a sigh he ceased his hunt for a moment and leaned upon the solidly constructed case, feeling the strain of the last hours return as a sudden wave of light-headed dizziness swept through him. Steadying his balance, Legolas gauged the small pile of golden bands set upon the richly coloured tight-grained surface, considering if he should stop searching and choose from among these. Before he could answer his internal query, the sound of booted feet descending the spiralling stone steps reached his hearing.

The rhythm of the gait, the length of the stride, and the weight of the tread, all were familiar and recognisable in an instant. He had just sufficient time to regain his composure and stand straight before Thranduil paced through the open gates, pausing just a half-step to note the gore coated key still lodged in the mechanism of the lock before resuming, a soft curse over the loss of protection for the stash preceding him.

The King stopped, startled to see his rejected first-born there, staring in bold defiance, loathing and bitter wrath openly displayed in flashing eyes of deep indigo. His gaze travelled the elf, rigidly poised in offensive posture, instinctively prepared to meet the challenge despite having one arm bound up in a sling and a shoulder swathed in cotton gauze. Thranduil's brow creased in indignant lines of disbelief; the cast off warrior was wearing Oropher's panther skin cloak about his shoulders, clasped at the neck with the Sinda Lord's HÔøΩ√ªn√ªÔøΩren [Heart of Fire], a blood red ruby occluded and dark, the gift of his mate's naneth upon their betrothal.

As Thranduil was processing this visual affront, a casual flick of the Tawarwaith's wrist cast the right side of the heavy cape of plush black fur behind him.  

"What are you doing here?" the King demanded, but remained just inside the gaping gates.

"I am looking for something. What do you want?" Legolas sniped back, sounding more assured than he felt. He was astounded to see the bruises and lacerations, recently treated and fading but still visible, marking Thranduil's comely features. He could not hide his astonishment and gawked at the swollen cheek, now dark purple, and the matching round knot protruding at the temple. "What happened to you?" he blurted out.

"I will give no answer to you," countered Thranduil, one hand rising to palpate the tumescent mass carefully, slowly advancing toward the Tawarwaith. "Do not pretend to concern over my well-being. And this is my storeroom, every item within it belongs to me. You are trespassing; leave at once!"

"It is of no consequence; I have no wish to cause you discomfort by asking you to reveal who gave you such a thrashing. Yet I will stay."

"Hah! Several misguided Wood Elves attempted to avenge your injury, if you must know, and they have been dealt with appropriately. Your design to incite mayhem and unseat the House of Oropher failed. Now get out!" Thranduil, by then less than an arm's length from his first-born, flung out his pointing hand to indicate the exit.

"I have never enteratined such an aim!" Legolas jumped slightly at the sudden move but recovered well, holding his ground. "Mayhap the woodland folk have grown weary of your arrogance and bigotry. And I will go when I have found what I seek.

"I have every right to be in here; we are the same blood, you and I, and do not ever tell me otherwise again. Nor anyone else, for that matter. But neither would I have you announce the fact; it is not exactly a connection I am proud about." The Tawarwaith's sneering disdain was blatant and he took a step forward to strengthen his claim.

The words did not come as a surprise to Thranduil and his lips compressed into implacable lines that emphasised his obstinate chin, which lifted even higher as he glared down on the outspoken upstart. The King was not certain which was more objectionable, hearing the child of Ningloriel demand acknowledgement or his repudiation of the Sinda's character.

"You comprehend the curse of the lock and key, good! Let it be as a caution to you; guard your words and reign in your insolent demeanour in my presence, henellon [boy child]."

"I will say what needs to be voiced and present whatever outward display of respect, or lack thereof, you have earned. How could you do something so vile to your own brothers? Do you not fear to face Oropher's wrath for such treachery?"

"I will not defend my actions to you, and of Oropher you are ignorant. Do not speak my father's name!" roared Thranduil. "And that cloak belongs to him; remove it at once!"

"Oropher of Neldoreth is my Miny'adar!" Legolas yelled back and pointed at the spot between Thranduil's furrowed brows. "He would not begrudge me its use in such a situation. Indeed, I believe he would have pummelled you unconscious for stabbing one of his grandchildren."

"Completely inaccurate! He would have struck you down himself ere you came close enough to pose a threat to me! How dare you presume to know his mind? He would not be well pleased with your penchant for visiting violence upon your own family," Thranduil snarled and slapped the accusing finger out of his line of sight.

But his eldest did not reply, instead standing mute and motionless as though a new trance had overtaken him, staring into Thranduil's fierce green eyes with an expression composed of equal parts shock and dismay. _What now? _worried the King and his heart gave an involuntary skip of instinctive fear for the next move the unpredictable wild elf would make.

Legolas was afforded a moment of clarity, observing his interaction with his estranged father as though from beyond his body, and the words of Fearfaron resounded in his thoughts. Memories of his Naneth engaging in such volatile encounters assailed him; such confrontations had driven him to hide in the Sentinel throughout his elfling days. Following these unpleasant recollections, the remarks of his uncles reproached him. How would he be able to minimise Thranduil's paranoia and its accompanying isolationist policies if he continued on this path? Images of his baby brother and sister completed the catalogue of self-chastisement; the Tawarwaith realised he needed to alter the established pattern before the construct collapsed into bloodshed anew. 

"Aye, Miny'adar would be appalled to have witnessed that scene. I have not been thinking very clearly since Berenaur's dunking. It is true, I deliberately bated you, was using you for my own ends." Legolas sighed and frowned as he flashed a speculative glance at his openly wary sire, but was not overwhelmed with gloating satisfaction to observe the evidence of the King's confusion.

_Ai! Miny'adar would indeed be horrified to behold this scenario and Fearfaron would have dragged me out of here rather than permit a repeat of the Council Chamber episode. Nonetheless, it is galling to beg absolution of this ogre._

"I ask pardon for the threat and the ruse; and thank you for the restraint you demonstrated in not plunging that foul dagger directly into my heart. Then you would have been guilty of a crime Miny'adar would never forgive and a surfeit of such burdens already bows your back." Legolas placed his unharmed hand over his heart as he spoke and bowed just half way. It was enough to make his head spin, however, and he swayed as he sought to regain his equilibrium.

A strong grip encircled his healthy arm and remained until the light-headedness retreated. Legolas was shocked to find he was being supported by Thranduil, an unreadable expression swimming through the emerald coloured gaze that seemed intent on piercing his very feÔøΩ. He blushed and pulled free, stepping back to make use of the sturdy cabinet to ensure his balance.

"I am surprised," Thranduil began and stopped with a shake of his head, for he was truly dumbfounded. _Did Ningloriel's child just admit to fault in this fiasco and ask forgiveness?_ He cleared his throat and started over. "I do not wonder that your thoughts have been in disarray these last many days, even before the troubles the Noldo Lord encountered. The Erebor situation has been a trying burden for you; for all of Greenwood." He managed a tight, uncomfortable smile while his eyes reflected the quandary in his thoughts.

An awkward pause commenced.

Legolas refrained from speaking, holding his breath without realising it as he awaited the remainder of the speech. _Surely that is not the whole of it._ Yet he was torn, anticipating Thranduil's apology, not knowing if he could grant forgiveness to this elf though such Oropher would be pleased to see.  His mother's departure from Arda replayed through his thoughts.

_Because of Thranduil's callous demands she is gone._

His uncles' long centuries of torturous enslavement also demanded repentance, yet no further words fell from the monarch's lips. Irritation made itself evident, collecting in a controlled scowl that marred the Tawarwaith's mild features as he exhaled a disgusted sigh from his nostrils.

Thranduil caught his breath, watching this particular arrangement of facial muscles transform the youthful countenance before him. It was Ningloriel's face, ever mocking him with the uncannily beauteous resemblance, yet Oropher's spirit shone through the azure orbs; the look presented was one the Woodland King knew all too well. Ever was that demeanour presented to him when he sought to discuss with his Adar the many benefits his gift of wealth bestowed and the fierce reputation his hand-picked forces earned for Greenwood's elves and their first King.

Thranduil blinked but the haunting similarity did not vanish. He coughed lightly as a means of removing his sight from the chastising glare without loss of authority, feeling distinctly the age-old disappointment Oropher always tried so hard, and failed so fully, to hide.

"Well, I came to retrieve a suitable bauble for Echuiross. She is distraught over the proofs of the insignificant scuffle your precipitate actions incited," he said with his customary haughtiness and stepped over to the cabinet holding the myriad gems.

"You allowed her to see you like this?" railed Legolas and his frown deepened into open outrage, quickly forgetting his determination to be the one among his family able to control his temper. "What were you thinking? She must have been terrified! You cannot just present her innocent mind with the notion that her Adar is vulnerable."

"It was the furthest idea from my thoughts at the time, I assure you," Thranduil barked over his shoulder as he drew the middle drawer ajar and leaned down to search its contents. He made an impatient grunt. "Light!" he called, and of course nothing happened for the trapped feÔøΩ√§r were freed. "Ulmo's Balls!" he hissed and shot Legolas a putrid glare as he straightened up. "I was concerned for her to come to harm from you, possessed by my brothers' spirits. What insanity drove you to risk that when you so boldly claim to have my children's good foremost in your priorities?"

"Ah! I did not know anything about them then! I am not at fault and when Gwilith learns about her uncles she will be pleased that I let them go."

"She does not need to ever find out, is that clear?" Thranduil moved closer to menace his challenger anew. "You will not relate that story, for you do not understand any of it. I am her father and I will provide the details for any history of which she needs to be made aware, not you!"

"Nay, I am not subject to you! I am her brother and if I deem it wiseÔøΩ‚Ä¶"

"You are once more a citizen of the Realm and thus will follow my decrees. To defy me is treason!"

"Then call me a traitor and be done with it!"

This brought the conversation to a halt again and the pair engaged in a staring match of such intensity it was a wonder the gold in the small pile of rings on the case top did not begin to melt. Thranduil was at a distinct disadvantage, unknown to Legolas, for the Sinda warrior never could hold Oropher's disapproving gaze of unrealised expectation. He turned back to the drawer and its dazzling contents to cover his retreat from the contest.

"Nay, you take things too literally, Tirno. I will not abide interference in my decisions regarding my children's upbringing, however," he murmured with a sidelong glance to see how Legolas might take this indirect apology.

The Tawarwaith's brows shot to his hairline in surprise, having no means to comprehend how he had won this round, and he was unable to find any words to say in answer. He watched as Thranduil rummaged through the drawer, picking up this ring and discarding it, fingering that chain of diamonds and replacing it, forehead contracted in exaggerated concentration as if he was studying a report on the activity of the Wraiths within his woods.

The King was expending this effort in order to appear unconcerned when in reality he was desperately attempting to find a means to move from confrontation to conciliation. Legolas had made the initial effort and he was impressed by the degree of maturity required to openly accept responsibility for all that had taken place in the Chamber of Starlight. _An improvement over the usual sulky impudence he presents. Here is the persona I hoped to gain as an ally, the brave fighter determined to salvage the glory of Greenwood._

More importantly, Taurant's fits of crying had abated and Thranduil had no wish for them to begin anew. Besides, he had already promised his daughter, twice, that Limlas would come to visit soon. She would indeed be distressed if he went back on his word._And Meril would find such a victory far too sweet._  The monarch cleared his throat.

"Why are you still down here, and alone at that?" he queried for the second time in less a tone of command and more an expression of genuine puzzlement, and he eyed the jumble of golden bands and the little wooden box. The sight of the plain container drew him forward at once and he reached for it. "Why did you remove this?"

"These are mine," Legolas was quicker, being closer, and had the slender cask tucked under his arm in an instant, defiance blooming in his vibrant cobalt orbs anew.

"Those are certainly not your property! As I said, everything here belongs to me," Thranduil's irritation at this obstinacy reasserted itself. "You truly must learn respect; your Naneth's influence is too extensive a component of your character."

"Leave her out of it!" Legolas curled his hand into a hard tight fist and gritted his teeth, desperately trying to focus on the issue rather than allow the monarch to goad him into another acerbic shouting match. "I claim these as recompense for my years in exile, by your own decree unjustified," he was quite pleased with this notion his nimble brain supplied so swiftly, "and I have plans for their use."

Thranduil peered closely, surprised by the reply, but found it difficult to counter. He wondered if Mithrandir had informed his rejected heir of the means by which those gems had come into his horde. Nothing could he discern but Legolas' determination to hold onto the emeralds, however, and so he merely shrugged.

He did not care about the jewels, really; they were a reminder of unpleasant circumstances, marking the ignominious beginning of the disgraced archer's unexpected rise to power and his own near loss of the Realm to outside influence. It was fitting for the Tawarwaith to keep the stones. But Thranduil's hand, already in motion, continued to the mound of simple bands and casually spread them out. He lifted a brow in sardonic inquiry.

"And these?"

Legolas' reaction, a bright flush of discomfort, was unexpected and the King struggled to contain his amazement on seeing it.

"I need a bonding band," Tirno mumbled as he ducked his head to hide the burning advent of his embarrassment.

"Ah, of course," Thranduil grimaced at the idea of the same-sex pairing, a concept he thought indicative of moral decay and a deplorable regression to a status of purely somatic desire, devoid of the commitment of genuine love. _Cavorting in decadent excess with wily Erestor of Imladris, no less! _The King huffed a grouchy breath and shook his head. _At least I will have the satisfaction of Elrond's displeasure over losing so valued an advisor._ "The seneschal has recovered?"

"Somewhat. Fearfaron believes a renewal of our bond and an exchange of the proper symbols will help him remember me." Legolas could not conceal the forlorn despair and unspoken fear underscoring this simple sentence, and frowned to know he had revealed this weakness before his father.

"I see," Thranduil studied the elf, suddenly the very picture of dejected worry, and could not help feeling he must do something to prevent further decline into grief and fading. Taurant would sense the change, surely, and suffer right along with his older brother. "The talan-builder is probably right; I have seen others recover from the Enchantment as long as full immersion was prevented. Erestor's history should become complete in short order." The look of gratified hope that suffused the Tawarwaith's eyes eased the King's mind considerably; he managed another meagre smile and returned attention to the pile of rings.

"These are not all from warriors of the Woodland Realm; there are many here from elves of Lorien, Mithlond, and even Lindon, slain at Dagorlad. The best quality rings are not found scattered in random disarray in a drawer." He moved next to the Tawarwaith and bent to open the lowest compartment. Within was a series of small leather clad cases, some embossed with crests and family names. He gestured with his hand. "Within are such that would be fitting. Each adorned the hand of a member of a noble family from either Neldoreth or Greenwood."

Legolas stared at the open bin, outraged that Thranduil would not only steal such relics from the dead but then fail to return the treasured effects to the felled warriors' surviving kin. Still, he could not deny his amazement over being offered the premier collection from which to choose. The Tawarwaith sat upon his heels before the neatly organised boxes.

"Hannad," he said softly and registered his father's non-committal grunt. _How can I get him to show me Minya'dar's ring?_ Legolas opened a few of the little cases, clicking them shut after only cursory examination of what was within them, and sighed.

"Are none to your liking? You have hardly even looked before discarding each in turn," Thranduil groused and scrutinised his eldest child's open displeasure with bewilderment.

"I am sure they are all fine."

"But not suitable for your mate? Why?"

"I desire something that belonged to my own people."

"Those are such."

"Nay, I meant my kin by blood."

"Ningloriel's folk?"

"Eru's Arse! You are deliberately being thick-sculled! You know what I mean! The Noldor mark one's lineage through the father's bloodlines; I would have proof of mine to give Berenaur." Legolas stood, angry and red-faced, and turned away, stalking to the high shelving where he could attempt to camouflage his distress. He realised how unrealistic his hope had been and to his utter horror felt tears collecting in his eyes. He blinked fiercely and swallowed, keeping his back to the monarch. _Valar! I have made numerous concessions and still he jeers and mocks me! Why does he not take his trinket and go?_ His overwrought mind supplied instantaneous answer: _He will stay until I leave; I must select a lesser ring._ A huge sigh rocked his frame but still he did not return to the cabinet, unwilling to have Thranduil enjoy his abrupt emotional outburst.

"Calm yourself!" the Sinda Lord admonished sternly. "And watch your tongue! You charge is irrational; I am not Mithrandir and cannot read your thoughts. I have no means to understand your wishes without asking. Valar, why must you be so contentious? For the little ones' sakes, I would have peace with you, Legolas." Thranduil frowned to see the archer's shoulders jerk and his spine stiffen, for he had thought his words were quite generous.

"Again! That is three times this day!" Legolas was unprepared for this offer and the casual use of his name abused his raw nerves.

"What?"

"Make it four!" The Tawarwaith turned to face the King, unable to reign in the bilious acrimony suppressed for centuries.

"What madness is this?"

"My name! Legolas! How it just runs right out of your mouth as if you were in the habit of speaking it regularly! Does it not feel as strange to you to form those sounds as it does for me to hear them in your voice?" Legolas stormed back until he was close enough to hear the King's breathing, unmindful now of the potential tears in the burst of rage.

The King's mouth was actually hanging open, for this was obviously what had prompted the outcast's earlier bizarre fugue and likely initiated the physical attack, for Legolas could have merely snatched the key, breaking the fine chain without need to draw a blade at all. That Ningloriel's child spoke truth he realised with leaden shame; recalling the variety of insulting labels he had applied to the elfling under his protection. Anger came right on the heels of the guilt, for Thranduil felt he had been cheated as much as Legolas had been neglected. It was an uncomfortable juxtaposition of feelings.  
   
The dilemma was unlike any Thranduil had faced since the death of his mother. Then he had been consumed with sorrow and simultaneously incited by rage, longing to cling to Oropher for comfort and overcome with rage enough to pummel him senseless for failing to protect Naneth. He had needed his father to explain why she was gone; hoped Oropher would provide the means to destroy every foul creature that had taken her away. The experienced warrior could supply neither and Thranduil's fading feÔøΩ√§ had only refused to follow Naneth's because the heat of his anger ignited an unquenchable ferocity of purpose born of vengeance.

His grief fuelled the furnace that smelted the raw ore of his being, refined his essence, sublimated the lighter components of his psyche and distilled a formidable soul: indurate, self-righteous, and ruthless. Without ever facing death and NÔøΩ√°mo's judgement, Thranduil had been reborn. Nay, remade and transmuted into an instrument of retaliation, an insurgent grappling for dominion of his world against its very creators. Still, the remnant of that elfling's wounded soul survived, tucked away deep within this perilous warrior, protected until his Naneth returned to claim him.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt; 

_Would she be proud or would she spurn me, even as Adaren [my father] did?_ Thranduil knew the answer for his child-self had grown strangely loud of late.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;

And the woodland King would not silence this thin voice, this wraith of his initial persona. It would be impossible for he believed it was his youthful spirit, untouched by the tragedy of death, whom he sheltered at the core of his being. It was from this child that the surety of his convictions sprung. For that elfling's loss, abandonment, and betrayal were all his schemes and plans wrought, his hopes and dreams nurtured and nursed, enemies and detractors obliterated.

Everything he did and thought was designed to guard the hidden child he had never outgrown, and because the child had not matured the adult was never appeased, perpetually searching for a means to reintroduce that personality. He could not help but think of them both, his mother and his youthful innocence, lost so long ago, and found Legolas more like this internal elfling-self than he cared to admit. For within his inner-image, Thranduil held the title of Greenwood's liberator, striving to thwart the advance of Darkness and retain the autonomy of the Sindar elves, making safe the world for the motherless and mistreated among the forest folk.

That ego-flattering mirage dissipated in the Tawarwaith's presence, whisked away, smoke upon wind.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;

He was afforded an instant of externalisation, observing himself from beyond the carefully constructed barrier of the just guardian and noble defender. What he beheld instead was an antagonistic, self-absorbed tyrant, single-mindedly pursuing a phantom reality that his own cynical reason paradoxically denied had ever existed. Even Taurant was but a new medium through which to project this internal vision of personal superiority. He had been so fanatical in propagating this creed that he had failed to comprehend that walls meant to shield him from hurt and harm had instead blinded him, laid him open to manipulation and diversion of purpose.&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;

The unwanted enlightenment evoked a dissolution of the proud crusader facade. He was no better than Elrond or Galadriel, controlling their lands through rings of power, always seeking to enlarge their influence over the rest of the free peoples. _Nay, worse, for my actions serve nothing but my own glorification. Is this what the legacy of Oropher is to become?_ The King returned from his ruminations subdued, blocked the chimera from perception, and focused on the instigator of these disparaging revelations.

Studying the Wood Elf, scarcely more than a hand's breadth dividing them, it occurred to Thranduil that he must give answer before the Tawarwaith resorted to violence again, for Legolas was actually trembling with the effort to contain the wrath of millenia. Thranduil drew a deep breath and lifted his right hand, intending to secure a comforting grip upon his eldest's shoulder, only to have it summarily blocked as outrage flamed higher.

"Nay!" hissed the Tawarwaith.

"SÔøΩth! [Peace] It is not my intent to do harm to you."

"All you have ever done is hurt me!" Legolas was beyond reason and a rolling wave of nausea swept over him as he realised with acute humiliation that a couple of tears had escaped despite his unwillingness to lose control. He steeled himself for the scoffing laugh and acidic derision the King was sure to direct upon him, furiously dashing away the the betraying moisture from his cheeks.

"Aye," said Thranduil barely loud enough to be heard. "I am a fool, but more so cruel. You were but a child; it was none of your doing, the machinations of Ningloriel and Elrond."

Prepared for denials and insulting derogation, Legolas gasped in disbelief, shaking his head, and the confession only fuelled his ire. _How dare he try and mitigate the results of his disregard so late, so ineffectually? He would placate me with polite words stripped of their meaning, just to spare himself the recount of his sins!_ His limited mastery over his reactions slipped away completely; the only means he knew to prevent dissolving into hysterics was to unleash his anger. He launched into a biting, acrimonious tirade.

"Cruel? You are despicable! An Orc would not behave so basely! You should have believed her! How could her word be less honourable than that Noldo Lord's?" He raised his fist to strike out and the box of gems clattered to the ground. The noise halted his assault and with a shout he inflicted the blow upon the case beside him instead even as Thranduil raised his hand to fend off the attack. "She never lied, not ever! Whatever she did that was not one of her flaws and you should have known this! No wonder she turned to another if you did not even bother to learn the least bit about her nature!" Frantic to stop, Legolas could not, and his eyes, wild and bright with unhidden self-disgust, revealed this to Thranduil.

"Balch? [Cruel?] That is but a word! How can you sum centuries of cold hatred to such a small bland sound soÔøΩ‚Ä¶so‚Ä¶ÔøΩsuccinctly? With such nonchalant indifference? Ai Valar! You should have had me killed! You should have made Talagan throw me in that bloody river you created for then I would never have known anything."

"Enough, Legolas, enough! Do not say such things!"

"Nay, to destroy me then would have been a kindness and that was beyond your capabilities! You made Naneth and me bear the burden of Elrond's scheming and now you refuse to hear of it?"

"I admit my fault, only be calm!"

"It is not enough! How can you try to pacify me thus? I want her back! Can you do that?"

Thranduil was alarmed, not knowing what to expect next nor how to dam the river of misery, a reservoir filled over a lifetime of seclusion, scorn, and abuse, breached and pouring forth at last. He wished for the threatening forest warrior to return for this elfling in the throes of emotional breakdown was far more frightening. Soldier's ways he understood, but this child's misery was too like his own to bear witnessing. _This is far worse than dealing with Ningloriel._

"Think of what this will do to Taurant," he urged, "for all that befalls you grieves him as well." Spontaneously he grabbed his eldest by the biceps and gave him a jarring shake.

Legolas flinched and wrenched free, emitting a soul-broken howl of both pain and regret, and sank down to the floor. He folded up next to the case, collecting up the emerald-bearing box, and leaned against the sturdy furniture as he cradled his injured shoulder's tightly bound arm. But he spoke no further and gradually regained command of his shuddering breathing, eyes shut to prevent looking upon the King's face, for the worry he had glimpsed there raised another sensation for which he was not prepared. A sharp stab of angry jealousy over the reference to his baby brother's welfare flowed through his veins and startled Legolas right out of his ranting tantrum.

_I do not wish Thranduil to care for me; I wish him to leave me alone!_ he lied.

Thranduil passed a quaking hand over his forehead, horrified that he had broken his word so soon and brought the injured elf more pain, _Is my resolve so shallow?_ though he could only comprehend the physical manifestation and knew not the wound his stated preference for the youngest child had inflicted. 

"I cannot think," he confessed aloud, "What is required to mend this?" he began quietly and immediately was seized with an idea he was certain must lift the Tawarwaith's flagging feÔøΩ√§. "Echuiross wishes to see you and has invited you to tea."

Legolas did not speak or raise his eyes, remaining crouched in a protective huddle, head resting on knees drawn up to shield his broken body.

Thranduil's brain chugged as he stared around aimlessly, running a hand over one of the long thick plaits trailing down his chest. His vision rested on the scattered rings still strewn over the cabinet's surface. Another flash of insight broke through his confusion and he hastened to the last of the four cases. He eased open the highest drawer and took from the items there a square wooden container inlaid with mithril in an intricate design of oak leaves within which was worked his own name.

The box had been commissioned by Oropher and within had been the Sinda Lord's gift to his youngest son on his twenty-fifth begetting day anniversary: a magnificent opal set in a mithril buckle to replace the plain one adorning the youth's sword-belt. This item was not currently within the box, however, and almost eagerly Thranduil knelt and held his gift out to his rejected child. But Legolas still had his eyes shielded and the monarch sighed dramatically in hopes of gaining the distraught elf's attention.

"Here; see if this will serve," he coaxed. Still no indication was given that his words were heeded. "Legolas, I cannot undo anything that has happened to you. I have been trying to restore your life as much as possible by lifting the banishment and the Judgement, yet you resist and defy me at every turn."

"It is for Taurant, not me, that you have undertaken this change." Morose and petulant woe suffused these muffled words spoken into the elf's leather-clad thighs. 

That tone more than the words stunned Thranduil, for he was unprepared to hear such a note of envy surround Legolas' speech. He frowned, for he could not pretend to harbour for Legolas anything like the affection he felt for his newborn heir. _I shall be doing well to replace disgust with irritated disapproval._ He experienced an even greater shock upon comprehension that this described the highest level of affirmation he had ever experienced from Oropher. Another disgruntled sigh escaped.

"Aye. Yet we share this goal, do we not? You would bear much to ensure his, as well as Gwilith's, future happiness. Would you not?"

"I did not say otherwise."

"Yet what I ask is not something that will be a hardship; not this time. Take this." Again Thranduil held forth the elaborate box.

"What is it?" Legolas opened his eyes to stare at the ornate little container resting on his Adar's palm, but did not reach for it.

"It was my father's, your Minya'dar's." Thranduil would never have believed he could so urgently hope for Ningloriel's child to accept a gift from his hand, yet he was consumed with impatience, willing the reluctant elf to take the object from him.

Legolas could not deny his wonder any longer, considering what sort of jewel his grandfather, not known for love of riches, would have cherished so highly and whether it was set in a clasp or a ring, for the container was too small for other options. Tentatively, he stretched his fingers for it and flashed a quick peek at the King's face. The air of giddy anticipation displayed there was a unique expression for Thranduil to direct at him and Legolas fairly snatched the box up, settling into a more comfortable cross-legged posture to investigate the contents. Without further hesitation he lifted the lid and stared at the simple ring lying on the blue velvet padding.

"My Naneth had it made for him, so Oropher told us. She had picked him out when she was only an elfling, it would seem, and informed his mother that Oropher and she would be bound as soon as she was of age. It happened just so, according to him. See the inscription? It is a good omen and not one that marks the ring as another's so badly."

Legolas was amazed, for he held what his heart had so desired after all. He took the heavy golden circle out and turned the band to see the words inside, finding just a single one: 'Uir' [Eternity.] He smiled to read it and stood, slipping the ring into his pocket where his fingertips brushed the robin's egg stone. This he drew out and presented on his palm to Thranduil, who had risen as well.

"Hannad, Hîren Adar. [my Lord Father] For Gwilith; I am sure there is a story for this one she will like."

Thranduil took the gem and watched his oldest child dart through the wrought iron barrier, amazed that someone prostrate in sorrow only seconds ago could move with such speed.

 

TBC  


  
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	86. Ind-en-Erestor [Erestor's Conscience]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

 

**Ind-en-Erestor [Erestor's Conscience]**

  
_Eru's arse! How did I end up in this situation?_

Erestor thumped across the length of the wooden floor and back, passing in front of the small, cheerily glowing iron brazier and a low leather covered ottoman set near it. He clasped his hands behind him, then loosed them and ran both through his long black hair. He glared down at an innocent side table that held a plain, brightly burning silver oil lamp and finally stopped before the tightly drawn silk curtains. With annoyance spawned by overwrought nerves and the remains of the migraine, he pushed the fabric aside with his fingers just a sliver to peer out into the little clearing.

It was inconceivable; never would he have imagined the events Aragorn and Mithrandir had described to him, though he knew they had no cause to invent such a tale. Their dual recitation, each interposing at any point when they deemed the other's account insufficient, had made his brain feel too full to accept the story's conclusion. They simply could not be speaking of his history over the last several months. Recalling the plans he and Elrond had devised, his friends' revelations did not seem plausible consequences of such an underhanded sort of plot.

Beyond the journey into the Mirkwood, Erestor had nothing upon which to anchor the new information. All he knew for certain was that a large vacancy in chronology was evident in the rhythm of his body's clock. Other than a few vague and fleeting impressions of a human village and a horrendous memory of encountering the Wraiths, Erestor could not own any of it personally.  How could he embrace such a convoluted narrative, with himself the one who ended up claiming the wild elf while the Lord of Imladris faced formal charges for malicious intervention in Mirkwood's affairs? The two had journeyed here solely to debase and diminish the child of Ningloriel, using the real concerns for Middle-earth's future as false justification. How could it be that pain and suffering had transformed into redemption and love? 

_Far more than taking and giving pleasure; Aragorn spoke of my bonding to this discarded prince. Surely that was never part of Elrond's plans. Nor mine._  

The seneschal shook his head soberly in self-chastisement, yet in a part of his thinking that did not reach consciousness the idea thrilled him. _Legolas,_ he tried the word out soundlessly and at once his heart made a peculiar triple-stroke as a sharp sense of apprehension surrounded his soul. It was disconcerting for he was unable to assign any known danger to the reaction. A deep breath joined a second brief twitch of his chin in denial and he turned from the internal scrutiny to assess his external surroundings once more.

His vision swept over the late afternoon, half-lit glen as he sighed in quiet fatigue. No longer was the place a strangled clutter of weeds, grasses, and scrub oak. Neat hedgerows and a freshly turned bed for flowers and herbs flanked a stone bordered walkway. The path led down to the old stump of a beech and a lanky sapling hugging close to the remains of the ancient's lifeless roots. The sight of the youthful tree and the well-groomed garden gave his heart ease somehow and he exhaled a portion of the worried strain from his body. He could barely believe it was from this rejuvenated meadow that he had led his grieving lover away just days ago.

"Oh!" Erestor physically jumped at this notion and his heart began drumming as if he had run for leagues without rest.

Desperately he tried to hold onto the flicker of an image, the sensation of a tormented body leaning against him for support, a spirit vibrant and dauntless housed within a form of strange and untamed grace. Within the Noldo's feä surged a strong desire to ease the pain and win back the elf's trust, to undo the deep wounds his careless tongue and heedless acts had inflicted. He could not see the ellon's face, for it was drooping under the weight of fading, and the more effort Erestor expended to enhance the mirage the more ephemeral the vision grew. Depression followed swiftly behind the shock of the revelation and the dissolution of the dream. He turned from the drapes to stalk back across the room again.

"Valar! It is all real? How can this be so?"

"What is it? Did you remember something?" demanded Gandalf. "Do not hold back, Erestor, I warn you!" The Istar was seated on the daintily embroidered love-seat, half-heartedly puffing at his long-stemmed clay pipe. Only a meagre, straggling curl of white smoke lifted from the rather dampened burley, however, and he grimaced around the bitter tang of juices his efforts extracted from the bowl instead. He carefully set the pipe aside as its fire dwindled and expired.

"Do not threaten me any more this day!" Erestor wheeled to point at Mithrandir, foregoing cool reason and calm discourse, his frazzled mind giving way under rising tension and panic. "I need to sort things out and you are not helping."

"I assure you it is not my intent to hinder your recovery, but rather to stifle your natural urge to wriggle out of your duty in this unorthodox arrangement," groused the wizard.

"My duty? Mithrandir, I am bound by more than obligation to Orophin and Dambethnîn, whether you deem it correct or not, yet now you sit here and menace me with spells and dire fate, my immortal life spent amid this forest as one of its many trees, if I shun the company of the silvan archer. What am I supposed to do? I cannot abandon a true bond even if I wished it."

"That is so," the Istar rejoined and rose. "Sit, for your agitation wears upon my soul." He pressed Erestor down onto the ottoman and went to the tiny kitchen, returning with two glasses half filled with miruvor and a bottle of golden wine. "I believe you will find your union with Legolas is at least as genuine, if not stronger, than the one forged with the worthy elves from Lorien. Your real challenge may lie in salvaging ties with the Galadhrim." He handed the tonic to the advisor and resumed his place on the sofa, setting the wine on the table nearby.

"It is not my 'natural inclination' to deflect responsibility for my actions," Erestor ignored the implications of Gandalf's last statement and resumed grumbling over the slur upon his character. He accepted the drink gratefully enough, however, and dragged the foot stool nearer the grate. The fire crackled loudly and he hovered over it for he was still chilled. "What makes you say such a thing? I have never wilfully harmed any of my partners; I cannot believe I sought to ensnare this one's heart." The advisor simply could not encompass the thought of deliberately defying his bond with Pen-bara and Pen-raug, yet the other option was no better, for then he would be guilty of deliberately attempting to bind Legolas to him without offering anything in return.

"Nay, I could not have done so!" Erestor jumped up and paced back to the edge of the platform to stare into the ageing day, hoping for a return of the sense of peace the glade's renewal had granted. 

"Well this entire adventure certainly indicates a lax character at best," scolded the Maia, not quite in tune with the seneschal's thoughts.

_That I cannot deny._ Erestor frowned as he sipped the miruvor and gazed across the humble croft's grounds._Yet there had to be circumstances to warrant this conjugation, something I have yet to recall. I am not Elrond and brought no bitter grudge with me here. All my assignations have ever been honest; no desire to ruin another has plagued me prior to this one elf's situation._

An idea immediately danced across his thoughts, a bright warm whirlwind of joy, muted light, and gleeful laughter under silvery stars, that perhaps he might love the wild elf. Faster than he could blink the notion vanished, leaving him in uneasy quandary over what oaths he may have betrayed. Again he fled the unpalatable interior examination. His eyes travelled the clearing; nothing in the scene presented any indication of Legolas' unique appeal.

It was such a common little homestead; even humans in the villages along the East Road had more to show for their labours than this miserly allotment of real estate displayed. It said much of the true poverty of the Woodland Realm's inhabitants if this was the best they could manage for their esteemed, reclaimed champion against the Shadow. The seneschal shook his head and scowled in derision.

_Valar! A Hobbit hole is better situated and more richly appointed!_ The noble Noldo thought in dismal temper as he turned back and examined the sitting room and the galley just two steps from it.

_Elbereth, what manner of cooking smells must I endure whilst here? Indeed, who shall perform the culinary tasks? There is not even a privy, I am certain. I shall be reduced to emptying chamber pots or worse, relieving my body in the open woods. I will be a figure of mockery in both Imladris and Lorien, probably even Mithlond. 'Errant, erring Erestor, caught at last by some ignorant backwoods outcast warrior, forced into binding under threat of the wizard's staff. Serves him right!'_

But Erestor knew this petty lamentation for what it was: a futile attempt to convince himself that he did not care, to achieve distance from the catastrophe by arrogant condescension and force of will. With a moan his chin dipped to his chest and slumped back to his seat by the fire box, gulping down the remains of the stimulant and passing the glass over to Mithrandir for a sample of the amber wine. _By Iluvatar, no one has cajoled me into anything. My soul chose this course and shall not divert from it, regardless what I will._ He exhaled another deep gush of wind and rubbed his temples to soothe away the hurt. A wince cramped his shoulder blades, not from his discomfort but that which loomed over the lives of those he loved, those he had wronged. This headache was nothing compared to the pain his actions had caused the elf in the vision, nor was it likely to reach the proportions of despairing grief his mates would experience once his selfish finagling became known.

"Ai, Gandalf, just throw me back into that bloody river! Let me drown there!"

"Do not tempt me, fool of an elf!" rumbled the Istar's biting remonstrance. "I am not interested in your self-indulgent sorrowing, Erestor. Legolas could not survive your death, not even with my aid. That you can only visualise this tragedy in terms of your own debasement is hardly encouraging. Well let me just advise you bluntly: by my reckoning that Wood Elf you are sneering over far out weighs you in worth of character, grace, courage, and nobility! Gladly would I trade your life if doing so meant peace for Tirno!"

"Nay, I was not sneering! I do not mean to gloss over any of the harm this will cause him!"

"Then do not do so! Your thoughts are so easy to read."

"Truly? Then answer my fears, if you hear them so clearly! How do I honour the Wood Elf's claim against the union already enjoined with Orophin and Dambethnîn? Which of these elves must I hurt; tell me!" Erestor was up again, striding the length of the platform with noisy frustration sounding from the soles of his bare feet.

"Hah! None of this concerned you one whit prior to setting forth on this despicable escapade." The Istar rose and towered over the agitated elda in anger, bearing down and backing him to the sofa. "Do not try to prove yourself noble now by fretting over whom your actions will affect worst! Such efforts are quite wasted on me, old friend. The decisions belong to you, so it was in the beginning and thus it remains at the end of this tale. Reason cannot help you, fortitude and duty are meaningless; it is within your spirit that the solution lies. If you dare not look into your own heart, then Legolas is better off without you, even if that outcome delivers him to Mandos."

With that he shoved Erestor in the chest and sent him sprawling onto the decorative settee so hard the furniture scooted back nearly into the curtained walls. A final snorting growl later, Gandalf stormed into to the kitchen just to have an excuse to get away from the Noldo. He returned with a small pitcher of water and plunked it down on the table, sparing another harsh glance in the advisor's direction before casting his lengthy frame into a side chair.

"I agree with you; it would be far better had Legolas never met me." Erestor spoke quietly as he shifted more upright on the love-seat. "If I plead for death it is cowardice; I do not deny it. How can I face the consequences of my deeds, for they will fall not upon me but those closest to my heart, and on one my heart seems to know while I do not. Mithrandir, I have never purposefully acted with dishonourable intent before and I am having difficulty adjusting to this side of my personality."

"Oh, I am so very sorry over your distress!" snapped Gandalf.

The Maia's scowl did not diminish but he did pass the Noldo a serving of the amber alcohol. He knew he was being rather hard on the seneschal, for plainly Erestor was honestly flummoxed by the reality into which he had awakened. Gandalf realised much of his anger was more about his unrequited desire for Legolas' affections than the seneschal's reactions; Erestor's sins were a convenient outlet through which to vent the volatile emotion. The wizard cleared his throat and gathered his dignity about him, for berating the Noldo would ultimately be injurious to the archer if it prevented the advisor from facing his choices.

"Not all of it has been disgraceful, Erestor. Take heed of what your feä informs you over the rationalising which your mind supplies. Just now, did you sense something?" Gandalf sent his rival a strained smile that yet held within its folds a disapproving frown, which in turn served to mask the underlying pain piercing the Istar's encumbered heart.

"Aye, at least I think so." Erestor's hesitant answer followed. He knew not what to make of the wizard's unusual demeanour. _Never have I seen him this way; he mourns one moment and is consumed by fury the next._ "I remembered this glen as it was before, all weedy and wild. I was with someone and he was suffering greatly; I feel that I wished to comfort him. Nay, more than that. I wanted to heal a wound I had caused him. That elf is Legolas, I assume."

"Yes. You did not inflict the injury although your words revealed it to his consciousness." the Maia was hopeful but reserved his judgement. Erestor's feä had not yet spoken and this was troubling.

"Well, that is a small grace, I suppose," the seneschal mumbled dejectedly. "Better a slight by accident than malice by intent."

Mithrandir sighed and reached to the low table beside the couch where his pipe and pouch of Shire-leaf rested. Since the frantic escape from Orcs down the rapids, his pleasingly relaxing habit had become an intolerable disappointment, for he had been unable to restore the water-logged herb to its rightful consistency. With abrupt impatience he filled the cone shaped bowl and lit the pungent plant with a twig of kindling from the grate. He puffed determinedly, blowing gusts of acrid vapours into great clouds about his face until the shreds of leaf were bright orange nearly to the bottom of the pipe and he was satisfied the tiny fire would not fizzle away. He leaned back and drew in the heady smoke, letting the fumes ease his trepidation. Another protracted exhale sent a curling stream of grey from his nostrils.

"I am pleased to hear of this memory. If you recall that, then more recent events should be returned to your mind as well."

After this, a perturbed and morbid silence filled the talan, broken only by the creaking of the trees and the cracking combustion in the brazier. Minutes passed and the Istar would only smoke while the Noldo discretely fanned the fog away from him, fearing to speak and rouse the wizard's temper anew. Yet all the while, the sense of foreboding Erestor had been plagued with since awakening grew stronger. At last he could bear no more and sprang from his seat.

"Mithrandir, what is amiss? Speak plainly to me; is there something wrong? Do you know what is happening to Legolas now?"

"Nay, old friend, he has shut me completely out, ever since the initial close of the Council several days ago." he coughed a bit around this lie to cover its bald tones of deceit. He could barely admit his voyeurism to himself and certainly would never do so to Erestor of Imladris. Yet only to that very elf, one determined to heal centuries of accumulated harm, one that had worshipped Legolas' scars and wounds in his desire to free the fallen prince's fettered feä, only to that lover would the Maia relinquish his heart's sole claimant. _And this Noldo is not he; at least not yet._ "What is it you fear?"

"I do not know. I am cold as I have not been since the fall of Gondolin. I yearn for my family as though I lost them but yesterday. I feel I am needed by my…by Legolas and that I should go to him rather than sit here and wait for fell news."

"Nay, it would not be wise to intervene; this much my foreknowledge counsels. The King intends to remove the sentence, thus if Legolas does not interfere he will be outcast no more. The situation must be decided between Thranduil and his first-born." Gandalf noted, but did not acknowledge, the seneschal's hasty, mid-sentence vocal side step. 

"You say this as if you do not believe Legolas is willing to mend the rift."

"Aye. Have you marked how the trees all about the city are not slumbering in hibernation anymore? Their discordant worrying is low and indecipherable to any save Legolas and perhaps some others among the Wood Elves. Nonetheless, I comprehend the gist of it. Legolas is too intractable for his own well being. He has fixated on the notion that you are lost to him. The Greenwood fears their Tawarwaith may do something rash."

"Those are but reasons for me to be at his side! Mithrandir, I insist you lead me to the Council Chamber immediately!" Erestor hurried to the trap door, shut against the drop in temperature, and pulled it open. He had indeed noticed the creaking moans of the nearly naked limbs and their plaintive scraping in the absence of rain or wind added to the eerie impression of suspended doom. The Istar's morose mood did nothing to ease his apprehension.

"Sit down, Erestor!" commanded the wizard. "We are not going to the stronghold; Aragorn will bring news soon enough. Your presence would only incite Legolas to hasten his ruin. Can you not understand that he loves you and will not abide life without you by his side? If you arrive and cannot even pick him from the crowd, how shall that comfort his harried mental state?"

"He loves me." Erestor let the panel drop shut again, stunned. The Maia's words held the finality of truth and the timbre of his voice bore testimony to the germ of despair hidden in the beauty of the full-blown blossom of the glorious terms. Legolas loved him.

Through all their converse on the subject of the impromptu bonding, Erestor had somehow been disengaged from any empathetic emotion such a concept might stir. Instead he had considered the problem from the standpoint of the right and wrong of his actions and how to minimise the effects his errors would produce. Now his long held desire and unspoken prayer were granted at last: there was one heart in Arda that sought only his. And he could do nothing less than cherish such a gift.  
   
Mithrandir's words served to break the numbing barrier of shock and the remnant fog of disorientation. That brilliant glimmering joy glanced out from his soul again and teased across his brain; he did love the disgraced archer. The seneschal swallowed, confused by the combination of exhilaration and ripping distress coursing through every nerve. In the silence following the brash bang of the wooden door he crept back to his seat. It was nearly three full minutes before he could come up with any coherent thoughts for he was overwhelmed with guilt and giddy longing, sensations he had never experienced paired before.

"Ai, Mithrandir! If he is lost, it is my fault. If he is lost, then so am I." No sooner had the Noldo voiced this dread than a sharp spasm speared his body. He doubled over, for the intensity of the pain was so severe it felt he had been skewered with a sword. Erestor cried aloud and gasped for air.

"Elbereth! Nay, Erestor, be strong; that fate has not occurred!" Gandalf was at his side in an instant, helping him stretch out on the sofa. He tried to make the advisor comfortable and pressed him to drink another sip of the potent golden wine. "Valar, I should not have spoken of this; though I wished for the proof I would not have it given in so gruesome a form."

Erestor gasped to recover his breath, too fraught with the misery of his first taste of grieving sickness to heed what was said.

"Listen to me, you are not going to lose him, Erestor," Mithrandir spoke with the authority of Manwë's emissary and again tried to force the drink past the Noldo's lips. "The trees have stopped. Do you hear me? The forest is at peace. Surely this would not be so if Legolas was in Námo's custody."

The seneschal faintly heard the Maia speaking but could not concentrate on the syllables long enough to derive their meaning. He wailed anew and shuddered, then all at once the tearing agony freed him and he fell limp against the padded armrest and cushioned seats. A tingling friction disturbed the fine hairs on the nape of his neck and a return of the inner vision of Tawar engulfed him. There was no sound and the image was faint, but it seemed that Legolas was with three elven warriors and was not in danger any longer.

He knew at once which one was Legolas and his heart resumed a skittish pace to behold the fair face that had evaded memory before. Straining to gather details proved futile for the vantage presented was not close enough to note more than uncommon beauty with a strong resemblance to Ningloriel. This distance induced lack of perspective in itself was indication that the sense of recognition originated within his feä and not his thoughts. There was no attempt to assess the facial bone structure, no need to judge the visage against a previous sighting; he simply knew._ And this is no recollection; much the same sensation I have felt before. It is a gift of the trees. This tableau is happening now._ Erestor smiled brightly, not only because he remembered enough of his days amid the wilds to make this comparison, but also at the scene unfolding.

The warriors, two tall Sindar and one silvan, stood before the Tawarwaith, all of them grouped in the very heart of a tremendous old beech tree. One of the Grey Elves reached out to the lowly Wood Elf in both reverence and filial pride as the remaining pair looked on in joy. The trio of soldiers radiated an intense aura of peace, gratitude, and respect for Greenwood's defender. With a sudden burst of shocked surprise, Erestor recognised Oropher's older sons and experienced their delight in claiming the Tawarwaith as nephew. The vision did not last, dissolving faster than mist in sunlight, but it was enough to allay the Noldo's anxiety while advancing his shuddery pining.

"Eru is gracious!" Mithrandir exhaled a grateful prayer and resumed his place in the armchair, momentarily burying his aged features within his gnarled bony hands. "I do not want to have to tell Legolas about this episode and as long as there is no recurrence I see no reason for him to learn of it, agreed?" he asked in solemn tones.

"Agreed," whispered the advisor. "What was that?"

"A taste of what Legolas has been suffering through for quite a long while now. That is the pain of fading. When Aragorn returns, he will prescribe something to help you sleep and ease the remnant aching."

"Help me to sleep!" Erestor repeated in mock horror and gave the wizard a shaky smile. "I saw him; he is not in any danger. He was with three others; Oropher's two elder sons but I have no idea who the other one is. The link is gone again; he must be near exhaustion."

Mithrandir understood the referral was to Legolas and could say nothing to this, his thoughts troubled by resentment over Tawar denying him the vision. He rose and stepped over to the very edge of the talan much as the advisor had done before and moved aside the tight fabric barrier to stare out into the declining light. He hoped the Man would return soon and bring the healer for he was weary of the Noldo's plight and wished to find a place of solitude to tend his own grief.

So deep in his own ruminations was he that the wizard could not tell how much time had passed as the autumn twilight deepened. He came back to awareness abruptly, uncertain what noise or commotion had startled him, and turned to find the seneschal dozing peacefully. When his sight resumed inspection of the glade, he beheld Aragorn and Fearfaron hastening through the outer ring of beeches, laughing and laden, their arms over-flowing with baskets. Mithrandir opened the trap and let down the rope, aiding their mirthful ascent in quiet resignation.

"Ai, Gandalf!" exclaimed Aragorn upon seeing the Maia's serious expression. "What has happened? Is Erestor well?" The Man did not await the reply, however and hurried into the sitting room, alarmed to see the seneschal prone out on the settee.

"He has suffered an attack of the grieving sickness," the Istar intoned, helping the carpenter unpack the containers. "However, it relented quickly and he reported having both a memory of being with Legolas in this clearing before its redemption and a vision from Tawar of Legolas and his deceased uncles. This last I found rather disturbing, but Erestor did not seem bothered by it at all."

The vessels of woven river reed were filled with numerous sweet delights from the King's kitchens, along with two bottles of the finest wine from the monarch's cellars, an assortment of nuts and dried fruit for snacking, and Erestor's pack, with his change of clothes cleaned and repaired, from the stronghold. It was clear the two expected the seneschal to be remaining in the talan overnight. _Naturally he will dwell with Legolas whilst he remains in Greenwood._ Mithrandir could not suppress his bitter frown. 

"Valar!" exclaimed the carpenter as he peered at the insensible form draped over the much too short couch. "Those events truly happened! I was there; the unhoused feär confined to Thranduil's vaults were indeed his brothers, the third was a silvan archer long dead from the time of Oropher's arrival. Legolas managed to free them from the King's binding spell. Will Erestor be all right?" 

"He merely rests; this is not from the enchantment," said Aragorn. The mortal's quick inspection reassured him of the Noldo's viability. "The advisor's sleep is a healthy one that will restore his strength."

"But for how long will it last? Legolas will be here ere much more time passes," complained Fearfaron. "I would speak with Erestor before that meeting takes place."

"Peace, it is unnecessary," spoke the wizard. "His soul seeks for Legolas; he has made his choice. The Wood Elf will not lose him."

"As you say, yet there are things this elf has forgot that need to be revealed. Legolas still fears for his fate and that of the Galadhrim; the issue was never addressed by Erestor. Will you not wake him, Aragorn? It is imperative I instruct him before Legolas arrives," insisted the carpenter.

The mortal had no need to comply, however, because the seneschal woke of his own volition as the new voices reached his consciousness. He blinked and found his vision focused on an elf he could not recall ever meeting. Not comfortable appearing in so vulnerable a state before strangers of an almost hostile race, he sat up rather quickly. A flicker of his eyes to the right aligned them with Aragorn's and the Man sent a reassuring smile.

"Allow me to make the introductions. Erestor of Imladris, may I present Fearfaron of the Woodland Realm. This is Legolas' foster-father, old friend, and might as well be the silvan's kin by blood so strong is their mutual attachment."

Somehow those words were not nearly as comforting as the human's genial countenance implied and Erestor's tongue cleaved to his palate as he rose and politely bowed.

"Mae Govannen," he said formally and passed a careful inspection over the carpenter once he righted himself. The fact that his action was being mirrored by the Wood Elf was not exactly consoling.

"Suilad. So, you remember nothing? I am completely strange to you?" he demanded calmly and folded his arms before his chest.

"I regret that your words are true ones. I do not know your face."

"Yet he has had a strong recollection of Legolas and I have already told you he has made his decision," Mithrandir remarked irritably. "Bah! I will leave the three of you to sort this out! I must speak with Aiwendil regarding the upcoming negotiations between Imladris and Mirkwood." The wizard took two huge steps, forcing Aragorn to step out of the way in a hurry, snatched up his tobacco pouch and pipe, and climbed out through the trap door without further comment.

A short silence commenced as the trio considered how to begin and then Fearfaron took the initiative.     
     
"Aragorn, you may go as well, for what I need to say is best kept between myself and my son's heart-mate," Fearfaron transferred his gaze to the Man, a look too intense to permit the meagre heat of the mortal's inquiring stare to kindle into wrath over the dismissal.

"Aye, I have no need of a protector, Estel," grumbled Erestor, flustered to be coddled so by someone whose instruction he had overseen from childhood.

"Fine, if my devotion means so little, I will leave you in the carpenter's care. Try not to miss-speak too much, old friend," he taunted lightly and, having been excused by both his elders, gave a curt nod to Fearfaron and followed Mithrandir's example out of the talan and back to the stronghold.

The two elves eyed one another warily, then simultaneously invited the other to sit, both feeling ownership over the setting in completely opposing congruity. In equally awkward harmony, both acquiesced to the invitation and gingerly seated themselves on opposite sides of the little sofa table, Erestor on the settee and Fearfaron in the armchair. The carpenter exhaled a characteristically morose breath.

"I was not pleased to find that Legolas held you so highly, at first," he began. "Until I saw him, until I held him in my arms weeping, his soul too full with joy to retain the emotion. I never saw him happy before that moment. I would see him thus again, for it was too brief and the bitterness of his grief returned with a determined finality."

"Fearfaron, I assure you that it is not my desire to …"

"Peace! I am your elder, if only by a century or two. Thus, though you are counted a noble by the reckoning of your kin and my better, I will say what is in my heart, uninterrupted." The carpenter shut his taut lips and held them in a wordless frown just a few seconds to ensure his guest was inclined to obedience. Another sigh escaped him then. "One son I have lost, a daughter was stolen away before i could even look into her new-born eyes, and my wife-mate awaits me in Aman whence her sorrows drove her, alone until the day I am free to sail. I will not allow another that I love to be parted from me.

"Legolas is my ion-edwen [second son], given to me upon the loss of Annaldír, his friend and companion in arms, my first-born, killed at the Battle of Erebor. My desperate need was matched by Legolas' and now we could no more allow one another to come to harm than if I had generated his existence of my own seed and soul. Do you understand this? I am Legolas' father by the will of Eru and there is only one other that might have as strong a claim upon the substance of his feä. That is Mithrandir, and while you have satisfied his standards, mine you have yet to even guess." The carpenter paused and the seconds sped past until he was forced to give the slightest lift to his brows as indication that the Noldo was expected to answer.

"I hear you. Your devotion to the archer I can both see and feel. I do not challenge the right to satisfy such concerns over your second son's future." Erestor restated the silvan's speech succinctly and was pleased to see the quick nod and the ephemeral smile that drifted through the carpenter's eyes.

"That is well said. Now, let me enlighten you further, for we have talked before and much you revealed then. We spoke of the formal tokens of so deep a bond that is easily discernible within your wary stare. I have brought the ring I spoke of then." So saying Fearfaron reached into the pocket of his tunic and retrieved the small gold band, placing it on the low table between them. He sat back and observed closely the seneschal's reactions.

"Ai Elbereth! This is an unexpected…gift!" Erestor stuttered in alarm. "Sir, I do not recall any of this and can hardly pledge myself so openly to a vow I have no memory of making!"

"Ah! Of course not, foolish Noldo! Nor would I desire you to offer such a sign if your heart was not behind it. This you will put in a safe place, hidden, known to you alone. When the time has come, you will put that ring on my son's hand."

"Fearfaron, I know not if I can fulfil this demand. What if i do not recover my memories fully? How can I commit my feä under such conditions?"

"Mithrandir said you have suffered the first taste of fading, is that not proof enough for you? You belong to Legolas, whether your memories admit to it or not, and the Tawarwaith is coming here to claim you, quite soon." The carpenter was actually chuckling over the state of his son-in-law, who sat rigid, fighting the urge to fidget, opening and closing his lips beneath round and glassy eyes, much like any trout hooked and hauled from the river.

"What? How near is his return? But nay, I have not even had opportunity to see his face or hear his words. Claim me? I would hope to woo my heart's desire, not be pounced upon by someone I have never even met!" Yet the idea clearly was not as repugnant as the advisor from Imladris attempted to present. A subtle, sly, distinctly lecherous caste washed through his glittering black eyes.

"Oh you have already done your wooing," Fearfaron's tone was decidedly on the smarmy spectrum of the vocal scale. "Right out in public on the busiest section of the Wood Elves' city."

"What?"

"Hands everywhere, according to the gossips, mouth sealed so tight around his it is a wonder the pair of you did not expire there in the autumn leaves!"

"I, nay, I groped him in front of…of…"

"…half the population of Greenwood. Aye, you did, and Legolas loved every bit of it; rest assured the desire was mutual."

"I do not know what to say to that; there are no memories of it in my mind.  I have never been so forward, so indiscreet."

"Nonetheless, you wooed my son most determinedly," intoned the carpenter, "and successfully."

"Eru's Arse, how did I end up in this situation?" The exasperated Noldo got up and retraced his nervous path around the room's perimeter. Yet the carpenter's words had ignited agitation of a different sort, for he was eager now to have his mind restored and hungry to know the elf that had won his heart. It was a cruel joke for the Valar to finally grant him his deepest, most guarded hope only to remove all memory of its realisation.  
    
"You must trust me when I tell you that you were most pleased to be in these circumstances mere hours ago," said Fearfaron quietly, noting the advisor's real distress. "Erestor, for my part I understand how it is that you have never been in a similar predicament before, for you revealed to me all of your past, including the nature of your flight from Gondolin and how that related to your attachment to the Galadhrim."

"Explain what you mean by these words." Erestor whispered, frozen in an instant betwixt the trap door and the ottoman, pale in shocked horror, for of course he had no recollection of this previous interaction with the kindly craftsman.

"You never formalised your association with Orophin and Dambethnîn. There is no ring upon your finger because they do not hold your heart. At least, not all of it or even most of it. This is not something you have ever explained, perhaps not even to yourself, but it is something you must rediscover. Orophin and you share a similar tragedy, both losing loved ones in a terrible way, both blaming yourselves for failing to save them. This was the reason the two of you connected and Dambethnîn consented, for she hoped to have her mate healed at last.

"I know this did not happen through your bond with the couple, not for you at least. But I ask you to examine your inner heart now and see if you find that ancient wound still there." Fearfaron paused and watched the light of amazement flow over the seneschal's features even as he could only continue to stare in mute disbelief. "Aye; it was healed through your union with the wild archer. You must relate the history of this truth to Legolas, for he fears he is responsible for whatever may become of the love you share with the Galadhrim. Already he blames himself for hurts they do not yet feel."

The Noldo could only gawk in silent wonderment, thoughts reeling from this abrupt summation of his soul's hidden fears and festering anguish. He shook his head, dumbfounded and perplexed, for the revelation was too unexpected, too jarring. He had prepared to hear the carpenter expound on the proper way to treat his foster-son, not divulge the secrets of his long lost youth.

"Whatever else occurs this night, you must set Legolas' mind at ease on this point." Fearfaron continued. "Much hurt did you cause him; do not imagine that your failure to remember this will permit the injuries to be ignored or forgotten. They are, however, excused, for you have secured real healing for Legolas. All I ask is that you refrain from inflicting any new wounds in place of the old ones. He has many scars and I would beg you to be mindful of them. Grant him joy, Erestor, for he has earned it when such is truly the right of all Iluvatar's children."

The vehemence in the Wood Elf's speech was simultaneously touching and as formidable as a drawn blade held to his throat. Erestor sat tall and met the carpenter's penetrating gaze of melded entreaty and threat, deeply wishing he had not acted so callously toward Legolas. Before he had warred with himself, on the one hand hoping to recall everything that had happened while on the other dreading to learn the details of his low deeds.  Aragorn and the wizard had sketched the outline of the evolving relationship, hurrying past the darker parts in hopes of stirring the seneschal's mind on the path toward his recently acquired love for their mutual friend. Erestor realised he must face it all, the black-hearted stabs as well as the unintentional jabs at the vulnerable Wood Elf's soul, if he would truly appreciate the gift of love the fallen prince had offered._ And I accepted._

"If it is in my power to do it, I shall see him happy and fulfilled the rest of eternity," Erestor repeated his vow without even realising it and continued. "Yet I must know how dark was my role in his breaking. Please, tell me what I did to Legolas." Erestor gasped ere he finished speaking, for another vivid image flashed through his mind.

A bright morning and a singing brook and there a fair elf spread before him on a mossy bank, golden hair all wet and strewn wild about him on the grass, skin flushed and beaded with water and sweat, eyes squeezed tight, lost in ecstasy, softly moaning his ardent pleasure. _'Ah, Eru!'_ Then a low cry of decadent prurience and the blue eyes opened to sear the seneschal's in a gaze of such overpowering lust that it was impossible to control his urge to pound against the supple, willing arse in which his cock was buried. _'Aye! Oh, Berenaur. Fuck me deep…strong. Please! Fill me…need you, more!'_ The pleading words escaped between heaving breaths and delectable wails of longing as Legolas begged to be ravaged and plundered.

Erestor ran his hands over the smooth tight buttocks, turned to lick the inside of the calf draped across his shoulder, grabbed up the archer's full cock in his hand. He pumped it with fervour, not even caring to match the strokes with his increasingly virile thrusts; all he wanted was to come inside this unbelievably tight arse while the golden elf writhed under him. Too soon the hard hot column of rosy flesh was spurting a silver fountain as he rammed the constricting anus repeatedly. Sinking his shaft deeper with every thrust, Erestor roared out his mastery, spilling inside the quivering body, relishing the wantonly brutal intimacy, stunned by the power of his orgasm, waves of delicious euphoria drowning him.

It was but a few seconds of time, but the seneschal found he had broken into a cold sweat and was panting for air. He had to sit down and could not wonder at the rapidly rising erection filling his leggings, so intense had the imagery been.

"Ai, Valar!" he whispered. Yet he was more terrified than ever and he suddenly did not wish to see anymore of the past, for his mind already knew what came next in the sequence even if the specifics were missing. "Oh, no. I cannot endure this," Erestor hid his face in his hands. "He calls me by my mother-name."

"Aye, he does. He cannot speak the name Erestor, for that is the one Elrond took for this cruel game," Fearfaron's tone was mildly scathing. "You will bear whatever you must for Legolas' sake, Erestor of Gondolin."

"Nay, no more recriminations," pleaded Erestor. "I need to see him. I must make amends. There is something wrong; why is he not here yet?"

"Be calm; he is not in harm's way now. The worst is behind him if you will but co-operate with your feä and join with him anew. Do not fret  over the less noble images, Erestor, for even those turned to your favour before the trial ended. Legolas understands exactly when you ceased playing your Lord's game and does not hold anything against you. Do not allow my concerns to overshadow the genuine forgiveness he bestowed, long before you professed love to him."

Erestor could only nod, head still gripped between his clutching hands, as earlier events replayed for his elucidation, and he was forced to witness the debasement he and Elrond had visited upon the unsuspecting outcast. Silent tears began flowing as he watched the Lord of Imladris shift the coveted prize to his advisor, no longer interested after taking what he had so plotted and planned to have.

And seeing the Noldo's agitated state, Fearfaron judged he had pushed too far. He rose and gathered the small bottle of rejuvenating cordial from the pantry and pressed it into his son-in-law's hand, prying the clutching fingers from entanglement in the midnight tresses. He did not return to his seat until the seneschal drank.

"Let the past remain in its place, Erestor. Legolas will not be bringing it with him and would be loathe to find it here when he arrives. These are things he has already laid to rest; he looks for no accounting from you. Do you hear these words?" he asked gently. Now Fearfaron wished he had stayed longer with Legolas in order to explain how the seneschal might behave as the memories returned.

"I hear you," mumbled Erestor, straightening up and struggling to gather his composure. He wondered if the carpenter understood all the details of his adopted child's treatment at the hands of the Imladrians and flushed in abject shame, unable to meet the Wood Elf's eyes. "I will try to be…normal for him. It would spoil things terribly if the Tawarwaith found this morose and guilt-ridden wreck awaiting him in the cosy talan."

"A! No need to put it so strongly as that. A little regret and remorse is acceptable, just do not become immersed in it. Instead, let it guide you to act as best fits Legolas' well-being." Fearfaron smiled kindly and stood, reaching over to clasp the seneschal's shoulder firmly in a show of support and confidence. "Just behave as you normally do when you find yourself alone with an attractive and willing partner. The rest will come about of its own accord."

These words brought the Noldo's head up sharply and he could not hide his astonishment. How could this elf ever trust him to handle his son with respect and love? Erestor found he had no words with which to comment on the boldly suggestive remark.

"However, Legolas was injured earlier today and mayhap a slower, gentler…"

"He is hurt?" Erestor shot up from the settee in alarm. "How badly? What happened to him?"

"Be at ease, he will recover just fine according to the healer. He and Thranduil rather had a quarrel that involved knives and keys and Legolas was stabbed in the shoulder."

"Thranduil! What madness is this? I should throttle him for such baseness!"

"Aye, madness indeed, but not on the King's part. Legolas was far beyond rational action and thought this morning, seeking death quite blatantly where before he has been subtle, hiding the quest even from his own mind. He made the first attack and Thranduil reacted."

"You are defending that tyrant? I cannot believe it. I cannot believe the woodland folk would stand by and do nothing!"

"Nothing does not describe the ensuing melee very well!" snorted Fearfaron. "Sit down, Erestor, and I will tell you the tale."

As the Noldo resumed his place, Fearfaron recounted the events that had marked the morning's Council session as one of the most bitterly controversial gatherings in all of Greenwood's history.

TBC  


  
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	87. Ist Thurin [Hidden Knowledge]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

 

**Ist Thurin [Hidden Knowledge]**

  
Legolas sped from the vaults and up the stony spiral stairs with all the speed he could muster, eager to be gone from the fortress before Thranduil realised exactly what had just happened. The Tawarwaith could hardly believe it himself and shifted the box of gems to his disabled limb, plunging his hand into his pocket to tightly curl awed fingers around the warm circle of gold that would soon adorn his mate. He was of the opinion that perhaps his uncles had played a part in the unexpected benefit, exerting subconscious influence over their brother's thoughts at a vulnerable moment. Legolas half smiled, half frowned, considering what consequences might result. The King would not be overly pleased to behold the symbol of his parents' unending fidelity marking the union of his discarded son and the Noldo advisor from Imladris. The reaction was more likely to be explosively aggrieved than gracious and complimentary.

_I doubt a soul bond between a scion of the House of Oropher and a noble of the Mariner's line ever occurred to Thranduil, not even in his most horrendous nightmares!_

It mattered little, however, for the ring had been a gift and the King could hardly demand the seneschal remove it from his finger and deliver it back to the vaults. He hoped not at any rate. Such an action would denigrate the sacred, gentle, mutual captivity of united hearts the simple article of jewellery represented. Surely even Thranduil would not disgrace such a holy estate for the sake of spite. But for that possibility, the expression of disbelief and outrage sure to transform the Sinda's features upon observing the band's ultimate disposition would be amusingly gratifying.

The height the steps ascended seemed greater than he recalled, the passage more steeply inclined and far more twisting or perhaps his body was more thoroughly depleted than he had realised. _Aye, all of that is true._ Soon Legolas found himself breathing hard and straining to reach the landing at the rear of the kitchen. He would not be deterred, however, and the dreary tunnel grew steadily brighter. With a final grimly determined push he burst through into the anteroom of the huge cavern utilised for the stronghold's cookery, bakery, pantry and scullery.

So abrupt was the Tawarwaith's exit from the curling stairs that he nearly collided with a pair of young elflings he had met on a previous ascent from the lower reaches of the fortress. Legolas skidded left against the wall as the taller boy leaped right and yanked his brother back with him. The trio stared at one another in silence a second or two, all of them presenting a fair imitation of deer startled to stillness by the bright blaze of a torch-lit hunting party.

If Tirno in yellow pyjamas had been too daunting a figure to meet face to face, then trading stares with the Tawarwaith, bloodied, bandaged, and unmistakably regal even in his exhausted state, was beyond the elflings' endurance. The youngest tore loose from his brother and fled into the kitchen, shouting in excited tones. 

"Alae! Ho si, Glânduin!" [Behold, he is here, White River]

His elder sibling wasted no time except to gasp at being left alone with the imposing warrior and followed at once, heedless of Legolas' silent entreaty in the form of an outstretched arm.

"Sen Cenon, Cemendur," [This I see, Servant of the Earth] replied the chef for Thranduil's household, a merry smile on his lips and hands upon his hips as his body filled the narrow arch. "You were supposed to warn us before he reached the kitchen, thêlion dithen."[little sister-son]

"But he was running very fast and his feet do not make enough noise," complained the little one, peering from behind the comforting bulk of his uncle. His huge round eyes swept over the form of the fabled forest fighter, taking in the luxuriant cape, gory leggings, and fresh white wrapping around his shoulder. A small shudder worked through him and he pulled his face completely out of sight.

"Ai! I meant not to startle you, Cemendur," spoke Legolas softly and smiled. He was rather upset to see the elflings' shyness in his presence, for he fancied he had a way with the young of all kinds: elves, Men, and even the non-speaking things of Arda. "Why were you watching for me?"

"The carpenter bade us to," answered the elder brother, coming forward to stand next to his uncle boldly, though he did not relinquish his tight grip upon the ellon's fingers.

His courage inspired Cemendur to sidle out from cover, his vision shifting from Glânduin to Legolas cautiously. "Did you really try to stab the King?" the small, high chirrup queried.

"Cemendur!" hissed the older elfling, his arm swinging out, intending to land a rebuking slap upon the youngster's cheek. The blow never fell, for Legolas seized the offending wrist and held it firm.

"None of that!" he admonished. "It is a fair question and he has every right to ask it. I shall give my answer, but first I would know your name, young warrior, and to what House the pair of you belong."

"Oh no need to worry for these two, Brannon Tirno," [Lord Watcher] the chef objected. "These are my sister's children. I am caring for them now." His nephew, however, refused to be silent.

"I am Anardur [Servant of the Sun] eldest son of Taurendil, Nanethen [Friend of the Forest, my mother] and Arfenras, Adaren. [Noble Horn, my father] Adar died at the Battle of Erebor and Naneth is Athedrainyn [Border-crosser (messenger)] to Imladris. She is there just now, sharing news of our prince's birth. Cemendur is my baby brother and I make sure he does not get into trouble." This long speech was announced proudly by Anardur while he stood as tall as he was able and met the serious blue eyes of the newly reprieved outcast with his impetuous amber ones.

"For your loss I grieve and hope your naneth returns with all haste possible, Anardur," spoke Legolas with a polite bow. To his dismay, the dip of his head produced another loss of equilibrium and a faint roaring in his ears reminiscent of the crashing waves from his dream of the Crossing.

A jumbled murmur of concerned and sympathetic words swirled about and hands cautiously grabbed his sturdy arm as two small palms pushed against his belly and a second set grabbed on at the waist. When the dizziness cleared, Legolas found he was seated on the floor against the wall, both elflings crouched before him staring with intense concentration. Glânduin had left them, but this was explained as he soon hurried back, bearing a cup. He knelt and held the rejuvenating water to the Tawarwaith's lips.

"Hannad," said Legolas with a shaky smile, "and I am not a Lord, Glânduin. Tirno is adequate, or my mother-name: Legolas."

"If you so wish it, then I shall try to remember. Yet now the Judgement is lifted and is it not my right to proclaim allegiance to our Tawarwaith?"

Legolas could only stare in exasperated surprise at the elf, unable to think of a fitting response that would not seem like a rebuke.

"What is wrong, Brannonlas?" asked Cemendur. "Did the Black Knife harm you badly?"

"Cemendur, he does not want to be called that!" scolded Anardur, sending a sidelong glance in the archer's direction when ringing laughter intermixed with his words.

"Nay, your brother has bestowed upon me a fitting title." Legolas liked this diminutive honorific, deciding that if he must be named lord, then a leaf-lord was appropriate. "I am more tired than I realised, Cemendur, for the Dark Dagger bites hard and deep. Yet I will respond now to your just inquiry. I would never harm the King, merely wishing for him to think that I might."

"Why ever would you want him to think that?" blurted Anardur and winced when Glânduin squeezed his fingers very hard.

"Hush your impertinent tongue, elfling!" warned the chef.

"Now you are the one making wrong questions!" snickered Cemendur, glad he was no longer alone in gaining their uncle's censure.

"Nothing is improper to ask when it concerns the safety of our home," announced Tirno firmly. "I should not have so wished. It was a foolish idea from a mind lost in sorrow and I have learned the price paid for that mistake by every elf in the Council Chamber this morn. I hope I will be excused for it in time."

"Oh yes, we have forgiven you, Brannonlas!" announced Cemendur sincerely and overcame his timidity at the sight of the contrite and wounded elf, scooting forward  on his knees to wrap small arms around Legolas' neck.

"Ah! You have a generous heart, pen dithen," [little one] sighed the Tawarwaith and encircled the slender back in a hug that was possibly more comforting for him then the elfling. "Then all is well now for Thranduil has acquitted me, too. Look! Here is a gift from his vaults." Legolas rightly guessed the change in subject would divert the child's mind from the unpleasant discord within the ruling Lord's unorthodox family. He released his hold on Cemendur, balanced the humble wooden box upon his outstretched knees, and opened it, displaying the prized emeralds to appropriate oohs and ahhs from the brothers and their kinsman.

"Oh there are so many of them!" exclaimed Cemendur.  He wanted very much to touch them but knew this would earn a punishment later _A sharp smack upon the palm with Glânduin's long handled wooden stirring spoon. _and so he wisely held his wish in check. "Are you going to share your treasure with the Noldo Lord?"

"Ai, hên raug!" [demon child] Glânduin's exasperated cry erupted and he shook his head. "That is not a polite question. It is Brannonlas' business, and none of yours, with whom he wishes to share those gems."

"Peace, it is well," assured Legolas and regarded the elfling quizzically, head cocked slightly to one side. "I had not thought to do so, for I have something better for him. Would you like to see?"

Both Cemendur and Anardur nodded unspoken, emphatic assent and their mother's brother barely managed to refrain from doing the same as his own curiosity almost eluded his control. Legolas was now grinning widely as he searched the pants' pocket for his real treasure. He brought it out concealed within his tightly furled fist and held this up before his chest. In suspenseful slowness that skirted the bounds of his audience's patience, he opened out his hand by minute increments until the gleaming band was displayed upon his flattened palm. Silence greeted the unveiling and he waited anxiously for some comment.

"Oh it is fine," said Anardur, remembering his manners quickly and smiling up at Greenwood's champion.

"Indeed, a perfect choice and high time, if I might be so bold, Brannon'eth, [young Lord]" Glânduin spoke up. "We all understood the banishment prevented you from formalising your connection to the seneschal, yet it was not fitting for the bond to go undeclared."

Legolas' raised his brows slightly as he gazed at the chef, thinking he quite understood from whom the younglings had learned to be so forthright.

"Nay, it is not as pretty as the emeralds and not worth nearly as much. Will he not be sad for you to keep the jewels for yourself?" asked Cemendur, clearly unimpressed by the simple metal circle, regardless of its soft, rich glow.

Before Anardur or Glânduin could remonstrate the child, Legolas laughed lightly, replaced the ring in his pocket, and reached out to lay his hand upon Cemendur's shoulder.

"I hope he will not be! Mayhap I will give him one or two along with the ring, just to be certain. What do you think; is it fair?"

"I suppose," the elfling shrugged and smiled back.

"Then I shall do just that," said the Tawarwaith. He gathered the box in the crook of his arm and began to rise. The chef at once came to his side to steady him and Anardur unceremoniously gripped his sides as Cemendur wrapped both hands around his wrist. Legolas could not help his wide grin over this fussing and did not attempt to pull free too quickly lest his new friends believe they had caused offence. "I must be getting home now, mellynen." [my friends]

"And everything is in readiness, Brannonlas!" exclaimed Anardur and at once raced ahead of the rest, passing through the kitchen and out into the rear courtyard where Ningloriel's garden blended seamlessly into the cultivated herbs and vegetables used in the cookery. Beyond this was a small low, stone wall separating the domestic area from the dusty, busy stable yard. There the youth waited just inside the open archway between the two worlds, for he was not allowed amongst the soldiers, chafing in eager expectation amid a sizeable gathering of elves, mostly warriors and staff employed in the stronghold. The same air of animated anticipation pervaded the quietly conversing crowd and every eye was trained upon the garden path.

Legolas walked slowly, allowing Cemendur to guide him by the hand as Glânduin matched him stride for stride in case he might falter. At the breech in the wall he halted and stared in wonder at the scene before him. There stood a trio of elves, one being supported between the other two, his hands resting upon the withers of a fine woodland pony bedecked in silk and coloured streamers.

The fragile ellon was shocking to behold, for few were the elves to survive so far into grieving as this debilitated creature had withdrawn, and those that did were kept sequestered among family, protected from gawking gazes and pitying stares. His skin was of a sickly hue, dark yellow as a Man's tanned by long years under the sun; his, hair brittle and ragged, had faded to a drab and lifeless grey, though care had been taken to comb and braid it in elaborate warrior's patterns that bespoke a long career of courageous service. Stooped as though he had spent years in servitude under a harsh master's whip, the elf's body was nearly skeletal from the constant ague of his wasting soul. His eyes seemed too large for his gaunt face and peered with fevered excitement upon the approaching Tawarwaith; a sickly smile curved his burgundy lips. Suddenly, his features reworked into anguished despair as his vision tracked over the archer's bandaged torso, and the disabled veteran cried out hoarsely, calling Legolas' name and lifting a trembling arm toward the deposed prince.

Legolas hastened forward as Glânduin and his nephews fell back. Tirno was too overcome with distress to answer the quavering call, and cautiously gripped the bony shoulder of his old comrade. He had to swallow twice before he could trust to speech and then decided it was impossible to contain the tears and let them flow. Here before him was the fifth elven soldier dispatched to provide distraction for the goblin king's body-guards that fateful day on the plains before the Lonely Mountain. The sole survivor of those brave volunteers had plainly not weathered the onslaught of grief and misplaced guilt over the deaths of his fellows.

"Gildin!" [Silver Spark] Legolas said in woeful tones and leaned his forehead against the ailing ellon's.

"Aye, Legolas, I am here," answered the warrior, bending to meet the prince's filial gesture. He leaned heavily on the Tawarwaith's uninjured shoulder as the two elves beside him let go to allow this reunion. "I ask pardon; I did not understand how things were. No one told me or…my mind has not been sure of…things…" his voice trailed away into a whisper softer than the slightest breeze of spring at dusk.

"Ii is I who must beg forgiveness, for I did not think on what had become of you beyond the knowledge that you did not die that day," Legolas breathed back, shamed that this was the truth. He had not considered that Gildin would suffer from the aftermath of battle in this way and so profoundly.

"Sîdh, you had troubles of your own."

"As did you, only it has been hidden all these years. Where have you been?"

Now the collected warriors and servants milling about in hopes of seeing the Tawarwaith emerge from the vaults were drawn into the new drama. None had expected this elf to return to Greenwood, for his status upon departure had warranted many to opine that he would not last the journey hence. That Legolas had not been made aware of any of this was obvious, and the crowd surreptitiously advanced to witness his reaction to the revelation. 

"We thought it was best to take him away. We meant to sail for Aman," answered the steady voice of Gildin's Naneth; she smiled at Legolas kindly and there was no accusation or anger in her eyes. One hand was gently rubbing her son's bowed back as the other gripped tightly to her mate's beside her.

"Yet Gildin did not wish it, for the sea, once we beheld it, was fearsome. It beckoned one moment, showing its peaceful dreamy side, but the next would rise up in violence and cast upon the shore pieces of ships and the broken, lifeless bodies of Men. In vain did the Noldor and Teleri under Cirdan's lordship seek to persuade us to board their vessels, for there are no communications from any that have gone West before. Mayhap they are on the shores of Eldamar, yet just as easily they may reside in Mandos. I refused to put my son in the clutches of so unpredictable an entity!" Gildin's father was even more adamant than his wife in defending their decision to remain in Middle-earth.

"I would have spoken up; I swear to you. I would not have let the charges stand. I was not…my thoughts will not move beyond the battle…" Gildin was weeping almost hysterically but that he had not strength to provoke so frenzied a state. He was wracked with shuddering tremors and grasped Legolas tighter in his efforts to contain his sobbing lament. "…and then I was no longer here though I do not remember journeying away. I could not see how to come home…I was…am…confused…"

"Valar! No notion of this has ever entered my thinking," insisted Legolas quietly. "Be at peace, for this was not something within your control. I have never held you to blame; you could not have known what transpired upon the ridge. Be at peace at least on my account."

"We knew of the Judgement but did not stop to consider its verity, for Gildin returned to us broken. We left before Gwain Ithil [New Moon] and have been living in Mithlond. Gradually our fears of the sea diminished and we came to trust that the Teleri understood the ways of Ulmo and the moods of Ossë. We began to plan for the Crossing. Of your fate we knew nothing, believing you dead from the perils of the Tasks, until Ningloriel arrived and her ship was being readied. Great was her lament for your low estate!" intoned Gildin's mother.

"We thought we would go forth to the Blessed Realm with her entourage, yet rumour of her words reached Gildin and once more he refused to board. He would return and speak of the battle, but I was staunchly against it. I do not ask you to forgive me in this; my son is dearer to me than another's and I will never apologise for that fact," said the elder ellon in tight phrases that somehow betrayed that he did, indeed, feel remorse for putting his own child's welfare first.

"I would never ask it of a father to do so," spoke Legolas sincerely. "And yet you are here."

"I made them bring me back," Gildin's speech was briefly reminiscent of the stalwart soldier he had been for centuries out of time. "Once I knew you lived under this curse, I would not let them remove me from my duty."

"The road was hard on him, more so than our long departure was, for as you see his end draws close. I am sorry it took this many years to travel hence, but often Gildin could not be moved for the severity of the pain. We were forced to halt two years in Evendim and the sacred waters rejuvenated us all, somewhat, after crossing Ered Luin. [the Blue Mountains] Then again we stalled north of the shire-folks' holdings…" the mother catalogued their journey.  
     
"No explanations are owed to me from any of you." Legolas could not believe these elves were begging clemency for the number of days required to transport their dying child from the Havens! "Tell me only that there is something I may do to lessen the agony of Gildin. Ask anything and I will find a way to make it happen!" he concluded passionately, knowing already that what they most would wish was not in his power to grant, and he wept more over this vile certainty than for the past hardships the family had endured.

"You have already seen to it," said Gildin. "I had need to unlade my feä of your suffering. I have arrived after the trial but before my death, and now that I see your honour restored I am at peace over the oversight my grief provoked."

"Nay, old friend, none of this was ever your burden!" Legolas raised his head to meet the failing elda's troubled eyes. What he saw there was perhaps more unnerving than the poor invalid's steadily draining life and light. Gildin held firm to his notion of responsibility and looked to be on the precipice of perishing from the pressure of such a sin. "What makes you believe this lie?" asked Legolas warily, for the certainty in his comrade's soul showed through the welling misery and sorrow.

"It is no lie, yet none will heed me!" the shattered warrior was beset by fresh tears and trembling and both parents drew closer to comfort and soothe their deranged son.

Some among the gathered elves bowed their heads and shed tears as well for such a horrific outcome. Erebor had yet to claim its final victims, it would seem, and ever would the battle's memory inflict fresh wounds upon their Tirno's spirit. Many turned away, unable to bear more of the disquieting meeting between the former comrades in arms. Indeed, Glânduin ushered his sister's children back into the kitchen, for while little Cemendur was too young to truly comprehend what was being said, Anardur perceived the full measure of the misery on display. The youngest was thus fraught with questions while the elder grew sombre and withdrawn, shushing his baby brother, and as he hustled them inside, their uncle was overwhelmed with bitter foreboding that he had marked the elflings for tragedy by exposing them to the scene.

"You can see plainly how it is with him," spoke Gildin's father. "Ever since he returned from Erebor it has been thus. For some six months, he would not speak at all, withdrawn and cold to us, refusing food and even water. If we had not forced him, he would have left us ere the year was done.

"I am not the one that contributed that stoic fatalism into his character," added the warrior's mother, "and I refused to accept such an end to so an honourable life. I provoked him into speaking at last and then it was impossible to silence Gildin's raving confessions of guilt. Thus was the madness revealed; my son has never had an unkind thought much less plot the destruction of his fellows."

"He insists he could have stopped the deaths of his comrades and that the Judgement was his to claim," the father took up the recitation anew. "Reason had left him; his mind shattered under the horrors of what he had seen on the battle field and his inability to make sense of his specific survival. It was nearly thus after Dagorlad, yet there were his grandchildren to consider then and he overcame the grief."

Legolas nodded, but inside his mind was screaming that it was the elder elf's words which held no logic. As Legolas knew him, Gildin was not an elf given to nervous brooding; there was no cooler head in Talagan's company save Annaldír. Gildin had been a warrior hundreds upon hundreds of years; indeed, he had survived the slaughter of his wife, a son, and a granddaughter at the Last Alliance. Could a stable mind so easily become faulted and fissured? The Tawarwaith shifted uneasily and returned his questioning eyes to his colleague.

And Gildin's orbs sparked brightly for just a second as he perceived that Legolas sought to learn the truth, that finally someone would hear him and allow his feä to disgorge the poisonous admissions, unimpeded by potions and herbs that rendered him sleepy and uncertain of the passing of time.

"Nay, I have not lost my reason, Legolas, you must believe me!" he gushed in manic fervour, eager to have his errors expunged at last.

"Be calm, Gildin, do not excite yourself," crooned his mother gently, tugging softly on his arm to draw him back into her embrace. Yet Gildin resisted.

"Gildin, I will hear you, no matter what you wish to say. Yet I must beg your discretion!" Legolas held on to the warrior, his eyes locked with the wandering vision of the fading fighter, and would not let the elleth take him back. "There are innocents to consider!" he urgently implored, his voice less than the hushed whir of hummingbirds' wings, for he was convinced that Gildin had not lost his sanity without cause, and that cause was indeed wrapped up in the detrimental actions of the true kinslayer.

"Aye, Valtamar's son, aye, Legolas," sobbed the distraught elf, "but I cannot carry this weight any longer! I shall not pass to Mandos with so heavy a stone bound to my heart!" Gildin was in frenzied torment again, grinding his teeth amid a disturbing, high-pitched reedy wailing.

"Peace, child, peace," begged his father, weeping uncontrollably as well, aiding his wife in taking the wreckage of their son from the Tawarwaith's hold. "Let it go, Gildin! He is alive, do you not see? Legolas is restored and Lindalcon is a prince among our people now, his naneth the bearer of Greenwood's heir and a fair princess of the woods, too."

This only incited a louder keening from the warrior and the parents tried to lead him from the yard. Gildin fought them with all his ability, but that was insufficient to thwart even an elfling's grasp.

"Ai! Wait! Please, where are you taking him?" demanded Legolas, following across the courtyard.

"Do not be concerned; we will care for him," the mother managed to utter this through her teary sobs.

"Aye, we will be in our granddaughter's great-granddaughter's talan until…for the time being," the father's husky voice growled out. "You may come to visit later, when Gildin is calm again."

Those remaining in the stable yard flinched at these words, understanding that Gildin had come home to die, and wondering at the frantic excitation in one so near to expiring. They stilled their actions and trained sensitive ears upon the actors in the compelling enactment of Vairë´'s latest play.

"I beg you will not let him have any other callers than family and the healer!" Legolas' voice was tight with apprehension and scarcely above a whisper. The parents halted instantly, turning to stare in worry at the elf behind them. "Do not let Gildin speak of these fears to anyone save myself or Gladhadithen," Legolas dropped his volume still lower to keep their converse secret. "Not even Thranduil, especially not Thranduil, nor any of his household. You understand of whom I speak? I must demand your oath that this will be so. Swear to it now!"

The parents peered in startled dread at the relentless determination in the fallen prince's cobalt orbs, so much ferocity was held within them and a look as of impending catastrophe limned the dilated irises. Gildin's mother caught her breath and relinquished her child's arm to cover her mouth. Until this moment, she had truly believed her son's rantings were the incoherent delusions of grief-induced insanity. Yet Legolas clearly did not find these statements irrational and instead feared them. She shared a desperately gleaming, visual communication with her husband and clutched Gildin against her breast.

"Eru's Mercy! He would harm no one! No one!" she shrilled. Her son made an effort to hold and comfort her, though his eyes were glazed in confusion and pain.

Now the crowd in the stable yard began to murmur in accord with the elleth's distress, for it was evident some new influence had roused this unexpected reaction from the formerly calm, subdued inu. Some soldiers edged closer as though to eavesdrop upon the quartet, others crept away, intending to grant privacy yet reluctant to leave before the scene reached its conclusion.

"Silence!" commanded the Tawarwaith with gentle intensity, loud enough for all to hear, and her soul obeyed. Indeed, everything in the vicinity of the word became motionless. "It would have been better had he stayed in Mithlond and sailed to Aman, yet I see how it is for him. He must speak." Legolas made those words audible then dropped his pitch to nearly undetectable decibels and continued. "Do as I ask and never leave him unguarded, for if she learns of his arrival Gildin's end will not be a peaceful one. I ask again for you to swear to keep him under watch every moment."

"It shall be so, Hîren," the father bowed his head, alarmed over the gravity of this caution, stunned by the authority of the voice of Tawar. Automatically his vocal range fell to mimic Tirno's such that none but the four of them could gather their meaning. "We do swear to obey your request, for I see it is for his good that you ask it." Then the elder elf raised his voice slightly, enough to carry into the hovering crowd, as might any parent watching their child's reason disintegrate. "We love our son and would see him end his days free of this torment. Yet it is as you have spoken; he cannot contain the irrational ramblings of his thwarted mind any longer. Who will listen to these unhinged notions, taking them from his fractured soul that they may never trouble him more? Alas, his mother and I have failed to achieve it. Thus have we carried him home, for to speak with you once more is his final request."

"I will do so and gladly," answered Legolas vehemently but added in the earlier, inhibited tone. "For his sake and for those innocents that must not come under the pall of grief such as this!" Legolas passed his shaking hand over his brow and shook his head, drawing a deep breath and lifting his eyes while lowering his voice even more. "We will do it together; he shall be free of this torment and the future of the little one's preserved. But go now, for I must seek out my foster-father and request his aid. Him I trust as no other, and Fearfaron shall come to abide with Gildin until I am able to visit. No harm will befall him if we hold to this pact."

At this he drew near and embraced them, Gildin and both parents, and if they were surprised to hear that Annaldir's father had adopted the Tawarwaith it was not sufficient to distract them from the current bloom of debilitating sorrow.

As for the bystanders, they dipped their heads in sympathy to see Tirno face the loss of yet another friend and in such a tragic manner. They saw what their eyes expected, the poignancy of the Tawarwaith, so close to this level of fading just weeks ago but for Mithrandir's intervention, desperately clinging to the false hope of saving his colleague from this fatal disease. None could bear the image too long and dispersed even further from the knot of strife on the stable yard's verge.    

The four elves were silent save for the subdued sighs of tear choked respiration as they leaned upon one another for comfort and courage. After a long sequence of minutes had fled away beyond recapture, Legolas eased his disconsolate hold from Gildin and offered his old comrade an encouraging albeit meagre smile.

"Go and rest now, mellon, and I shall visit soon. We shall speak of all that is in your heart and it will plague you no more," he said with calm assurance and a final squeeze upon the frail shoulder. But Gildin looked back in vague befuddlement, obviously trying to seam together his segmented thoughts and discover what Legolas was referring to and perhaps even whom Legolas might be. That much he recovered at least as a small light of recognition glittered briefly through his hazy concentration.

"Aye, Legolas, visit tonight or in the morning, or as soon as you may. For I need to…I must…" Again the fog interfered and the warrior could not retain the track of his reasoning.

"Tomorrow, Gildin," reassured Legolas and watched the three elves depart from the yard in the settling twilight.

Yet he was but one of many that witnessed the veteran's departure, and amid the crowd was another elf that genuinely understood all that had taken place, though she was not privy to their softly uttered converse. Ben'waeth made sure to move in slow and careful steps, no faster nor slower than she was wont to tread, drifting with the slowly thinning crowd, and let her feet carry her away from her duties in the stronghold as she tailed the wake of the broken soldier's family.

Legolas did not take note of her for Ben'waeth was ever present in the fortress, more a member of the household than was he in many ways, and in all his memory there was not a time when he would enter the caverns and not pass her somewhere in the corridors. Besides, his mind was troubled as he turned to travel through his naneth's garden and seek out Fearfaron's talan, hoping to find his foster-father there. He had absolutely no doubt that Gildin held specific knowledge of Meril's involvement in Erebor, though how he had come to hold these facts was still a mystery. Gildin and Legolas had never been close, and if the archer had failed to learn the names all his comrades' relatives that was common enough, for he was never completely accepted by the guard. It never entered his thoughts that this great-great-grandaughter might be Ben'Waeth, Meril's bosom companion from their maiden days.

_No doubt he was meant to die that day as well,_ thought Legolas as he stepped, _or retreat to Aman as his parents said. Indeed, Meril so spoke, gloating to me that not all the warriors were available to give testimony, many being dead and the rest beyond recall. She will do anything to prevent Thranduil from meeting with Gildin._

Through taut lips and clenched jaws, a muttered curse slipped into the twilight from the Tawarwaith's lungs as he stalked along the kitchen garden path. Though he chastised himself for thinking it, he could not help but be frustrated that his reunion with Berenaur was now overshadowed by the looming threat of Gildin's unprecedented return. How could he turn his thoughts to pleasure and easy contentment with the gloomy possibility of chaos lurking anew in the periphery of his siblings' future? He must settle his heart over the decrepit soldier's welfare before he would be capable of reclaiming his soul-mate.

So deep in such ruminations was Legolas that he failed to heed the voice calling to him from the stable yard. Not until running feet carried the speaker to his side did he startle and turn to see what new troubles awaited his discovery. He was surprised to behold Talagan there, walking beside him as if it was the most natural thing in Arda to do.

"Aduial vaer," [Good Evening] said the captain genially.

"An le sui vae," [To you as well] Legolas' stilted answer automatically followed.

"It is a fair night for strolling, I think, yet perhaps a tiring exercise for an injured elf to undertake."

"My health is not in jeopardy."

"Indeed it is," scoffed Talagan, "though I am not surprised to hear that claim. Thranduil has the same fault."

"What is it you want?" demanded Legolas, halting and confronting his former commander. It was one thing to put aside ill-feeling toward the captain but quite another to bandy pleasantries with him as though the two were chums of old. For Talagan to offer up this casual reference to a sire Tirno had never before this day been allowed to publicly claim was insufferable.

"I want to make amends, but that is not why I am speaking to you tonight. Or at least, it is but a part of the reason."

"Riddles are something I have no patience for just now, captain. Say what you feel you must and do so plainly; many concerns occupy my mind and to these I would give attention."

"So I noted. Gildin is a sad case; it is too late for him to reach the healing gardens of Irmo now."

"Talagan," Legolas scowled impatiently, for the Sinda soldier was still postponing whatever words he felt so obliged to utter.

"Aye, you wish me to get on with it for you are very busy. So be it. Your adopted father charged me with seeing to your safe and healthy arrival at the clearing and I have made arrangements to fulfil this duty. I must ask you to accompany me back to the stable yard."

"What?"

"There is no need for that, captain," spoke another elf behind them and his words mingled with the chiming tinkle of tiny silver bells and the muted cadence of hooves upon the leaf-lined walkway.

Legolas turned to find one of the Woodland Realm's many silvan archers smiling diffidently and treading the way toward him by the shoulders of the forest pony. It was from the restive equine that the subtle ringing arose. She tossed her head and sent the long tendrils of her silver forelock dancing in the breeze, raising another glissando expressive of both joy and impatience into the surrounding space, for the mare's mane and tail were plaited with the jingling metal balls.

Unlike most of the Greenwood's chargers, this one was not marked in piebald patterns of brown and white. Her short fine coat was the colour of newly ripened wheat seen in the fields around the farmsteads of Dale. The flaxen fur was still sleek and the abbreviated sample of winter's nature had not been lengthy enough to promote the appearance of the thick, shaggy under-wool that would grace her form throughout the bitter days of Rhîw. [Winter] Mithril coloured but tipped in black, her mane was fine and free of tangles, draping over the delicate arch of the graceful neck, weighted by the myriad bells and entwined with vibrant silken streamers of ochre and olive, the defining hues both of Oropher's House and of the Greenwood. Her silver tail was equally coifed to perfection and trailed over the dormant perennials, sweeping forward to fan against her hind legs and once more lend the air the gleeful tones of the tiny cymbals worked within its strands.

Dark as pitch from knee to hoof, those legs seemed the refined and limber limbs of a Lady's gaited palfrey rather than the sturdy locomotive instruments that propelled the warriors' steeds through mayhem and death, yet this was a deception indeed. All of the small horse's appearance, her elegant head with its black-velvet muzzle and matching ears, deep dark eyes of infinite depth and indeterminate cast, perfect conformation and proportion in line and carriage, all bespoke grace and genteel jaunts amid the guarded groves of Greenwood's city. This was not the mount of a timid elfling, however, but a bold-hearted chaser bred for speed and endurance, a courser for Athedreinyn, and a direct  descendant of Emmelin, Oropher's worthy war horse. Eager to get on with her task, she blew a loud sigh and stamped one hind leg, eyeing the Tawarwaith speculatively from her right orb.

The motion set off another round of twinkling peals and elicited a mild smile from Legolas. He bent his unbound arm to lay that hand upon his hip and regarded her with amusement.

"Why are you so grandly adorned this eve, Tuilinn?" [Swallow] he demanded, knowing not her name but finding this a fitting way to describe her sveltely compact form. It was easy to imagine her weaving amid the boles with fluid speed similar to the swooping turns and rolls of gnat-catching swifts in the dusk draped canopy. He reached out and felt the luxuriance of the blue satin cover cloaking her back, this hanging nearly to the stifle [horse's knee] and trimmed all round in a fringe of white with four large, belled tassels to weight it securely in place.

"She is your means to getting home without reducing your strength further," replied Talagan as he leaned forward and rubbed the mare's forehead. "Fearfaron's orders, " he added as soon as Legolas opened his mouth to retort.

"What is she called?" Tirno asked the silent archer serving as groom for the moment, suddenly realising he did not know the elf's name and perhaps it would have been more polite to inquire after that first.

"Tuilinn is better; I think she would like to be known thus henceforth," the evasive answer sounded as the silvan gave a slight shrug. If the Tawarwaith wished to call the horse Tuilinn, who should gainsay it?

Legolas did not feel like arguing over it; too many serious matters awaited his action to waste valuable time on this minor quandary. Now that he considered it, Fearfaron's idea was a sound one, as was usually the case, for he did feel weary from the long day's turmoil and his bandaged shoulder persisted in throbbing with a dull, relentless ache. A moment of awkward silence proceeded as the three warriors tried to find their respective places in the new order of things and settle the long years of general indifference and outright derision that had marked Tirno's career as Thranduil's embarrassment. In the end, Legolas could not muster the temperament to confront this either and sighed quietly.

"A leg up then," he murmured and the archer complied, boosting the Tawarwaith onto Tuilinn's back with ease.

The silvan fiddled with the blanket, twitching it as though to settle it better when truly it had not moved a mite under Legolas' light weight. He glanced briefly up to the Tawarwaith's face and away quickly when he found he was being regarded in turn. The warrior cleared his throat.

"I would like to say," he began and nearly lost his nerve, taking a deep breath and finally letting his eyes meet those of Greenwood's hope. "It would be more than I deserve, yet I would ask it."

"Of what do you speak?" Legolas tried hard not to allow his irritation to show through but the darkness of his mood was easily discernible to his own ears and must be more so to this soldier's. He tried to compose himself and offered an encouraging smile, patting Tuilinn's neck as he did so. "Ask me what you will, I will not be offended."

"A commission in your company, Hîren," the archer hurried out the words, standing straight as if in line for inspection by Thranduil. "I would put my bow to work upon the Shadow's destruction and at your side."

"I have no company," Legolas was taken aback by this request, for he had not considered any such thing, "nor am I your Lord. And your arrows are already employed in this travail, as are every warrior's under the eaves."

"I am Thôngolf [Pine-branch] and I bid you to recall me when next you leave for the southern borders. I will not disappoint you; my aim is true," the silvan persisted.

"That is not in doubt, yet I am not of rank to summon you to war at my side. It is more likely that I…" but here Legolas faltered, for he had no concept of where he stood regarding his service in the King's guard.

"You are Tawarwaith; that is rank enough for me. I will be ready; no notice is too short for I am not wed," Thôngolf doggedly insisted and grinned up into the clearly perplexed expression on Tirno's face. "You, however, are but newly bonded and should not tarry here in the garden." He did not wait for an answer, bowing quickly before he turned and strode away into the gathering dusk.

"You will have to get used to that." Talagan chuckled over Tirno's nonplussed stare and gave the horse a friendly slap on the rump. "The Wood Elves will follow you down to the dungeons of Dol Guldur if you ask it of them and consider it an unpardonable disgrace if you do not call for their bows beside you. Yet Thôngolf is right; this is not the time for such considerations. Go home to your mate." Thranduil's most trusted captain turned to leave but stopped when Legolas called him back.

"You said you wished to make amends, and I would ask something of you if you meant those words," said Legolas.

"I meant them. My actions at Erebor are a discredit to my career and one I would eradicate, no matter the toll exacted to achieve it. What do you require?"

"Find Fearfaron and send him to Gildin. Say that I beg he will stay with the fading warrior until I can go to him myself."

"That is a small thing, unworthy of removing any part of the debt I owe, yet I will gladly do it anyway as it pains me to see our comrade so far past any relief. If Fearfaron might grant his mind some peace, I would be happy for it." Talagan pulled a wry face and shrugged, for he felt insulted to be asked to perform so trivial a service. Any stable boy or, indeed, one of the water maids could complete this simple summons. He gave a stiff nod of his head and turned to leave, but his direction was not outward into the city but back to the barracks.

Legolas was alarmed to see this and instructed Tuilin to bar the soldier's way.

"What I ask is of highest importance!" he contradicted and leaned low over Tuilinn's neck, dropping his voice for Talagan's hearing alone. "Do you regard the future of Taurant and Gwilith insignificant? Gildin's arrival is like a dagger upon their necks, yet no harm must befall him even so."

Talagan was struck speechless by this, for he could see no connection between Thranduil's offspring and the dying elf nor envision the debilitated remnant capable of presenting a threat to the innocents, even had his character been such that he would do so base a thing. Legolas must have noted his incredulity for he leaned even closer and lessened the volume of his voice again.

"It is not Gildin but what he knows that bears upon their doom. I would not have the King learn he is here, nor anyone in Thranduil's household come to knowledge of it."

"That is hardly possible; you know what gossips inhabit the fortress. Word of his sudden return must have reached Meril at the very least, and what she hears is reported to Thranduil over their evening meal. Just now, in fact, I predict she is spinning out the tale of your encounter in the stable yard."

"Nay, if she has heard she will say nothing to him, of that I am certain. Yet she may unwittingly cause the very tragedy she plots to avert. It is thus more imperative for you to heed my request. None must speak with Gildin save myself, his family, and Fearfaron. Will you ensure it?"

"I find your reasoning incomprehensible, but I have already said I would fulfil the task. Will you not explain? Thranduil at least has the right to know anything that might prove a danger to his children."

"Indeed." The Tawarwaith's tone filled this simple pronouncement with bitterness. "Thranduil is more a menace than any other, for he does not let matters lie but instead stirs things up, desiring to control everything under his hand."

"That is in the nature of a King's duty, I think," intoned the warrior drily.

"Perhaps, but in this instance he will only cause the ruin of all he has tried to achieve. You are his friend, would you see this befall him? And what of the children, they are blameless and no tribulation should hound the heels of life barely begun. I ask for your oath not to repeat the fears I have revealed to you."

"I have already sworn an oath, Digaun, [Lesser-prince] and that is to Oropher's House."

"I am of Oropher's House also. I seek only to protect the little ones; do not thwart me in this."

Now Talagan felt he had been placed in an untenable position, for his fealty was to Thranduil yet the intensity of the Tawarwaith's plea defied dismissal. None would doubt his devotion to the elflings, especially staring into the indigo depths at that moment. Likewise, the Sinda soldier could not deny the loyalty every silvan warrior had already pledged to the voice of Tawar arisen among them. To flout this essential fealty would be to invite disaster for his Sindar were not only hopelessly outnumbered by the Wood Elves but intimately intertwined with them, mated and bound with offspring descending to several generations since the advent of Oropher's reign. After all the turmoil and confusion, intervention and contradictions, the shift in power had come about and Thranduil was no longer supreme in his own right. The King's influence now sprang from the tolerance showed him by the wild elf, and the respect he tendered to the Tawarwaith.

The silence lengthened between them until Legolas exhaled a disappointed breath and looked away at last.

"If you cannot promise this then I must go to Gildin now and there remain until his feä rejects his hroa," and so saying Legolas decided this was how it must be and urged Tuilinn forward along the walkway. "Send word to my father, and I mean Fearfaron, to find me, for he shall have to explain to Berenaur as best he can what is amiss."

But Talagan rested his hand on the mare's back and stalled her progress.

"Hold, Tawarwaith; you are too quick to dismiss your old captain," he waited until Tirno paused and met his sight again. "Let it not be said that I am blind to the flaws of my dearest friend; often throughout the long centuries we have shared have I been forced to act covertly to amend Thranduil's errors before they brought him down.

"You must understand; it will be hard for me to adjust to the new order of things, but I am unwilling to remain on the outside of your trust. I will give you my oath not to reveal what you fear, even though you will not explain the nature of the harm that imperils your siblings. Yet I deem it is as much a brother's right as a father's to protect those he loves as he feels best. And I will summon the carpenter to guard our fading friend." With those words Talagan jogged away toward the city and the humble talan.

"Hannad," spoke Legolas solemnly and did not smile as he and Tuilinn resumed the trail, the soldier's observations resounding through his thoughts. _Readjustments indeed._ He shook his head lightly, unable to take in what had just occurred. _Did I just give orders to the King's right hand and see them obeyed?_ He turned to look after the retreating figure but Talagan was already obscured by the shadowed welkin betwixt the sturdy boles as night pressed closer.

TBC  


  
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	88. Aderthanen [Reunited]

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

**Aderthanen [Reunited]**

  
A shiver of uneasiness worked through Legolas' spine in a tumbling cascade of tingling nerves and he shifted on the mare's back. The appearance of this ghost of his comrade could only be a precursor to yet another ponderous struggle to nullify the unhappy fate lurking over Taurant and Gwilith. It seemed that the Powers were determined to try him beyond the limits of his resolve. Would this test never be done? What was he meant to do; what was left for him to prove? Had he not suffered enough to appease whatever Vala was so infuriated with Thranduil's misdeeds? Legolas did not consider himself prescient, yet he had to acknowledge the unpleasant prickling coursing over his vertebrae for the foreboding it was. Nor could he halt the conclusion from presenting itself: the ill luck that had plagued his entire life had lifted from him only to cloak the little ones with its suffocating sorrows.

_Nay, I shall not fail them. _

The grounds were strangely quiet and the normal chatter and bustle of soldiers changing the watch was subdued in response to the dying warrior's return, yet Legolas hardly noticed, being too engrossed in his fretting rumination. The Wood Elves in the stable yard shared their Tawarwaith's exasperated despair: it seemed the disruptive events on the plains of Erebor would never be over, never transform from raw and biting upheaval to just another bit of history, never fade into memory's least opened vaults. With the sentencing of Maltahondo, a perturbed but distinct sense of closure had filled the forest city, yet now this was seen to be an illusory wish rather than a genuine release from the pressure of nagging consciences and guilty hearts. The elven warriors gravely followed the former outcast's progress across the yard, yet each one lifted a hand in salutation, or gave a respectful nod of recognition, while a few hailed Tirno as he passed.

Tuilin flicked her ears in the direction of the dismayed sigh that left Legolas' lips and bent her neck to gaze at her rider, waiting to see if his tension might signal a change in course again. Legolas patted her shoulder absently and met her eye, confiding his worry but no intent to alter his destination. He let Tuilin saunter toward the postern by the great Sentinel, his childhood friend when none of elf-kind could be found, and smiled up into the lofty, age-gnarled limbs of the mighty beech. Ere he could call out, the gate keeper leaped down from his post and hastened to open the portal.

"Suilad, Brannon o Gladgalen," [Hail, Lord of the Greenwood] he called with a smile and an elaborate bow, fairly sweeping the ground with his trailing tresses.

"Avesto nin sen, an immen gwend. Pedo mellon, Tirno, egor Legolas sennui," [Do not call me this for between us is friendship. Say friend, Tirno, or Legolas instead.] corrected the weary warrior, taken by surprise, wondering if this elf was trying to be amusing with his exaggerated courtesy. It was such a complete reversal of the grim mood pervading the stable yard.

"Sui anirach, Tawarwaith," [As you wish, Tawarwaith.] the silvan grinned. "The path you know well, yet Fearfaron bids me caution you not to stray from it this evening. What dire consequences might result should you fail to adhere to his directive, even I cannot imagine."

Now Legolas understood it was indeed some subtle jest concocted by his adopted father and relaxed somewhat, gazing down in puzzled indulgence at the guard, whom he knew by sight but not name. He wondered briefly if the ellon recalled the last time he had crossed this threshold some seven years ago at this precise time of twilit shadows. With effort he drove the unpleasant memory of the final chastisement away, taking heart in marking that night as the one in which Fearfaron made him second son. 

Tuilin's step became jaunty but gentle, more than a walk yet not so eager as a jigging trot, for it was certain she sensed excitement in the way ahead and was pleased over her place in the unfolding events. Just past sight of the gate, a sprinkling of merry laughter erupted overhead and from the branches descended a misty rain of shimmering motes, as if someone had gathered up particles of the Moon and showered them upon the solitary rider.

"Ai! What is this?" exclaimed Legolas. More giggles drifted down but the sound diminished as whomever had played the prank raced safely back toward home. Then Legolas grinned, brushing at the fine coating and rubbing it between his fingers to learn its composition. It was a fine powder of weightless mollusc shells and the flakes gleamed faintly in the dull dusk beneath the eaves. In the open clearing wherein lay his home, however, the silvery albescence of Ithil would adhere to the dust and the lustre of his argent nimbus would be enhanced. He would look like a vision from Aman to any catching sight of him there. He chuckled appreciatively over Fearfaron's ingenuity and creative enhancement to the archer's plans for seducing Berenaur.

Not that he actually had any specific strategy worked out. He had more or less considered things would just happen, as they normally did, for he had always been the one pursued and not the suitor. His heart gave a small skip of apprehension that he just as quickly squelched.  

A turn in the trail revealed a transfiguration of the woods, for apparently the ground beneath them was covered in a million minute glowworms, though this was not possible at such a time of year. The pathway glimmered and gleamed with tiny pinpoints of light so that it seemed his mare trod upon a swath of the heavens laid down to guide his way. Legolas could not at first fathom what manner of illumination was granting the leafy mould this delicate phosphorescence and was tempted to get down and gather up some of the glitter to satisfy his curiosity.

The only explanation he could contrive was that a store of luminescent pebbles had been cast by the handful over the narrow road, and in fact this was the case. Such were common amid the stream beds and caves around the city and much favoured among the younglings. Indeed, during his elfling years Legolas had collected them and cherished his 'Ithil hern' [Moon stones] until far past his majority.

Next, a soft melodious chorus of joyful voices filled the space all around him with a lilting carol sung to celebrate the eternal joining of two lives. This was another tradition reserved for the formal recognition of a bond that Legolas had not expected to enjoy. For the whole community to sanction his choice of the foreign elf was deeply gratifying and their undaunted faith in the strength of the bond to overcome the enchantment encouraged him. Within these thoughts rose anew the vow to rid his home of the ills that plagued so kindly and humble a folk.

It was easy to see his foster father had prepared these simple effects in hopes of distracting his mind from anything save a complete recovery of the seneschal's memory and a the renewal of the couple's love. Yet Legolas could not help it if the tender strains of the age-old ballad sounded bitter-sweet to his hearing, nor could he entirely quell the fear that the path of light might lead to emptiness instead of fulfilment.

All was utterly still as the elven song concluded and if not for the faint noise of Tuilin's hooves and the dainty tolling of her silver bells, he might have truly believed he was no longer in Greenwood but drifting within some ethereal realm above the dome of Arda. No breeze stirred the barren branches and not the faintest rustle amid the underbrush betrayed the activity of nocturnal wildlife.  Then Legolas perceived the Spirit of the Great Wood gently enveloping him, not in a rush of protective presence or an engulfing swirl of commanding strength, but shyly; flitting between the trees and running alongside the horse, glimpsing the wild elf from the branches and ducking away just beyond sight if he chanced to bend his gaze there. Tawar had no wish to overwhelm Legolas, though the warrior had spent too long under the dense insulation of the granitic fortress, deprived of the nearly constant communion the two had developed over the years of exile. He sighed in gratitude.

Legolas lagged back, absorbing the comfort of the connection he had come to depend on while alone among the forsaken southern woods. Indecision haunted him, for he while longed to hurry along the way and be near to Berenaur again he could not deny his nervousness lest his hopes be shattered. He must know, and the sooner the better, yet still he held the horse to a sluggish pace. The distance left was not a great one, however, and Tuilin soon reached the encircling ring of beeches protecting the ancient sanctuary. With a toss of her head and a soft whinny, she took a small leap and broke into a smooth canter, carrying her light burden with pride into the sheen of Ithil.

Legolas halted her just beside the ancient stump and its daughter oak, and gazed upon the muffled light spilling from the humble talan. He noted the closely tied drapes and the drawn silk screens, the closed trap and the absence of any rope to climb up, and his fears fell upon his consciousness with the weight of the mountain he had left behind. He could not even name what he had expected to see, only that it was not there, and his heart was suddenly swollen with affliction such that a thousand tears would not relieve its dolorous burden.

And then a slit of bright yellow parted the fabric panels for a minute, a finger of illumination that reached right out and verily traced his form where he sat, and Legolas smiled. He could almost feel the eyes rendering that inspection.

Tuilin refused to cover the remaining paces to the base of the venerable tree, feeling her Lord should be graciously met and welcomed, and soon the rattley clap of the trap heaving open made her snort and flare her nostrils in indignation. It had taken too long and she counted every second an insult to the Tawarwaith she bore. She flounced her elaborately plaited mane and announced their arrival in a harmonious shower of muted chiming and knelling. Against the backdrop of her heraldry, the subtle slithering of the hithlain rope was nearly missed while almost the next instant the tall shadowy form of the talan's occupant slid down to land noiselessly in the duff.

Curiosity overcoming trepidation, Erestor strode two steps out and halted, marvelling at the other worldly figures paused within the time-touched fane. The Noldo was uncertain if this was a real event or yet another vivid recollection and he hesitated to disturb the tableau. The horse and rider were both aglow with some grand soft shroud; this mirage nothing like the mental images of Legolas his faulty brain had returned. Nay, even the light about them seemed beyond the humble confines of Arda marred, for thus had he ever imagined the twilight of Aman, when the mixing suffusion of Telperion's silver dew and Laurelin's golden rain at the twelfth hour cast such rich effulgence. The silvan must belong to those uncounted days before Anor and Ithil. But he recognised the mounted elf's face easily and smiled; there was no mistaking Legolas, even if he seemed more a fey creature out of some mythical fantasy than a common Wood Elf.

_No ordinary woodland archer is this. He is the Watcher and the Bane of Darkness, the Hope of the Trees and the Tawarwaith of his people, Legolas. And more, there is another name, one no other dares call him save me._ But to his frantic dismay Erestor could not call the word to the front of his mind and speak it.

Legolas had not dismounted and regarded him with a peaceful if somewhat intense expression gathered into the slight uplift of ruby lips and the adamantine glint of night-darked eyes. Erestor found he could not bear to look away for fear the dreamy sight might vanish yet found it difficult to draw sufficient breath while locked within that compelling stare. He knew not what to do or say. Was he expected to welcome the elf into his own homestead or await the greeting of the woodland warrior? The chief advisor to Imladris' Lord fidgeted like an elfling caught snatching apples from a neighbour's orchard in summer. He did not belong there and yet he had not been granted leave to go.

Legolas waited, not certain what it was he required to assure him that this audience was not a mistake. Yet he could not just dismount and saunter over to the Noldo, utter some trivial greeting and lead him up to the bedroom. Not if this was not his Berenaur, at any rate. His Berenaur would welcome such a cheeky antic. What Noldo Lord this might be he could only guess: Rusciphant perhaps or even Erestor in the flesh, that unknown quantity whispered of as pompous, promiscuous, and predatory. Should that ellon reveal himself,  Legolas could not stay here and thus he had not alit. He was ready to bolt the moment the Imladrian gave the slightest signal that he beheld nothing but another Wood Elf, just one more unworthy stranger amid the host of lesser elves inhabiting the wild woods. Fearfaron would take him in if needed and offer a sturdy shoulder to absorb all the tears such a catastrophe would herald.

Well, Tuilin had grown bored with the lack of stimulus and though she was an elven raised equine still she was composed of the same mortal stuff as her lesser kin domesticated by Men. She needed her sleep in the regular cycles governed by Anor's path and could not remain vigilant for days on end as did her edhel friends. She felt it was time for her cargo to go on about his business, for she had delivered him safe and sound as promised. Without warning she turned her head and nipped lightly at the Tawarwaith's knee.

"Ai!" Legolas startled in surprise more than pain, for she had been cautious not to break through the leggings much less the skin.

Erestor jumped, too, on hearing the vision speak, or at least cry out, and he found his heart thumping in the aftermath. It was real enough then, and he must act if the Wood Elf would not.

"Legolas?" he spoke evenly and smiled up into the inscrutable depths of silver and ink.

"Aye. Do you know me then?"

"Yes." An infinitesimal pause. "I know you."

Tuilin stretched her neck forward and craned open her long jaws in a tremendous and rather pungent yawn, hoping the elves might at last take the hint. Erestor waved a hand before him in silent complaint and Legolas chuckled to see it.

"Valar! You are showing uncommon courtesy to so rude a horse!" he quipped. Swiftly swinging his right leg over the mare's neck he slid from Tuilin's back with easy grace, smiling when Berenaur moved a step closer as though to aid him then stopped. Instead he extended his hand and with but a minor amount of hesitation Legolas grasped it.

The instant their palms connected Erestor found he could no longer doubt the truth his soul had been so diligently attempting to make apparent. The elf on the other end of this juncture was transmitting a deep sense of relief merely to be in such simple and limited contact with him. The advisor found his mind supplying another recollection of walking together, fingers interlocked just so, and the contentment radiating from Legolas now spoke louder than any proclamation. He had given Erestor his heart as freely as he had given his hand.

The seneschal felt elated and frightened both, for he must face the betrayal of his Galadhrim mates' trust, no matter Fearfaron's assurances that the couple knew more than perhaps had been discussed between the trio. He could not deny his inner spirit's decision; he fully enjoyed being the focus of this silvan warrior's adoration and hoped to prove worthy of such a gift. If he could grant Legolas the happiness he deserved it would be worth the disgrace his roving eye had brought upon him, but he doubted an easy resolution._ The Valar will never allow me to retain so rare and exquisite a mate,_ his guilt chided. _He shall be taken from me, for I have done nothing to deserve this blessing._ He sighed sadly, not considering that his feelings were easily detectable to the wild elf at his side.

Legolas could not help a small bloom of confused anger. On one hand he thought he perceived his love returned and the next could feel the Noldo pulling his inner light away. _Berenaur will reject me after all, or worse, stay beside me out of pity!_ He felt sick. This casual camaraderie was farcical and even cruel. He wanted to leave at once and attempted to tug loose, but even as on their first walk beneath the trees, Berenaur tightened his grip and refused to let go. The Tawarwaith was bewildered and felt the hurt growing even as hope struggled to displace it.  

"Hannad, roch en Gladgalen," [My thanks, horse of the Greenwood] Erestor smiled as they set forth for the rope and gave a companionable slap to Tuilin's rump as she ambled out of the glade. He turned his eyes to the elf beside him and surveyed him closely, clasping the hand within his grasp tighter when Legolas tried to break loose. He frowned, seeing the sudden spark of fire in the azure orbs, uncertain of the cause, and cautiously trailed his free fingers over the extensive bandaging and the restricting sling. If the small box balanced upon that hindered limb caught his notice, he did not find it worthy of remark in consideration of the warrior's strange state of angry fatigue. He thought perhaps Legolas expected some commiseration from him regarding recent events.

"Fearfaron told me what happened; it was a bold move to confront the Sinda King thus. Yet the cost was too dear. I am glad you rode here instead of trying to walk so far alone. That blade has an evil history. I wish we were in Imladris or Lorien, for I would have Galadriel or Elr… or a more knowledgeable healer examine the wound." Erestor felt the silvan go rigid for a second and cursed his loose tongue for such a careless slip.

"Nay, it was a vainglorious and stupid action on my part. I never even thought about the consequences and you are right, the price was high and paid by many of my people. I understand that some of the woodland guards now face charges of treason for trying to defend my foolish deed."

"Yet how could they not try to stop Thranduil when they saw you blooded. Surely he must comprehend their fear and confusion and will reduce any penalties."

"Thranduil has already showed restraint, for I expected to die under his hand, and thus my true subversion is revealed. Long have I maintained that for the sake of my siblings I would not see him brought low, yet if he took my life, justly or not, he would have forfeited his rule and my home would be in chaos now. How would this benefit my infant brother and sister?

"As for that dagger, I have survived worse wounds from fouler blades. Gladhadithen is a fine healer, equal to any in Lorien or your own country. If there is something more sinister about Caranthir's dirk, no physician could reveal it anyway. But, mayhap you are right; the cousins of that vile kinslayer would understand. Hîren Adar [My Lord Father] is the only one in Greenwood who might know the true nature locked within its mithril bulk. I do not feel other than weary and there is ample reason to account for that without fearing black arts and sorcery." Legolas could not help the harsh, scalding chord of acrimony underlying his speech.

"I think you are too critical to accuse yourself so strongly." Erestor could not think what else he could possibly say in answer to this oration. He felt Legolas' words were wrong but was ill equipped to refute them with so many blank pits of abyssal emptiness honey-combing the scattered memories he had regained thus far. "There were circumstances that promoted your decisions, and if those were erroneous it is only because the soul making them was blinded in some ways. I am thinking you did not want those circumstances nor invite them. How can you berate yourself for reacting as anyone must when so encumbered with sorrows?"

"I can do so because my actions brought harm to others, people undeserving of injury, elves I should be concerned with protecting."

"Are you referring to the same population that cast you out and reviled you? These Wood Elves allowed you to be beaten and assaulted on a regular basis for twelve years." Erestor shuddered. "Twelve years! And after that, only Fearfaron stood up for you. Only recently have these fickle folk deigned to demonstrate any compassion or gratitude for what you have done for the Woodland Realm while under so severe a sentence. Everyone has acknowledged that the crimes you were convicted of were committed by another. Whatever small bumps and bruises these Danwaith have received is a trifle in comparison."

Now it was Legolas' turn to be dumbfounded as to a rebuttal. This was very like the counsel his Berenaur had given once before and his heart warmed to it. Mayhap he should not discard hope but fight to hold on to that which was dear to him, even as the carpenter had said. He smirked over the evident scorn in the seneschal's voice while pronouncing the name of his people's race and decided to chide the Noldo for it.

"I am one of those Danwaith."

Erestor stared at his companion a moment, assuring himself that he had truly heard this jocular point, and then grinned hugely and decided to play along.

"What nonsense! You are only half backwards."

"Backwards! Nay, Thranduil is half, according to Fearfaron, and my naneth is full-blooded Nandor, so I am only a small fraction Sinda after all."

"What? You jest, surely. All he ever speaks about is the superiority of the Sindar elves."

"Does this lower me in your estimation also?"

"Nay, never think that."  

They halted beneath the open trapdoor, each staring up into the bright yellow square, and another pause began. Erestor did not think it proper to go up first, for this was not even his home. Legolas was merely pondering how to make the climb encumbered by the box of emeralds.

"Berenaur," he said and noticed the Noldo's minute jerk of surprise. Legolas' heart squeezed against his ribs then, for it was abundantly clear the advisor was not comfortable hearing the name spoken. Just that quickly the congenial atmosphere dissipated and this time when the archer sought to remove his hand the Noldo did not stop him. "Climb up and I shall toss this to you. Then I shall follow." Even to his own ears Legolas' voice sounded morose as he indicated the wooden container.

"Of course," mumbled Erestor, aware his reaction was the wrong one, yet what was he to do? Naturally it would be a shock to hear that word fall from anyone's lips, much less this silvan warrior's. It was unnerving, for its meaning was deeply personal, and he could not recall the night when he had decided to employ it for the purposes of deceit, though so Fearfaron had duly informed him. To hear Legolas speak it was just a reminder of his atrocious conduct, both to have sullied the name for so base a purpose and to have permitted his well-known appellation to become an unspeakable one to the wild elf.

Even as this slump of glum thoughts settled in his mind, Erestor squirmed through the opening and leaned back down for the box. Legolas lobbed it high, scampered after, and soon the two stood facing one another in the sitting room.

"What is in it?" Erestor asked, offering the simple cask back.

Legolas smiled as he took it, rather sad that he needed the stones for another diversion, and walked to the low table beside the sofa. With a flourish he indicated for the Noldo to join him and set the box down, flicking open the lid. As Erestor gasped and sank upon the settee, awe-struck by the heap of gems, the Tawarwaith instinctively dug his hand inside his pocket and gripped the golden ring. Now was certainly not the time and he turned away, making an effort at normalcy as he moved about the small abode.

"Valar, where did you get these? You know what they are?" Erestor blurted out. He stood to find the woodland warrior poking around curiously, opening drawers and cabinets in the cupboard, picking up the silver lantern with a smile that spoke of fond reminiscence, shaking his head and snickering over the dainty little sofa.

"They are just a collection of emeralds," Legolas said with a peculiar quirk to his lips, "I plan to have gifts fashioned from them for my siblings." He strolled into the kitchen and could be heard rummaging about.

"A collection indeed," Erestor commented. "These are legendary and thought lost in the drowning of Beleriand by the Great Sea after the War of Wrath. All this time Thranduil has had them?"

"I know not when he came into possession of…Oh sweet Eru!"

This vain proclamation issued from the small pantry in hushed tones of either shock or horror, the Noldo could not tell which, and he rushed in to learn what was wrong. He found Legolas staring down at something on the far side of the kitchen table, face red but eyes shining a quite bright and vibrant cerulean.

"I just found Fearfaron's bonding gift."

"Ah!" was all Erestor could think of, staring from the Bench to the slender silvan in growing comprehension, and a salacious smile refashioned his expression.

Now that he had the elf before him in reality with ample light to make an assessment, the advisor took his time and let his eyes roam the slight form at will. His grin expanded as Legolas' blush deepened. There was much to appreciate for the Wood Elf was fair of features and just the right mix of self-conscious reserve and unconcealed desire. Not many could achieve the balance so well and Erestor felt his loins constrict as he anticipated the evening's events. The seneschal was in his element and no doubts need cloud his actions in this sort of exchange.

"You have played on one of these before, I see."

"Aye." Legolas swallowed, wincing at the nearly exact replication of words. _No use putting it off any longer. _"With you on our binding night."

The phrase fell upon the fragile framework of their reconstructed acquaintance, a broken branch falling through the delicate lace-work of a silk spinner's web.

"I see," Erestor repeated, mind numb as the meaning of the answer sank in. He suddenly felt much less sure of how to proceed and wished the archer had not discovered the Bench at all. He licked his lips, suddenly dry and parched, and sighed. "Legolas, we should speak of this. Will you sit with me by the grate?"

Legolas' spirit crumpled; never had Berenaur spoken with such impersonal courtesy to him, not even when first encountering the Noldor spies in the southern reaches. He did not bother to reply, merely turning and stumbling to the sitting room. Somehow he found himself on the footstool, Erestor crouched on the floor next to him, pressing something against his hand. It was only then Legolas realised he must have actually fallen rather than tripped. The object was a cup, cold from its contents, and he automatically took a swallow as that was what he was being urged to do. Erestor's eyes kept searching his and he knew the elf was speaking, but the words did not seem important anymore. The miruvor began its magic, however, and his malaise cleared enough to comprehend the frantic speech. 

"Valar! Legolas, answer me! I just wish to be honest, no more deception; my wish is not to hurt you. Eru's arse, the grief alone will kill me if I find I have harmed you yet again. Please speak!"

"I…I am sorry," Legolas stammered out as his senses returned. "Mayhap I am not as well recovered as I believed. Do not be concerned, this is not your doing."

"But it is. I do not want to mislead you a second time, for I am sure that would be wrong and only do your spirit greater injury. Yet I see that the truth will be hard to bear also. Alas! I know not the right course!"

"Peace! I am not so weak as that. You may tell me what is real for you and what is not; it is clear enough anyway. I swear I shall not succumb to grief."

Yet as Erestor gazed into the stricken eyes he knew this to be a lie.

"You have already suffered from it this very day, is that not so? I felt it, too. By Varda, I would not have you ever know such excruciation on my account, not ever! Anything would I do, anything, if only to prevent this."

"You experienced that?" Legolas was disturbed. "Are you certain it was grieving and not after effects from the enchantment?"

"Need you ask? You have known worse, according to Mithrandir, but I have not. If what I endured was but a faint reflection of your suffering, then you have survived far beyond the limits of my tolerance for pain. Battles I have joined, wounds I have taken, yet never felt anything so horrendous. Not even the whip of Durin's Bain was so tormenting, for that touched only my flesh. The agony visited upon me this evening reaved my very feä, as though to hold it fast was unbearable yet to free it an unspeakable misery."

"Ai, Berenaur! Fearfaron warned me not to despair. Forgive me, I never wished to hurt you so."

"What are you talking about now? Not everything is your fault, Legolas. It is the way of things between bonded elves; has no one ever taught you the basic truths regarding such intimate connections? Elbereth!"

"Then we are still bonded? What I feel you do also? I thought you meant to tell me your heart was untouched."

"Nay, my heart is tied to yours indeed. I wished only to explain that my memory is limited and I am confused, still, over how all this came to be. It is troubling to my soul for while I cannot forsake you this means I have wronged the Lorien elves to whom I have long been bound."

"Alas, this has been my constant worry ever since our union. I had no desire to bring grief upon them. What will happen to them…and to us? Can…can they force you to honour their bond and relinquish ours?"

"No. They are not unkind and would wish my happiness. I just feel ashamed that in selfishly seeking it I must cause them pain."

"I do not want to be the catalyst of such soul wounds!" Legolas tried to pull back from the seneschal and arise from the seat, but found his legs hindered by the Noldo's tight grip upon his thighs.

"You are not the author of any hardship they will know. Listen to me, Legolas, I have not been completely honest about this."

"Oh Valar, what now?" wailed Legolas, quite at the summit of his capacity for unpleasant revelations.

"It is true I let my heart accept their love, but I have not returned it in full. For centuries I have held back the better part of my soul from Orophin and Dambethnîn, thinking they did not note the feebleness of my commitment. I realise now this cannot be so for with you I experience the fullness of a genuine joining, feä to feä. I would feel it at once if your surrender to me was less than complete. They must have been aware of my reticence, for the bond between them is as real as ours.

"So now you must comprehend it; what is lacking between myself and my Lorien mates long predates my association with you. I never bonded with them; it is a lie I have told innumerable times over the centuries, hoping to protect my many transient lovers from unreasonable expectations or damaged hearts. Do you hear? This is not a burden I will permit you to bear on my behalf." Erestor searched Legolas' eyes intently, seeking any indication of remaining anxiety, and watched in growing joy as the troubled clouds of rueful doubt receded, scattered by the fresh current of honesty borne on the Noldo's words.

"Eru's arse!" hissed Legolas, a devilish smile upending his lips in spite of himself, "You used them! You are indeed a rogue and a scoundrel."

"That is rather harsh! Fearfaron says I should not worry about it; he was not so scandalised." Erestor blushed in unsettled chagrin. "It is a serious thing, surely, but I gave them much pleasure in return for the comfort of their accepting hearts."

"Much pleasure, that I do believe," smirked Legolas and spontaneously leaned forward and rested his head upon the Noldo's shoulder, breathing deeply the scent of the milky skin he so cherished, curling an elbow round the nape of Berenaur's neck, insinuating his fingers in the glossy onyx locks. "But not any more? I have no right but I do not wish to share."

"The right is yours, Legolas. I could not find delight in trysting with them, knowing it would wound you. Lay aside these fears; I will not leave you for them, nor for any other." Erestor wrapped his arms around the silvan and pulled him closer, letting one hand burrow under the cape and find its way to the scarred back, gently caressing the taut muscles. He smiled to hear the soft sigh of contentment as the tension left Legolas' body.

They remained quiet for a time, holding each other close, not in any hurry to accelerate the pace of their reunion, snug in the comfort of comfortable familiarity. But after a while Legolas stirred, for he was worried over his lover's bout of soul-sickness.

"What is it?" asked Erestor, lightly pressing his lips to the golden head.

"The bond between us made you suffer. Will it be thus whenever I am in a difficult situation? I will need to return to my duties eventually and this means I will often be in danger. And if you fear for me, will I then also come to know that fear and thus be consumed by it?"  
   
"No that cannot be so. Orophin and Dambethnîn are both warriors; they have been joined a long time and must worry for each other's welfare whenever they are parted, yet it does not hinder their abilities. I think what happened to us today is different, for your despair was so intense. Should either of us be on the brink of such hopelessness, craving death and self-destruction, the other cannot help but experience the impending loss keenly."

"Forgive me, but I could not wake you. I could not reach you. I could not feel you near me; there was only a black void in my heart where your presence had once filled it. I believed you lost to me and the bond a ruse, an imagined dream of a foolish elfling." Legolas shuddered in the memory of that terrible emptiness and Berenaur tightened his hold around him.

"Aye, it was a sort of non-existence, that is all I can think of to describe it. I was not dreaming, my soul was not free to wander in reverie, indeed I was unaware of my feä, no thoughts of any kind were present, no feelings, nothing. When I wakened, there was only a vast expanse of blank time. Where I was during the enchantment terrifies me even now, for it was like the loss of sensibility that comes from near-mortal injuries."

"The memories are returning?"

"Aye, slowly, haphazardly, and not in any logical sequence or order. Some are clear and distinct, others more subtle and too ephemeral to define. And some images are surprisingly bold and lucid, due in part to the fusion of our feär. I saw you with your uncles in that tree, for example. Strange, that was, for its branches were summer-clothed instead of bare, as now. How do you explain that if it was real and not a vision? Yet I know it truly happened for Fearfaron has confirmed it."

"It is the way for Tawar, for the time of summer is favoured among the woods; what is seen within the consciousness of Tawar is equal parts vision and reality. But you amaze me, for I did not explain about the Sentinel to Fearfaron. That is the second time Tawar has favoured you."

"Nay, the third. The first was after the rains in the central regions."

"You never mentioned that before. What was this other vision?"

"Did I not? It seemed a sore topic, I suppose. However, the trees rejoiced for you despite Elrond's fiendish maltreatment, for Tawar could see your intent well enough and that was an honest desire to give and receive comfort."

"I do not care to think on it; how could I find such an ignoble mind appealing?" Legolas was filled anew with disgust for his lack of insight and failure to control his body's urges.

"I do not think it was his intellect, noble or otherwise, that initially drew your eye! You are no different from any other living elf. There is much to find attractive in the Noldo Lord and you should not hold yourself morally deficient for giving in to a lust he and I worked so diligently to arouse." Erestor was still for a moment considering the underlying question in Legolas' words. "I do not hold it against you, no more than you have found reason to vituperate me for my uncounted assignations, even though my indiscretions were deliberate and freely chosen.

"Your reactions, on the other hand, were manipulated from the start. You had no way of knowing Elrond's identity and you were utterly alone; besides, your character is such that you would not suspect subterfuge and harmful intent. Nor could Tawar aid your understanding. The Greenwood still cannot fathom that someone so esteemed would be so cruel. Such is not within the trees' way of comprehending things; one Elf Lord's character perceived from afar is too faint a note upon which to tune their part of the Song."

"You speak like a silvan!" Legolas laughed, a free sound, soaring and exultant like a falcon in flight.

"I have been taught so by a master of the trees."

Legolas found he was close to exuberance to have this last ugly truth out in the open and so easily dealt its due. Berenaur did not find him reprehensible for the lapse in virtue; instead he removed him from blame and lauded his natural inclination to trust any foe of the Darkness. The Noldo's explanation of the Greenwood's spirit was a gratifying bonus, for this was a side to the Tawarwaith's existence he believed his life-mate could never share.

They traded smiles, softly warm ones, and Legolas gratefully nestled into the sheltering arms of Berenaur. Somehow they had descended to the floor before the radiating grate, the Wood Elf resting against his beloved's chest, the seneschal's hands firmly locked upon his lean belly, for both could not sit on the ottoman and Erestor would not leave Legolas' side to take a separate chair. If they were bewildered to be talking together so easily about things so fraught with pain and sorrow, neither cared to examine the phenomenon too closely for fear of inviting the edgy strain back into their fragile reunion. It was enough to attribute the mood to the bond between their souls and simply accept it.

The Tawarwaith replayed his mate's words, considering the seneschal's initiation to the darker zones of love and wondering at the comparison of the agony to that created by a Balrog's fiery weapon. His thoughts focused on the long, curved remnant of that encounter and his curiosity was awakened. 

"You never told me how you got that scar. It happened during the wars in Eregion? I had imagined it was during the sack of Gondolin."

Just as soon as he mentioned the scar Legolas regretted it, for now this brought to mind his many marks and blemishes. With dread he realised that Berenaur probably did not remember how badly he was marred, and instantly he became self-conscious of revealing this. Allowing the Noldo to catalogue each one during their love-making had been liberating yet gruelling and Legolas had no wish to go through the procedure a second time.

"Nay, through Gondolin's ruin I remained unscathed."

Erestor detected that slight stiffening in his mate's shoulders as Legolas drew away, though the distance between them was less than a hand's breadth. Instinctively he tightened his encircling hold and pulled back, resettling the disquieted archer in place, trailing his lips against the set jaw and up to the tapered elven ear as he did so. With a shiver and a sigh the Tawarwaith relented, leaning back fully, and Erestor smiled as he peeked beneath coal black lashes at the gentle flush returning to his lover's cheeks.

"And I received only minor wounds in the ravaging of Eregion by the forces of Angmar's putrid King. Not until the Balrog of Moria was unleashed did I take serious injury. It does not make my form displeasing to you, does it?"

As he spoke, the Noldo's hands disengaged. One pressed a tender caress against rippling abdominals around the silvan's navel and, while the thumb found a pleasant diversion in that tiny fold of skin, the rest of the fingers delved lower, dipping just beneath the waistband of the blood sullied leggings. 

"What?" Legolas could not suppress a gasp at the inquisitive exploring of the long, slender digits. "Nay, you are magnificent and well do you know it."

"But the scar is there. Are you sure it does not make you cringe every time you see it?"

Erestor let the index pointer of his left hand trip lightly up the centre of Legolas' torso to his breastbone, relishing the excited goose flesh following its wake. Then, he propped his chin upon the warrior's fur-draped shoulder and watched as he retraced the path lazily back to the crease formed by the bend at the waist. Legolas trembled in anticipation. 

"That is absolute rubbish! How can you imagine that?"

"The same way you fear my reaction to the signs of your long torment, the evidence of numerous battles you have engaged against Sauron's foul creations, alone in this Valar forsaken place."

Erestor cocked his head slightly to catch the wild elf's eye and smiled a lopsided grin as Legolas turned his head to do the same. Their lips were scarcely a finger's width apart now and the Noldo examined his lover's crimson mouth intently; he looked up quickly and caught Legolas in the same state of ogling. When the archer's vision levelled with his, however, Erestor saw only shame there.

"It is not the same. My marks were not nobly won, not the worst of them." Legolas' voice was as brittlely disfigured as his body.

"Only in your own mind is that true. I thought I had removed all those doubts, for Fearfaron said our love had healed us both of this malignant affliction of self-loathing. It shall be my supreme pleasure to re-educate you."

The pupils in the beckoning pools of sapphire widened at this and Erestor smiled as he claimed their first kiss, savouring the taste of the wild elf. Legolas opened willingly to him, eagerly inviting the seneschal's exploration. The Noldo took his time and kissed him well, delighting in the fervour with which his tongue's teasing torment was answered. He had intended it to be slow and dreamy, searching and seductive, but the archer already knew what most pleased him and soon Erestor was lost in the searing passion ignited by their questing lips.

They broke to breathe and the advisor felt  giddy. He stared in wonder, all doubts gone, for he yearned to complete their union and claim this bond which everyone had so lectured him to preserve. It would be impossible for him to do otherwise. The idea of violating it or suppressing it, denying it or ending it was inconceivable. Easier would it be to still his heart or stop his respiration.

"Oh," he whispered through heaving ribs, "I did not know it was like this."

"Nor did I," grinned Legolas, more at peace than he had ever been, for this was his Berenaur, no matter what days might be missing from his thoughts of their time before, all of eternity stretched before them now.

Erestor delighted to behold the light that filled his lover's eyes and reached for the clasp of the great red stone holding the cloak secure. He had already remarked what a fine soft cape it was and that it was amply large for the pair to lie upon. His intent was to renew their bond here and now before the grate, not wishing to delay long enough even to get Legolas up to the sleeping platform. As his busy digits worked at the catch, Erestor's mouth employed itself upon the tantalising tip of the archer's ear. His heart soared at every sighing moan this incited, and his nose inhaled Legolas' erotic scent until he thought he might faint from the exhilaration.

Finally, the jewel came loose and Erestor cast Oropher's Hûn-en-ûr [Heart of Fire] carelessly over his shoulder. The ruby skittered and bounced across the wooden planks, coming to rest under the small table by the trap. The majestic panther skin fell silently onto the floor behind the Wood Elf, revealing the sling and the bandaging more clearly. Erestor hesitated, drawing back to determine the degree of debilitation Legolas had incurred.

"Ai, it must be severe indeed," he gently loosed the confining fabric from the stricken limb, careful to support the weakened arm with his free hand. "It must be painful, too."

"Only a little. It is really not so bad. I have survived…"

"Worse. Aye, you have fought bands of Orcs and colonies of spiders, packs of wargs and a clutch of Wraiths all alone in the darkest corners of Mirkwood's blackened heart. You are not alone in the wilds this night and I will determine what is best. Can you move the arm at all?" 

"Of course I can move it. Gladhadithen just fusses too much." But Legolas could not camouflage the strain lifting his arm entailed and drew a sharp breathe, halting the motion before his wrist was above his head.

"Nay, do not. You will tear the wound open," cautioned Erestor. He got up and strode over to the sofa and gathered up several of the plump pillows there. Returning he piled these at Legolas' back. "Lie down," he coaxed and gingerly settled his mate into the fluffy nest. "I will do the work this night." He fitted his actions to his words and pried off the archer's boots and belt, untied the leggings and whisked them off in lightening speed.

"Ai!" Legolas gasped, never having been disrobed so quickly, flexing his pelvis as his cock responded to the increased freedom and rose up in jaunty anticipation. "What sorts of toil and labour are you planning?"

"Oh, only the most gratifying kind, I assure you. First I must refresh my memory. I shall need to inspect the resources I have at my disposal." Erestor wasted no time at all, reaching down to cup the heavy sac and its hidden twin burdens, just palpating the sensitive flesh enough to make his lover wail and twitch.

"Not fair." Legolas found it difficult to catch his breath or concentrate on much beyond what Berenaur's hands were doing. "I should be allowed to examine the tools you intend to employ."

"As you wish," chortled Erestor. Instead of disrobing, however, he lifted one of Legolas' impossibly long legs and licked and nibbled the tender inner stretch of the archer's thigh. "Here are the lips and teeth and tongue I will use to pleasure you," he murmured and let his grazing follow the outline of the jagged scar there. Tasting brought a flash of recognition; he had done so before and he kissed the maroon mark reverently as his mate became still in tense apprehension. Erestor lifted his eyes to the Tawarwaith's and languidly licked the spot again.

"Ah, beloved, do not fear for me to know you thus. I cannot be other than enthralled." The strain vanished from the muscles under his hands and he sighed, licking the sensitive flesh again. He could not be satisfied with this meagre sampling, however, and encouraged by Legolas' urgent exclamation of lusty desire, he continued over the knee, down the calf, and all the way to the slender foot. He ran his tongue along the length of the sole from the heel to the toes and back to the centre of the arch. Here he found the spot ticklishly responsive. Legolas yelped and he repeated the procedure, holding the ankle tight when the Tawarwaith tried to jerk it away.

"Ah, nay, oh stop!" Legolas was writhing and giggling uncontrollably and decided to end the gentle torture by popping the seneschal lightly on the head with the opposite foot.

"Why that was uncalled for," Erestor grinned and grabbed the offending appendage and quickly subjected it to the same torment, laughing to see the fit of snorting peals overtake his lover anew.

He decided to taste every inch of skin on the rest of this leg also and before long was back at the inner thigh, insinuating his mobile tongue into the hot crease of skin where the limb joined the torso. The scent of Legolas arousal was strong, captured in the silky patch of golden pubic hair and the thin sweaty skin of the tightly drawn pouch; Erestor could not resist so blatant a temptation. He nudged one of the covered globes with his nose and then dabbed his tongue at the same spot, watching as the elegant length of the Wood Elf's cock jerked in response, thrilling to the decadent cry of pleasure that issued from Legolas' chest. He stopped and glanced up to see the wild elf propped on his elbow panting and wide eyed in salacious lust.

"This is rare treat, rediscovering everything that makes you yearn for my touch, learning each locus of desire upon your body and exploiting it." He smiled when Legolas groaned and flopped back limp upon the cushions.

"Please, no more teasing! Berenaur, I would have you…Ai!"

The seneschal had no intention of putting up with such paltry complaining and drew the warm, swollen gland into his mouth, softly swabbing it with his tongue, relishing the long low cry of anguished ecstasy this initiated. He let the slickened testicle slip from his lips and nipped at the root of the rigid column of the silvan's masculine pride.

Legolas jolted almost off the floor and lifted his head again to find Berenaur crouched between his legs so close to his cock he could feel the Noldo's breath caressing the hard organ in rapid gusts. Berenaur had a hand on either thigh and pressed down to keep the legs spread and the excited genitals fully exposed, preventing any motion from hindering his access. Not that Legolas had any wish to prevent the seneschal's actions. Another bite at the base of the florid shaft wrenched a shuddering cry from his very soul and he reached with his injured arm, trying to caress the black locks brushing tantalising tickles over his sensitised skin.

"Does that please you?" Erestor whispered and continued the tender nibbling up the engorged length. He reached the pinnacle and with the most delicate care seized the foreskin with his teeth and pulled back, glorying in the frantic shriek that erupted from his lover and the racing shivers coursing through the tense frame. He let go and looked up in time to see Legolas collapse against the cushions in gasping titillation again. "Does that please you?" Erestor reiterated, closing his lips just around the head of the archer's penis and sucking gently, sweeping his tongue repeatedly over the freely seeping orifice.

"Aye, aye," cried Legolas. "More." 

But Erestor released him and sat back, gloating over the sight of Legolas displayed in full-blown, impassioned carnal craving, hair askew about his head, chest heaving in the effort to keep pace with his racing pulse, eyes gleaming with salacious anticipation and lips parted in decadent invitation. The Noldo emitted a low growl of hunger, his first audible indication of increasing lubricity, and stripped with a haste that underscored the feral instinct to claim the willing body trembling on the floor. The seneschal lunged forward on hands and knees, settling between the splayed limbs, covering the silvan, working his eager organ in rapid thrusting friction against the turgid warmth of the archer's solid shaft. He lapped at a scarlet nipple, biting all around it, chuckling smugly over the shout of pleasure Legolas loosed, before turning to make its twin equally hard and ripe.

The tight cotton binding barred him from partaking of that delicacy and he frowned, stilling his movements and bearing his weight one-armed while prying the concealing strips of fabric upward with the freed hand. The dark red node emerged, popping up in beguiling enticement, and Erestor tested it with his teeth.

"Berenaur!"

Legolas called his lover's name and arched into the contact, not caring that he was reduced to presenting so wanton an offering as long as Berenaur would continue. He laced his fingers through the inky strands and found and ear, followed the outer rim up to the pointed tip and teased it with toying tugs.

Erestor responded by clamping down and sucking hard enough to leave the small peak throbbing and sore when he released it. He blew across the bruise and gently licked the nipple, concurrently lapping up every soft achy moan his lover uttered, such sweet sounds of erotic agony.

The Noldo sat back on his knees and settled his possessive gaze upon the vermilion mouth once more. He could hear the silvan's breath escaping there in soft gusts of prurient need and he shuddered, imaging that hot light breeze upon his ardent cock. Then Legolas' swallowed and slipped his tongue out, wetting the lower lip and raising the rich colour higher. The ruby oral muscle retreated, a beckoning flicker of motion, and Erestor scooted up and over the Wood Elf, one long leg draped over the archer's chest, the other bent beneath him as he squatted before the fair featured face and presented his penis, holding it out, pointing it right at that dark torrid fissure, and watched in fascination as it parted to receive him.

The Noldo plunged in with a low groan of exaltation, pumping in short quick jerks against the massaging tongue and the inexorable suction, one hand slipping under the golden head to support it while the other impatiently shoved aside the tangled flow of matted tresses to find and pinch the inflamed cartilage at the ear's summit.

Legolas crooned in excitement around the huge erection filling his mouth, sipping the biter-sweet juice oozing fast from the tiny opening and swallowing against the intrusion every time it pushed inside. He was eager for the gush of semen and wrapped his arm around his lover's waist to hold him fast, slowly rubbing his palm against the taut gluteus muscle in the working arse. And just when he was sure he had Berenaur on the brink the seneschal gave a hoarse cry and yanked his long organ out completely. Legolas stared into his mate's eyes in concerned surprise,  worried he had done some harm but not able to recall letting his teeth more than faintly raze the ruddy flesh.

"Nay, nay," huffed Erestor trying to compose himself and reassure his lover both. "Not that way, not yet anyway."

He crawled back over the prone form until he was back in the crux of the archer's legs and took firm hold of the neglected rod of primed and pent desire. He slowly stroked its length and smiled at the reflexive thrust of Legolas' hips, so strong that he felt the shifting balls under his hand and the soft dampness caught in the flaxen curls surrounding them. Another controlled, squeezing pump and Legolas' head arched back, exposing his throat as he strained to increase the pressure and trigger his release. Erestor let go and leaned up to softly kiss the dark wine-coloured weal he had left on the creamy neck at their last coupling, smiling and proud, as Legolas wailed a frustrated complaint over the loss of the gripping contact. He kissed his way up to the jaw and then to the ear lobe, breathing a sigh against the smooth skin just behind it.

Legolas shuddered from crown to toes and feared he would come just like that.

"Soon," the whispered promise met his hearing and he turned to meet his lover's complacent gaze with an expression indicative of glorious torment. He was rewarded with a quick kiss on the lips and then Berenaur was gone again, back down between his legs. Legolas spread them wider hoping to encourage further stimulation and heard a snicker of amused lechery.

"You wanton, wild thing," this barely audible christening was accompanied by Erestor's manipulation of the silvan's left limb and right hip. Cautiously he folded the leg over and up toward Legolas' chest, gently turning him to the side from the waist down, making the small ingress between his buttocks accessible.

"Oh, aye; I am ready, please," Legolas panted out excitedly.

"Shhh. I shall take my time and take you when I am ready," admonished the Noldo. He had not thought to place a vial of oil conveniently available on the low table but Erestor was nothing if not resourceful. The unfinished goblet of miruvor rested there and the seneschal dipped his fingers in it, coating them up to the knuckles. "This will be a bit cold at first," he warned and pushed in the first digit.

"Elbereth!" Legolas jerked as the icy liquid smeared across the interior muscle, cooling the initial burn of penetration. He relaxed and let his eyes drift half-closed as the Noldo explored. The moving fingertip soothed across the worst of the inner ridges of dense scar tissue and lingered there, rubbing over it several times. Legolas opened his eyes and looked for Berenaur's, flinching at the grief and confusion in them.

"Tell me this was not my doing," the seneschal could barely give air to form the words, fearful of what the reply would be. Mayhap this was why his mind was so reluctant to divulge all the memories the two shared. He felt sick to think he would hurt Legolas so cruelly and swallowed hard to keep the bile down.

"Nay!" Legolas propped himself up and gently stroked the cheek of the stricken face before him, deeply moved by the desperate plea. "You have never hurt me, never. Only joy and delight have we known together; be at peace."

Erestor exhaled deeply and resumed his finger's work, holding Legolas' gaze as he inserted a second one and groped for the small rise of flesh marking the location of the deeply hidden prostate. He encountered more healed tears and carefully manoeuvred to stretch the passage in these areas. A slight shift in position and pressure yielded a loud shout of delight and an instinctive push back from Legolas; he had found the spot he was searching for and grinned, pressing on it mercilessly.

"Berenaur! Please!" Legolas dropped back on the pillows and clutched a handful of the Noldo's hair, writhing against the incessant thrills racing like quicksilver to the peak of his penis. Even so, he moaned in needy appeal as the fingers retreated and left him empty. Berenaur was looming over him again, an arm to either side of him, bending low to steal a kiss, and the blunt head of his cock brushed against the deserted opening.

Erestor took Legolas' lips again, inserting his tongue deeply into the sweltering mouth, and forced his aching organ past the silvan's rectal ring of guarding muscles. The advisor's lung emptying moan of intense satisfaction was matched by Legolas' shrill exhalation. Erestor stilled and broke the seal between their lips.

"Does this please you?" he panted out and thrust in deeper.

"Aye!" Legolas nearly shrieked, wide eyed and breathless as the engorged penis spread and filled him. He reached for his bended knee and pulled it higher, closer, anticipating another forceful push. Berenaur did not disappoint him, shoving determinedly as he gave out a guttural croaking grunt of pleasure. "More," was all Legolas could manage.

It was sufficient. Erestor could not have maintained a sedate pace even had he wished it. He pulled out and pierced his lover anew, plunging in and out, lunging against the tight friction so forcefully that their conjoined bodies slid forward across the pillows. Indeed, he did not even try to check his rampaging desire to fuck the Wood Elf hard, fast, and as deep as he could cram his cock up the constricting passage of rippling, heated flesh. What he needed was to spill inside his lover and claim this indescribably erotic creature for his own, using his seed to soothe the disfigured interior and heal the fragile soul completely. He was not even aware of shouting Pen-rhovan's name between the frantic kisses he snatched from the wild elf's panting open lips, plastered over the upturned, sweat-sheened cheeks, peppered upon the shut and shrivelley eyelids.

Legolas felt he must either explode or expire from such exquisite fulfilment, rocking into every thrust and angling his arse to aid his lover's eager cock find its mark. Berenaur was near madness, reason abandoned to the sensational thrill and the mounting heat, fucking him as if he meant to bruise him beyond the ability to either stand or sit, and this raised Legolas' desire exponentially, pushing him closer to ecstatic delirium. It was incredible to be taken thus, rough to the point of pain but no further, wild to the point of frenzied incomprehension, just as he liked it. He felt gloriously powerful and simultaneously subdued in gentle gratitude, knowing the fuel of the force not a selfish need to humiliate and subjugate him but rather an intensely burning love, a driving need to seal their souls together anew. But it was the shouted, exuberant, blissful and awe-struck calling of the name that he knew would do him in sooner than he might wish. He was going to come without any need to touch his board-stiff erection even once.

"Ai Berenaur!" he cried and arched into the spiralling jets of his orgasm, smooth intestinal muscles clenching in rolling spasms around the fat intrusion relentlessly driving against his arse.

"Valar!" Erestor's strangled gasp escaped him as the first spurt of semen left the sensitised tip of his buried penis. He pulled back and shoved once more and gave in to the flood, roaring a deep exultant cry of fulfilment as the thick seed coated the organ and made it slip slightly deeper. "Ah, Pen-rhovan!" he cried, twitching gently as the sperm exited, almost feeling the archer's cells absorb it, mingling their essential fluids: his seed with Legolas' blood.

Too soon it was over and yet neither felt the least disappointed or deprived and found their eyes locked together in exhausted jubilation, each one grinning a completely silly smile agog with wonder and delight. They shared a slow kiss, hands caressing warm relaxed skin and tangling in hair now tinged with the sweetly salty residue of sex-induced sweat.

Erestor carefully shifted and pulled out, straightening his lover's cramped leg and quickly lapping up the smear of Legolas' seed streaked across the thigh and down the calf. He chuckled, sniffing out more of the pungent fluid where it clung to his lover's stomach and ribs, licking and inhaling nearly simultaneously as if he could not decide whether he preferred to taste the creamy residue or enjoy the tangy aroma. He found a glob over a known ticklish spot on the archer's left side and delighted in the sharp spasm and involuntary laugh his tongue coaxed from Legolas' lungs. At last he had the wild elf all cleaned up and stretched out in boneless complacency by his side, smiling into eyes still starry with euphoria as he demanded another kiss, sharing the flavour he loved beyond any other.

"Ah, I remember this," he sighed as their lips parted. "I remember you now, Tawarwaith. You are mine, Legolas, and mine alone. How I love you, Pen-rhovan." He gathered Legolas close, mindful of the injured shoulder, and exhaled in supreme contentment to feel lips press upon his chest as the wild elf snuggled into his hold.

TBC  


  
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	89. Gwaeth Aer (Holy Bond)

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter UnBeta'd

**Gwaeth Aer (Holy Bond)**

  
In silence they shared the tender diminishment of ecstasy as it settled into infinite contentment, listening to their hearts slow to synchrony and their breathing ease from rapid gulps to easy respiration. Long they lay thus, drifting in the renewed unity of their spirits as the logs in the grate were consumed to glowing incandescent coals.

Then Legolas stirred and propped himself up to gaze upon his mate, admiring the Noldo's features highlighted in the dancing gleam of orange light. It still amazed him that so desirable and noble an elf would choose him to love.

"Alae, Berenaur! Gwethim!" [Behold, Berenaur! We are bound!] he spoke softly, eyes shining with joy to see a smile spread over the advisor's features. 

"Aye, gwethim," the seneschal responded in kind and reached up to trail his fingers across the archer's refined jaw. The memory of their first binding was now his to own, too, and he was lost in contemplation of all they had endured to reach this place in time. "And I would have it known." Erestor sat up and grasped his mate's hands in his. "Legolas, I have something. I know we have not discussed it before now, yet the time seems right. Fearfaron gifted me a ring and…"

"Ai!" Legolas sat too, half laughing in anticipation and half pouting in disappointment. "You are stealing my great moment!" he mourned.

"What?"

"Valar, I have been practising what to say, in my mind, for hours, and now you are speaking your troth first."

"You have? Eru's arse, the carpenter ordered me to get a ring on your hand or face his and the wizard's justified wrath."

"And to me he said I must formalise my claim for the sake of propriety and your esteemed reputation."

That brought a loud snort of laughter from the randy seneschal and the wild forest prince both.

"Well then, since my honour is at stake, show me your token. Proudly will I bear it, Pen-rhovan," urged Erestor, easily discerning how eager was his lover to be the first to give their bond the correct symbol of recognition. He found his spirit fighting against the bounds of his being, longing for union with Legolas, and believed he was more impatient than his mate for this final boundary to be crossed, an exchange of a more concrete composition designed so that any among the various free peoples could never doubt the status of their affinity.

Erestor watched in delighted suspense as Legolas crawled over to the pile of discarded clothing and began hurriedly rifling through them, his lithesome body an inviting presentation of supple, sensuous grace. When Legolas returned he was glowing brighter than the embers, flushed with excitement over the momentous event so that Erestor could not help catching him close and kissing him ardently. Again his heart welled with exuberant pride and possessive desire as lean arms closed around his neck and the hard small peaks of erect nipples pressed into his chest. He ended the osculation reluctantly, already imagining a second round of intimate exercise, this time in the kitchen.

Legolas sat back on his heels and rested his hands, one clutching the ring, on his thighs and vainly willed his awakening penis to settle down. _Ah well, as long as Berenaur is up for it, why not?_ He took a breath, allowing his knees to part a bit more, exposing a tempting glimpse of his arousal for his mate's enjoyment. He felt his heart racing as Berenaur's eyes strained to see more and the seneschal's hand darted out to try and pry the legs wide. Laughing, Legolas slapped it away and met his beloved's sheepish gaze with a gentle smile. Another breath, time enough to compose his nerves, and he began. 

"Berenaur, I have given you my heart and accepted yours in return. Those I count as family know the truth of my pledge, Tawar has adopted you as a silvan in spirit, and Iluvatar has borne witness to our union, feä and hroa. Now I would give you a proper symbol of our espousal. This ring belonged to my Minya'dar, and to you I offer it as the sign of our eternal bond." With these simple words Legolas held out his hand with the golden band upon it and waited with pounding pulse the half second it took for his mate to snatch it up.

"Ulmo's Balls! How did you get such an heirloom? Thranduil will never approve you giving it to me and if you stole it we shall both pay a steep penalty to the Wood Elves' King." Erestor sputtered out, examining the heavy band carefully. He turned to see the inscription and smiled, then realised Legolas had not answered and felt his stomach lurch in panic. _What did I say?_ He could not remember, so great was his surprise at the origin of the gift, but knew he had not accepted the ring with much eloquence. He raised his eyes in trepidation to search his lover's crestfallen countenance. 

"Nae! (Alas!) I have spoiled everything! Forgive me, Pen-rhovan!" he cried but Legolas turned his face away with a half-shrug. Erestor feared to force the archer to meet his gaze, having no wish to behold the deep hurt he was certain would cloud the indigo irises. "Valar, I am a fool and you should grant me a new name: Lam Blabel (Flapping Tongue)." This earned an involuntary snort of a giggle from Pen-rhovan and Erestor silently and fervently thanked Eru for such a mercy.

"Let me rephrase those ill-chosen words: I am honoured to be graced with such a worthy token and will wear it with a glad heart and a singing soul," he corrected himself and hoped this would do, waiting with pounding pulse the half second it took for Legolas to transform into a beaming, energetic wood-sprite who threw himself upon his bond-mate with undisguised glee.

"You fill me with joy," he whispered in provocative tones and let the wet crown of his cock paint a smear on his lover's thigh, "as I wish to fill you," and then sat back. "Let us see if it fits properly."

Erestor stared a few seconds in undisguised lechery at the boldly irreverent double entendre, mouth curving into an anticipatory leer, then held up his right index finger and slowly slipped the band on. He was both surprised and pleased for it fit as though made for him alone. The Noldo demanded another long kiss and fondled his lover's distended shaft, making sure the ring touched upon the sensitive skin of the hot and sticky head. Legolas' spasm of desire ignited his own passion anew and he quickly transferred his lips to the unblemished shoulder, marking it with a sucking bite that made the wild elf groan. He was thus unprepared to have the forest prince shove him off.

"What of my ring?" demanded Legolas petulantly, if a bit breathless. "Am I not worthy of a token, too?"

It was said in a jesting note but Erestor knew the fears behind it were serious. He chided himself silently for letting his libido_ and Pen-rhovan's_ misdirect his actions so.

"Aye, more so than I am," he assured as he got to his feet and moved to the small table near the door in the floor.

Perhaps he strutted just a little to show off his overt erection, hoping to tempt Legolas in equal measure. A sly glance back revealed his lover so deeply enthralled that the silvan's hand was already wrapped tightly around his cock, working it casually. Erestor yanked open the single drawer and rifled the contents to grab up the simple leather pouch containing the carpenter's gift. This recovered, he hastily scrambled to sit before his mate, permitting Pen-rhovan a closer view of the long, hard column of maroon flesh rising from between his legs. An intense but short vision of plunging his aching organ deeply down the wild elf's throat caused the seneschal's pulse to drum out a wanton staccato he was sure Legolas could hear, also. He had to close his eyes to compose himself. 

"Pen-rhovan, I have waited for over two milennia to find you. Long have I prayed to Varda and Manwë to send me a mate that belongs to my soul alone. I would never have thought to find such a partner here in these dismal, primitive woods," Erestor stopped, discerning how his words sounded even as Legolas' brows arched in annoyance.

"Why not? Greenwood is neither dismal nor primitive but rather the longest held elven realm in the most sacred of forests in all of Arda," he retorted, folding his arms before his chest.

"Nestegi! [Fuck!] That is not how I meant to say it. I mean that I would have come to Greenwood sooner to claim you had I not been such an incredibly prejudiced and thick-headed bore."

Legolas smiled and relaxed. "Go on, then," he encouraged.

"Aye. Eru has granted me my heart's desire at last: a soul-mate devoted to me alone, a lover I would die to protect, my beloved for all time. My kin would rejoice with me, could they meet you, and I doubt not their feär sense the peace that your love has conferred upon me.

"I would have you wear a ring as testament to all this; a visible sign that everyone will recognise and know that you belong only to me. Here is the gift of Fearfaron: the binding ring of his first son, Analdír. I offer it to you, his second son, if you will have it." With that he took Legolas' hand and dropped upon the upturned palm the fine golden circle.

"Elbereth." Legolas stared, shocked and speechless, and suddenly had to fight down a huge sob so strong was his emotion over this simple symbol of their love, the refined ore as precious and pure as the bond it represented. He swallowed in an attempt to clear his tight throat enough for words and with a shaking hand took up the band. He turned it to see if there was any inscription and exhaled in relief to see the single word "Uir" [Eternity], marvelling at the accord between the two tokens as if the sentiment was not the most common one for bonded elves to choose.

"I accept this with both a glad and a heavy heart," he said and put it on. Given that this had graced the hand of Analdír, a tall and sturdy spearman, the ring was slightly loose on the smaller, slender archer's finger. Legolas frowned. "That is not a good sign," he complained and lifted worried eyes to Berenaur.

"Valar, it is easily fixed. Or we may choose an entirely different ring if you wish."

"Nay, I do not want to offend Fearfaron. We shall have to have it reduced, I suppose." A deeper grimace contorted his features.

"What?" Erestor demanded, alarmed and disappointed that the mood was disrupted and his gift was less than perfect.

"In Greenwood, I know of only one elf skilled in metal-working who could fix it, and I do not trust him. The gold will have to be melted and recast, you see, and Thranduil has a way of instilling sorcery to molten metal. I do not wish my marriage ring to bind me to anything other than your heart!" 

"That settles it; we shall have to tell Fearfaron. I am certain he will understand. I will not allow Thranduil to interfere between us nor give him any further means to do you harm, and neither would the carpenter stand for it. Just for now, remove the band and we will put it safely away."

"I do not wish to do so. Once accepted, a bonding ring ought never to part with its bearer except upon death." Gazing at the gleaming gold around his finger, saddened in heart and soul, Legolas realised he must do as the seneschal advised.  With a sigh he tried to slide it past his knuckle and nearly fell over in shock. The instant he touched it, the metal shimmered and grew warm, shining with a light of its own, and constricted around his finger, conforming to fit its circumference perfectly.

"Valar!" Erestor sat up straighter and snatched Legolas' hand in both of his. "What was that? Is this some kind of enchantment? Take it off!" he cried in a panic.

"Are you absolutely certain this was Analdír's ring?" Legolas asked shakily as Berenaur futilely fought to pull it from his finger.

"Thus Fearfaron assured me. Why will it not come loose? Legolas, I meant it when I said I would have you bound to none but me!"

"Peace!" urged Legolas as reason reasserted itself. "Fearfaron would not give anything to me that is dangerous. It may be that there is magic in the ring, of a good sort, and I have just spoken the words invoking it."

"What words?" Erestor ceased his ineffectual tugging upon the golden band and met his lover's gaze with hesitant hope.

"I said that once accepted only death would allow its removal. Thus shall it be. This is the binding ring of my soul to yours and never shall it leave my body unless my feä and hroa are sundered." Legolas smiled. "It is a good omen, for likewise never shall my heart be separated from yours unless ill-fate stills it forever."

Now Erestor stared in awe for these words rang with the timbre of a solemn vow, more potent than the rehearsed, though genuine, proposal spoken earlier. He grabbed up the wild elf's hand and kissed the ring, then bent low and reverently kissed the pounding heart beneath the small scar of the soul-wound. Next he gathered Legolas close and held him tight, not sure if he would burst into tears or song so strong was the sense of gratitude surrounding his spirit.

Clasping the elf so tight against his chest, however, quickly enhanced other sensations. Legolas' scent alone was intoxicating but combined with the rigid evidence of Pen-rhovan's passionate desire it was an aphrodisiac with but a single source of relief. Erestor growled and impatiently brushed aside the heavy strands of felted locks concealing a tantalising ear-tip. The soft red point peeked out from its shroud of golden hair and the Noldo enclosed it in his lips, lapping the inflamed pinnacle with his tongue while gently sucking. The cry from his lover and the jerk of the solid erection pressed against his sent a lurid surge of longing lancing through his veins. Erestor lightly nipped the sensitive cartilage.

"Aye, Berenaur, so good," the archer sighed and leaned into the caress, rocking his body closer to encourage the fiery friction their proximity provided.

He could feel the soft hairs on the Noldo's abdomen as his penis dragged against the seneschal's belly and groaned in nearly painful desire as the tip of the engorged organ slipped into the shallow depression of Berenaur's navel. In turn, his lover's salient shaft mimicked the motion against his stomach, snagging at his silky track of corn-silk and leaving a warm slick trail. He pushed harder and wailed aloud when the tender attention to his ear ceased; he needed a deeper hole and more thorough fondling. He longed to be stretched and filled by the living instrument that so completely pleasured him. He hungered to taste the piquant extrusion of Berenaur's seed.

"Saes," he exhaled, the sound more a moan than a word. "Let me spill inside you."

"Ah, Pen-rhovan, I know not if I can resist," answered the Noldo's tremulous voice. His mouth was too involved in sampling the archer's throat to finish his thought, carefully tasting the heat rising from the dark purple bruise that had required three days and four nights to establish.

He pushed the pliant body down into the cushions again, although the plush nest had become more a scattered heap of crushed and dampened pillows and fur. Erestor felt Legolas shift beneath him and the contact between the paired genitals was so intense he shouted and pumped hard against the hot and sweaty flesh. The wild elf's thighs parted and then one knee hooked over the seneschal's hip as he rutted. Erestor claimed the archer's mouth and lavished the sweet, wet orifice with relentless, possessive intrusions of his tongue, humming out a deep and lingering call that arose from somewhere close to the centre of his soul. He felt fingers comb through his hair and then the archer's gifted digits found his ears and mercilessly plucked at the sensitive appendages.

Legolas was overwhelmed, torn between his longing to take his lover and his need to provide whatever his heart-mate desired to ensure fulfilment. He wriggled beneath the relentless rocking of the weighty body and opened his legs in offering. The seneschal's dripping cock slid into the crevice between his scrotum and his inner thigh and he yelped as the delicate skin was pinched a bit in the frenzied movement. Berenaur stilled instantly and pulled back, rolling to his side and tenderly reaching down to cup the smooth sac.

"Forgive me; that was not supposed to hurt," he murmured in mortified tones and plastered his lover's face with kisses, coddling the silky pouch and its hidden cache of bounty, smiling as the combined actions raised a soft giggle and a high cry of delight from the wild elf.

"It did not, oh Valar, you are…Ai!" Legolas twitched under the seneschal's skilful fingers and reached for the virile root of the long red rod jutting into his stomach. He squeezed and pumped, thrilling to the low groan and avid thrusting this invoked from Berenaur. Abruptly he sat up and escaped from his lover's hold, repositioning himself closer to the object of his longing as he continued to work the hard cock relentlessly. Now it was he who pushed the elder elf over and then swooped down over the naked penis, bestowing a demure little lick right across the weeping orifice. He chuckled in smug satisfaction over the garbled call of his name as he wrapped his lips around the bulging head and sucked.

"By the…Nestegi!…Oh Eru yes!"  Berenaur emitted this disconnected collection of shouted syllables, his strained voice brimming with erotic impatience.

He placed a heavy, steadying hand on the crown of the archer's head and moved within his lover's torrid mouth, mesmerised by the hollowed cheeks, curled, honey-toned lashes casting shadows there as the ruby lips encircled his florid flesh. Pen-rhovan's pink tongue made erratic appearances along the length of the shaft as it drew the penis in and out, and he purred in excitement as the organ entered and exited the pleasing confinement.

Suddenly Legolas pulled off completely and sat back, grinning at the disappointed groan his beloved released. "Stay right where you are," he ordered. He got to his feet and walked away rapidly, glancing back to ensure the Noldo lord obeyed.

"Why did you stop? Where are you going? If you wish to continue in the kitchen then do not leave me behind!" whined Erestor, rising to his elbows and staring in forlorn dismay at the lithesome archer's retreating arse. He fought the urge to stimulate his penis manually, imagining how it would feel, already slick with the wild elf's saliva, sliding through his firm grip. He flopped back with a moan and squirmed, snatching a corner of the cape and rubbing the fur across his nipples to give his hands something else to do.

Legolas hurried for he knew Berenaur's patience was being tried to its limits. Frantically he set to pulling open the cupboards and rummaging through the provisions in the pantry. He released a pleased sigh when he discovered a small bottle of olive oil and carried it back to his waiting lover.

"Gladhadithen forbids the Bench until I have recovered fully. Mayhap tomorrow. Until then…" he left the sentence dangling as he beheld his mate in such a wanton display, playing with the dark brown buds of flesh and verily writhing on the plush fur cape. Legolas ran the last few steps and leaped upon the seneschal, straddling his waist and shoving those long-fingered hands out of the way so he could lavish the peaked nipples with tender licks and extravagant nips. 

Erestor chortled out a delightedly lecherous groan and let his hands seek a comfortable spot, caressing down the marred spine to cup and lift the muscular cheeks of the archer's rear. With the lengthy legs splayed apart, the advisor had no trouble slipping a finger down the divide and teasing the puckered entrance, still wet with his sperm. He could not resist shoving it in and thrilled to hear the loud call of surprised pleasure as scarred muscles squeezed the digit tighter.

Erestor withdrew and grabbed his cock, pulling it from underneath his lover's crotch as Pen-rhovan slid forward a bit.  He pushed the heavy organ out nearly perpendicular to his body and let it press against the inviting crevice, resting there in hot and throbbing need.

"Oh Valar," whispered Legolas as he sat back and revelled in the sensation of the hard erection so near to his core of delight. "Yet nay, nay," he met his mate's gleaming gaze with pleading as he crawled off the virile body. He heard the rigid cock slap against the Noldo's belly as he moved away.

"No, love, you are not going anywhere this time," Erestor growled and scrabbled after Pen-rhovan, shoving the small sofa table out of the way so roughly that the decanter of amber wine nearly upended.

He caught up with him at the ottoman and sought to wrap his arms around the narrow waist, intending to toss his mate to the floor and ravish him on the spot. He was more than shocked to find he had played right into the warrior's plans, for Legolas anticipated the attempt and neatly leaped aside. The seneschal found his torso prone against the footstool instead of his willing lover. A triumphant laugh preceded the wild elf's pounce and with a loud oof! Erestor was pressed face down onto the padded leather stool, on his knees, arse up. He looked over his shoulder as the firm heated column of Pen-rhovan's carnal desire pumped against him.

Legolas grinned and held up the corked container of cooking oil, waggling it before Berenaur's face as he rutted against the captive mounds.

"Allow me," Erestor whispered, his eyes alight with anticipation and amazement, for never had Pen-rhovan been this demanding and playfully forceful in his overtures to love-making. The seneschal found it quite exciting and snatched the bottle from Legolas' hand, uncorking it with his teeth. He spat the stopper across the room and vaguely noted the tumbling clatter as it rolled away somewhere, vision fixed on his lover's lust-hazed gaze.

The wild elf was panting lightly and audibly through parted lips and a soft groan escaped as he slowed his avid thrusting and ran his hands over the supple flesh he was about to claim. A flash of a glinting eye met the seneschal's before Legolas hunkered down behind the Noldo, parting the rubbed-red cheeks wider and inhaling the earthy scent as he plunged his tongue against the tightly sealed opening. His heart expanded to hear Berenaur's encouraging call for more and he obeyed, curling his oral muscle into a slender tube and pushing it past the resisting ring of tissue to delve inside.

The taste was bitingly unique but Legolas barely had chance to savour this as the constricting cavity drew his questing tongue deeper. He flexed it, trying to reach the sensitive mound of Berenaur's prostate but could not. His lover did not seem disappointed, however, judging by the extended and breathy cries of joy escaping from his lungs. With vigour Legolas poked the wet, red muscle in and out, imitating what he would soon be doing with a more lengthy portion of his anatomy, thoroughly coating the passage with warm spit. He could not wait longer to join with this unbelievably erotic elf and came away, landing a little slap upon the exposed bottom that elicited a choked cry from Berenaur. Legolas waddled on his knees within arms reach of his mate and was quickly captured.

Erestor's black eyes smouldered in amorous amity; this was a new side of the Wood Elf's personality and he was incited to heightened yearning by the brash and brazen smack. Had he known presenting a ring would yield this sense of confidence in Legolas, he would have given it the first night in the bonding talan. Roughly he took the wild elf by the nape of the neck and yanked him forward, clamping his lips against the dark red mouth and claiming a breath stealing kiss. The flavour of his body's most intimate area was strong on Pen-rhovan's tongue and he lapped his own against it, exploring every centimetre of the fiery heat.

A sudden jolt and a sharp cry broke the erotic embrace, for he had forgotten the archer's injured shoulder and jarred it by accident with his hand, intending to pull his mate closer. He drew back as Legolas' opposite arm came up to protectively cradle the cotton swathed wound, alarmed at the tightly shut eyes and pinched expression of pain suffusing the silvan's fair features.

"Ai! I am careless and a fool to be so harsh! Forgive me, Pen-rhovan. Are you all right?" he asked in aggrieved and guilty tones. The soft touch of his hand ran over the bowed head and brushed back the thick hair concealing the archer's face.

"Aye, all will be well; it will fade in a moment," Legolas ground out, attempting to give Berenaur a reassuring smile as he suffered the surge of piercing agony radiating from his shoulder. He settled on the floor and leaned gratefully against the footstool as his lover's arms gently enfolded him and held him close.

Legolas sighed. It was worth the slicing torment to feel the Noldo's comforting caress soothing over his back and into his tangled mane. Low murmurs of apology and love whispered against his ear as his cheek was nuzzled with the advisor's nose and lips pressed delicate kisses against his closed eyes and across his temple. When they found his ear again and teeth joined in the endearing tantalisation, Legolas trembled in renewed excitement, the aching distress forgotten as it dulled and died away. He turned to meet the massaging mouth and stole a searing kiss that made Berenaur's eyes pop wide and cross so as to try and focus on him. Legolas laughed down his lover's throat and retreated from the osculation to gaze in unchecked desire at the Noldo.

"Where is that bottle?" he demanded, his voice a raspy whisper of breathless lubricity.

Erestor grinned and reached down to the floor, unsure at what point he had placed the container there but glad that he had done so with enough care to prevent it spilling. Still stretched out chest-down across the ottoman, he held it up and cocked a brow at the eager archer. He passed an evaluating examination over his lover's pleasing form, relieved to see all trace of discomfort gone from the bright blue orbs and the rosy erection pointing right at him.

"Bring that closer and I will anoint you properly," he commanded, already pouring the richly scented oil into his palm.

Legolas did not hesitate, pressing near and pivoting his hips to offer open access to the cupped hand and its golden liquid contents. He held his breath, watching as the seneschal turned his hand slowly and let the oil drizzle out in a fine stream. The viscous fluid rained upon his throbbing shaft and he gasped as the flesh-warmed oil slid down his length and dripped onto the floor. Then Berenaur's fist clamped around his cock and rubbed slowly, spreading the slippery, pungent oil all over and Legolas seized the seneschal's arm, thrusting up into the compressing clasp.

"Ah Berenaur, that is…that…Ai!" he shouted and forced himself to pull free, fearful he would come before he had a chance to merge their bodies, and resumed his place at the Noldo's exposed anus. He reached under and felt the tight, full sac constricted against the fabric of the upholstery and silently rejoiced to hear the grunt of urgent need this wrung from his lover. "Can you restrain yourself until I wish it?"

"What?" Erestor glared over his shoulder at the hooded blue eyes and up-curled alizarin lips. The padded leather seat was warm and soft and he had already anticipated the sensation of having his hard cock pushed against it as Legolas thrust inside him. "Why so? I want to come as you peak, spilling together."

"But I want to claim you this way and then suck you dry."

"Oh." Erestor found his mouth parched and his penis fairly pulsing upon receiving this explanation and decided to let the wild elf have his way. A jubilant smile lit his eyes. "Aye, I can last. Get to it, archer!"

Legolas required no further inducement, positioning his slickened organ at the entrance to his mate's internal heat, and pressed hard, grunting in the effort to restrain his instinct to shove in with all his might. Slowly he felt the muscles loosen and admit the point of his primed penis and he gasped for air, not realising he had been holding his breath. The compressing walls of rippling tissue welcomed the intrusion and he was drawn in. At last he gave a cry of pure pleasure and rocked forward, hoping to hit the right spot on the first try. Yet he was not all the way in and immediately withdrew far enough to gather impetus, driving deeply with every available sinew's strength in the next push. He was rewarded with the salacious sound of his thighs slapping against the seneschal's arse and a pleasing sting as his balls met the firm flesh.

"Aye, Legolas, just there only harder!" encouraged Erestor, expelling every molecule of air in his lungs to fill the silk-walled room with a long exclaim of exquisite pleasure as the next thrust struck true. The wild-elf was too inexperienced to pace himself well, a talent he would learn over time under the Noldo's dedicated tutelage, and yet Erestor rejoiced in the purely instinctive movement of the solid organ piercing him repeatedly. He arched his spine and pushed back, planting his toes far to either side of the cushioned stool to enhance Pen-rhovan's efforts.

On the third try the silvan found his rhythm and thereafter never missed the desired zone of infinite gratification, pounding against the solid resistance as Berenaur braced against the floor and the seat. Legolas watched as the Noldo's inky locks danced and slid across his back, falling away to swing against his ribs, a curtain of fluid night draped across his moon-coloured skin. The long curved scar rolled as the strong taut muscles across the advisor's shoulders surged and flexed in time with his pivoting hips. He longed to kiss it but found himself unwilling to subside long enough to accomplish the deed. He hesitated, letting loose a whimpery complaint that quickly changed to an exultant shout when Berenaur growled and called to him.

"Pen-rhovan, ah you imp! No holding back, give me everything!"

Legolas was lost in the experience, overwhelmed to the point of gasping sobs bereft of tears. So strong had been his need to achieve this joining, taking his mate and hearing the proof of Berenaur's pleasure in the coupling, for the failed attempt to wake his lover had shaken him more then he had been able to consciously admit. Now all the insecurity poured out and was purged away as the seneschal demanded more and urged him incessantly.

Inside the clenching grip of the anal passage, Legolas' cock swelled and he made a half-hearted effort to slow down and delay the impending  ejaculation. The sound of their bodies colliding, the musky scent of their sweat combined with the odour of the clear fluid oozing from Berenaur's concealed cock, the unparalleled cadence of their lusty duet of impassioned cries drove him into a tight coil of concupiscent suspense.

Legolas gave in.

His mind exploded in a rush of scintillating sparks as the surge of semen streamed from his cock in waves of delicious delirium. Over and over he cried Berenaur's name and drove with every spurt of seed as hard as his dwindling energy allowed until there was neither air nor sperm left to expel. He flopped atop his mate's sticky back, gasping like a trout pulled from the river. Legolas lay in dazed and dreamy exhaustion lazily caressing the black tresses, pressing his lips against the white ribbon bestowed by the Balrog's red whip, listening to the air enter and leave his mate's lungs amid the thumping pulse of his racing heart. A minute passed before he comprehended the meaning of the endearing voice speaking to him and he hugged Berenaur tight.

"Pen-rhovan. Beloved, are you well? Can you answer? Come to me; I need my arms around you now."

Legolas obeyed, slipping from the carnal canal reluctantly, yet desiring the entwining clasp of his lover's embrace. He crawled to the fur cloak and watched as the seneschal heaved himself up rather delicately, for his long erection was so uncomfortably hard he could not move with his accustomed grace. The sight of the dark magenta protrusion, weighty and seeping, sent a fresh bright jolt of desire through the wild elf's heart. He smiled, anticipating the completion of his wish. Reclining on the pillows, Legolas stretched languidly, granting Berenaur a full view of his slender body. He passed his tongue over his lips slowly and noted how this made his lover's larynx bob.

"Beloved, is there any of the miruvor left? I have a rare delicacy to sample and desire a clear palate and a sustaining drink before I do so."

Erestor stared down in open-mouthed lechery at the tempting image of the naked elf sprawled out, sated, and relaxed upon the floor, blue eyes beckoning. He waddled the two steps required to get to the table and frowned to see there was only the amber wine. He took up the decanter anyway and awkwardly joined his mate, gingerly kneeling to the floor, making sure to present his prominent predicament for Pen-rhovan's inspection. He heard a soft sigh leave Legolas' throat and his pulse sped up even more. The crimson tongue flickered out again as Pen-rhovan's eyes locked on his robust arousal.

"There is only this, but it has a good flavour and is quite invigorating. Try it," Erestor encouraged.

As promised, he caught the wild elf up in his embrace and then held the bottle to the ruby lips. Erestor had never noticed before how erotic it was to watch his lover's mouth encircle the neck of a bottle as his throat worked in the action of swallowing. After observing the oral muscle's third appearance, this time to swipe away the residue of the sweet alcohol from the glistening lower labial, he tucked the archer's golden crown beneath his chin, drawing the limp, lethargic form nearly into his lap. This time Erestor was mindful of the gauze wrapped shoulder and made certain his clasp remained far from the injury.

"Lie back," said Legolas, disengaging from the protective hold and meeting the Noldo's expectant gaze.

"Are you sure? This has been a difficult day for you and I am…"

Erestor was summarily silenced when Legolas shoved him backwards and straddled the rigid rod pressed against the seneschal's belly, carefully rolling his semi-solid penis against the rock hard organ beneath his parted legs. He leaned up and indulged in a long and steamy kiss, plunging his flexible tongue as far into the Noldo's mouth as he could. A sloppy pop heralded the end of the oral entanglement as Legolas climbed off and lay down again on his healthy side, this time positioning his head level with the seneschal's genitals.

"Take me thus," he whispered, half-mast lashes fluttering up to seek the elder elf's eyes.

"Nay, I might bump your injury." Erestor gasped out, unable to deny how badly he wanted to do as Legolas demanded.

"You will be careful; I trust you. Saes, Berenaur, do not deny me." Legolas did not wait for a response, draping his sore arm over his beloved's stomach and lapping the length of the bulging cock, burying his nose against the damp and musky ebony curls surrounding the root, kissing the smooth, tight scrotum delicately.

"Valar! You are…you wanton wild thing! Ai! I must have you!"

So saying Erestor sat up, a knee to either side of Pen-rhovan's head as he gently turned Legolas over on his back. He stared down at the smiling elf and took a moment to smooth his palms over the hard red nodes of temptingly erect nipples, regretting that he had spared so little time to taste those sumptuous morsels. When Legolas reached up for his erection and pulled invitingly, Erestor could not resist further.

He let Legolas guide him, watching with bated breath as the archer's head tipped back and the lips parted wide to lure him in. The warm wet tongue teased a startled cry from him when it flicked across his dripping slit and then the next instant Legolas sucked hard and palmed the heavily hanging balls as he hummed out an enticing moan.

Erestor cautiously pushed in an inch and then retreated, gasping as the suction provided resistance and that mobile tongue swirled playfully around the flared rim of his cock. The sight of his organ half-in, half-out of the vermilion mouth was enough to make him grunt in prurient impatience.

"Eru's arse! How I wish I had you on the Bench, impaled and writhing while I…"  He let his body complete the thought, steadily rocking into the torrid maw, slowly increasing the depth and force of penetration. He felt the tongue again and then the cautious application of the lower row of incisors faintly grazing over his sensitive, pulsing vein and shouted an incoherent noise of complete abandon. When Legolas' hand pressed against his arse and pushed insistently, Erestor gave up any pretence of restraint.

Braced on his hands and knees, he shoved back and forth, fucking the wild elf's mouth with ferocious and eager force, grunting and gasping as his cock was sucked and licked, laved and swallowed. He reached over with one hand and pinched and pulled each of the pert red nubs on the sex-blushed chest beneath him, bellowing when Pen-rhovan squealed around his penis and squirmed, squeezing back hard on his straining gluteus. The silvan's legs were spread apart, begging attention for the filling shaft between them, and Erestor shoved in deeper, stretching his arm out to fondle the rosy head and its slippery foreskin.

Just then Pen-rhovan swept his tongue hard against the minute orifice on the seneschal's near-bursting penis and swallowed with a low and lascivious moan, bending his head nearly backwards and arching his spine off the floor to try and take his lover even deeper on Berenaur's next thrust.

The combination of sensations was sufficient to undo the Noldo entirely. He gripped the slender cock with almost bruising intensity as he looked down to see all of his length disappear inside the archer's mouth. He could feel the gust of his lover's moist breath against his tight balls and roared when a blinding eruption of ecstasy surrounded the covered testicles' contact with Pen-rhovan's nose. Erestor's orgasm raced through him like liquid fire, a whirlwind of raw delight cascading through every nerve as his seed shot from him in strong streams of hot and spicy cream. Convulsive gulps guzzled it down and heightened his excitement a few seconds more before at last he was drained empty, just as Pen-rhovan had promised.

With a final shudder and groan, Erestor pulled free from the sultry confinement of lips and tongue and eased down onto the floor, gasping and heaving to regain his wind as he laid his head upon the wild elf's breast. It was a few minutes before he could find enough breath for words or strength to shift, and then he turned about and scooped up the enchanting creature that belonged to him alone, wrapping his lanky frame all around the small silvan, claiming the grinning maroon mouth that tasted strongly of his semen and faintly of amber wine. He ended the kiss and stared in tender joy and wonder into the soul revealed in the indigo depths.

Erestor smiled into Legolas' shining eyes, discovering neither needed words to complete the moment for each supplied the other's completion. They cuddled close in satisfied contentment, relishing the gentle ebb and flow of the love between them, as eternal and boundless as the union of Tawar to the Greenwood, constant as the turn of the seasons, tranquil as the patter of rainfall on leaves and soft as a breeze amid the branches of the mighty trees.

TBC  


  
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	90. Iâr, Acharn, Guruth (Blood, Vengeance, and Death)

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | Chapter Beta'd by Chloe Amethyst

 

 

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This chapter dedicated to all those loyal fans who have been following the development of this story for over ~~three~~ TEN years now. A special Thank You to the kindly folks who nominated and voted for Feud, not once or twice but an amazing three times! You are wonderful people and I am blessed to have such kindness shown to me. This chapter is for all of you. And, no surprise, it is once again Dark, if something of a refresher on Elrond and his sons. We left them quite a long time ago and I hope this revisit does not bother anyone.

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### Iâr, Acharn, Guruth (Blood, Vengeance, and Death)

  


"Blood, Vengeance, and Death for Life, Hope, and Love. When shall it be enough? When she tells us this."

  
"Iâr, Acharn, Guruth." Barely audible, the words of the curse slipped through Elladan's clenched jaws as he thrust his broadsword deep into the pristine gloss of a snowdrift beside the narrow path across Hithaeglir. The abrasive crunch of metal on frost accented the dark decree and the resultant gory crimson smear, stark against the white crystals, underscored the bitter pronouncement.

The battle was over.

He hissed in combined anger and pain, covering a deep gash upon his sword-arm with the opposite hand, his countenance reflecting the gnawing grip of unquenched fury burning in his eclipsed and benighted soul. Elladan surveyed the scene with meticulous attention, cataloguing every detail, every spattered drop of blood, every severed limb, documenting the placement of the oozing corpses of orcs as if the arrangement held some sign or rede. His sight paused on the torn and mangled form of one of his countrymen, gutted, organs and entrails strewn across the ground, an Elf among the refuse of Melkor's beasts.

Elladan's nostrils flared in revulsion to scent the aromatic fragrance of the bright carnelian pool mingling with the foul and tainted flow from the vanquished glamhoth. He spat, his mouth sour with acrid bile, heart and spirit defiled by the image.

_Another immortal life obliterated when none should ever enter Námo's domain._

The attack had not been unexpected and they had planned well in advance for such troubles, even before leaving Imladris. He and Elrohir had anticipated just where an ambush might occur, knowing fully the dangers of the High Pass, and Orophin's cautious scouting had discovered ample signs of the hidden war party scattered among the outcrops rimming their foetid caves. Every warrior under the elder twin's command was experienced in such forays against evil, instruments of war craft tuned to perfection.

A careful diversion was deployed; four elves sauntered down the trail as if unaware of the danger, decoys to draw the enemy out. The ploy had worked well; the predators became the prey and the skirmish was soon over. The orcs realised they had lost the advantage of surprise and scuttled back into their noisome holes. Not before seizing a victory of their own, however, for one of the First Born had fallen, ripped to pieces by the abominable foes.

Yet it was not from these dire injuries that the Elf had perished. Piercing his breast, the brightly feathered shaft of an elven arrow pointed to the cloudless sky. 

_How came it so, when our skill and intellect so greatly outweigh these blighted creatures'?_

Turbulent disgust lanced through this thought, caught upon the tail of his wrath and rage, inflamed by the familiarity of the scene spread before him and the futility of the actions that had created it. It was always the same, unchanging, as eternal as an Elf's life-span: blood, death, and vengeance. Haw many centuries had passed, the time marked not by Arda's changing seasons or the ephemeral fluidity of human history but by the numbers of orcs killed, the tally of battles fought, and the names of friends and family members no more to be greeted in love and kinship until…when? Was there to be an end at all? He no longer spoke of his deeds as means to achieving a realisable goal, for this vicious obsession was just more evidence of the twisted sickness that marred everything under sun and moon.

_Am I a warrior or naught but a killer, like them, hiding my lust for destruction by choosing more carefully what to destroy? Nothing I have wrought has availed her, nor has it healed a single other soul in any land, here or across the sea. The evil grows, it breeds and multiplies more readily than vermin feasting on offal, a sucking leech gorging itself on our blood and fear, a parasite feeding off the hate and anger. I wonder if we are willing hosts. What is it we receive in turn that prevents avulsion?_

Elladan's gut constricted in protest but even this was too familiar and he overruled the impulse to retch. This internal tirade deploring his insatiable brutality had become an established component of the routine of slaughter. As always, answers, reasons, purpose escaped his understanding and his anger expanded to fill the void. His vision sliced through the thin and biting air to lock with his father's and withheld nothing of his eternal injury from Elrond.

_There,_ the frenzied conclusion arose from his mind's chaotic reeling between rage and guilt, _there stands the answer._

The Lord of Imladris, hastening to reach his injured son, halted mid-step, stumbling as if blocked by an invisible barrier, so profound was his shock to see this expression of his eldest's character. Not since before their mother's departure had he beheld the twins in battle, and never had he witnessed this immersion into hatred, this descent into unchecked savagery. His heart froze to find Elladan training this virulent emotion upon him. In the quietude that follows the cacophony of war, in the silence of its harvest of ruin, the ragged, stricken breath that left Elrond's lungs was louder than the whistling wind. 

"An Cuil, Estel, Mîl," (For life, hope, and love) much louder, Elrohir's antiphon, his half of the pact they had made so long ago, echoed dully against the surrounding rocks lining the steep cleft through the mountains. He moved in a deliberately measured pace toward Elladan, closing the gap betwixt them, both of body and mind, drawing his brother's gaze from their father.

"Ir ten far?" (When shall it be enough?) Elladan spoke the next part sadly, his voice transmuted into the tones of a callow youth, and his boiling blood stilled as he watched Elrohir's quiet advance.

"Ir he trenar sen mín." (When she tells us this) Elrohir reached him and for a half second's worth of eternity they shared the renewal of this grim oath. The ritual completed, the younger twin plunged his sword into the red-smirched powder beside his brother's and held out his hand, waiting for Elladan's permission to bind the injury still seeping its vibrant flux from under the clamped fingers obscuring it.

They were five days out of Rivendell, twelve warriors, one aide plus the Galadhrim wardens, Elrond and his sons, half way to the bottom of the long descent of the Misty Mountains, the savage skirmish coincident in time with Legolas' reunion with his beloved Berenaur. Up to this point, it had been an uneventful, if incommodious, trip; yet the explosive energy released during the fighting was not enough to subdue the constrained tempers of the twin Peredhil Lords. 

Elladan and Elrohir had spoken little to their father since the night of the gruelling interrogation and his ultimate breakdown. Elrond had likewise remained reticent, unwilling to confront the source of the renewed disharmony. The wall around his inner soul they had so diligently worked to breach had been hastily reconstructed, thrown up in obstinate opposition to their presumption of agency over the situation.

Elrond had emerged from his bedchamber, surprisingly refreshed and lighter of spirit after his confession and the much needed sleep, to find his study empty. He had left at once to seek out his sons, craving reassurance that their avowals of love and support had been no dream. He had found them gathered in conference with Glorfindel, Erestor's Lorien lovers, and the members of Imladris' Council, discussing the impending journey. Without him.  

All converse had ceased the instant he had thrown wide the heavy double doors; all heads had pivoted to favour him with silent stares of pained remonstrance. He had demanded an explanation for such a meeting in his absence. He had accused them of conspiring against him, deciding his fate without consulting him, debating what manner of atonement might appease the Woodland King, adjudicating his sentence before the facts had been made clear. They had cringed, dropping their eyes and turning away their faces one by one, and Elrond had felt a peculiar surge of triumph over this reaction.

Until Elrohir had turned and explained exactly what purpose the meeting was meant to achieve. Elrond wondered if he would ever be able to relegate the vivid image of his younger son's aggrieved visage to dim memory. Would the sting of his words, couched in tones devoid of emotion and empty of warmth, ever fade away?

_"There is no time for such conceits and vain affectations. Orophin and Dambethnîn feel speed is vital and are determined to set forth across the Hithaeglir through the High Pass. We cannot permit them to do so alone, and thus we were discussing whether taking a contingent of guards violates the restrictions set forth in the charges. We have concluded this would be admissible provided our warriors do not accompany us beyond the western banks of the Anduin. An official communication to that effect shall precede us to Greenwood."_

The Lord of Imladris had stood there, staring blankly at his son, unable to quite make his tongue produce any sounds, for several seconds. A swift perusal of the others revealed them to be staring back, their expressions a collective example of disillusionment, pity, and embarrassment on his behalf. Indignant pride flared up in his heart. Determined to maintain his dignity, Elrond had reassembled his façade of righteous discontent and without a word moved to his place at the head of the table. The discussion had resumed, awkwardly at first, as none felt free to speak their thoughts openly in his presence. Only Glorfindel behaved as he ever did, stubbornly arguing in defence of his choices for the delegation. In the end, Elrond had sided with him, in part because his sons were adamantly opposed and he had wished to remind them of their places. The group had departed Imladris that very day and he had refused to engage in anything but talk of the journey and its likely dangers ever since.

Now here they were, survivors of the gruesome attack, and a father's heart would not be denied. That one of his sons was injured tore at his soul and Elrond forgot about their impasse until the harrowing eye to eye communion with Elladan. He could not guess the reason for such blatant condemnation nor did he wish to squander the time required to discover it. Spared the intense recrimination in his oldest child's tormented stare by Elrohir's intervening presence, a shudder worked through Elrond's body upon hearing their awful pact. _Another aspect of their suffering of which I have been ignorant._ His resolve to bring healing rejuvenated, Elrond gathered his wits, resumed his pace, and covered the remaining metres between them. Just as he was opening his pack of medicinal supplies, Elrohir's words again brought him to a standstill.

"Nay. I will tend him." The younger twin's tone was bitter and hard and permitted no entreaty. If earlier his voice had echoed now it fairly rang from the heights, as if one of the Valar called down a stark and icy command from Aman. 

"The blade may have been poisoned, let me…" 

"We will manage," Elrohir threw the words over his shoulder without bothering to turn as Elladan at last held forth the damaged arm for him to see. "Take care of the others."

The two moved off together and Elladan allowed his brother to settle him carefully upon a small crag in the jutting outcrop. The sound of the tearing of the cloth followed; that and the low moan of the wind through the crevice filled the peaks for leagues in every direction.

Elrond looked upon his sons and knew them not. In the presence of these two hardened warriors he felt bedimmed and diminished. Control and command assumed his by right dissolved, illusions dispersed by the evident ascendancy of this self-contained pair. Elrond's gaze flickered over the small troop of soldiers that comprised their escort; every eye, fixed upon him though it might be, turned quickly to avoid meeting his. The Lord of Imladris focused on his sons anew and he watched Elrohir's efficient attention to his brother's injury. Even occupied in such a grievous chore, the aura of mastery about him was undeniable. Beside him, Elladan's calm fortitude radiated strength and attested to the trust he placed in his brother's hands. Together, their insular concentration bespoke the confidence each felt in the warriors guarding them while this necessary task was accomplished.

The uninjured soldiers had repositioned, forming a protective barrier between the black obscurity of the caves and the twins. No order had been given or needed. It was instinctive, this drive to preserve the best among them, an unspoken recognition. Such conferment of respect and status bespoke a rank requiring no banner, insignia, or token. Elrond had experienced this before, both as one of the living shields and as the shielded leader. Clearly, he was the leader no longer, not here, not in this domain of death and battle. _Perhaps not in any domain._

It occurred to him that perhaps Elladan and Elrohir deferred to him out of a very different kind of respect. Mayhap their acquiescence to his authority was granted, a gift bestowed through their love as his sons rather than acknowledgement of any superior strength and wisdom he might imagine himself to possess. It was humbling; he felt ancient and weary. Envy for Elros shimmered through these morbid thoughts.

One of the guards cleared his throat discretely and took a step in Elrond's direction. "It is but a scratch, Hîren, yet the threat of poison bids me beg your aid." His hand was pressed against a dark damp stain upon his side.

"Of course," Elrond was almost happy to have this distraction and hastened to treat the wounded soldier.

The tension noticeably lessened and the familiar sound of swords being cleaned and sheathed amid low murmurs of quiet speech arose. Elrohir tied off the dressing on his brother's arm and retrieved their blades, wiping away the gore, inspecting them for nicks and gouges, returning each to its scabbard since Elladan was now hampered by a sling. He brought the elder twin water and insisted he remain seated. They conversed in silence if at all and disregarded Elrond's presence as he moved among the soldiers, ascertaining that there were no unrevealed hurts to mend. It seemed the agitation of warfare was ebbing. This assumption of relaxation was premature.

"I cautioned you not to bring him along," Elladan's voice, tight with restrained fury, shattered the fragile peace. "He was not fit for battle; can you deny these were my very words to you? You seem thirsty for innocent blood these days."

The gasp that met these scathing denouncements arose not only from Elrond but from the entire company of warriors as well. Discomfited as skittish colts in a lightning storm, they sought to move along the narrow path out of earshot. The attempt was futile; they would have had to descend to the Anduin's banks to escape knowledge of the confrontation. 

"He was no innocent, Elladan, and I am not the one who insisted on his presence. Glorfindel demanded it," Elrond retorted defensively, too amazed by his son's imputation to construct a better response. 

"Is Glorfindel the Lord of Imladris?" Elrohir's voice was equally disparaging, immersed as he was in the foment of his twin's anguish.

"I alone am Lord in Imladris." Elrond's tone was firm and betrayed none of the shock and hurt these taunts from his sons evoked within his heart.

"Well, the bounds of that noble station you exceeded long ago," stated Elladan caustically, "yet if you would claim such authority then this Elf's death you must own as a consequence of your rule."

_For someone must answer, yet I will not!_

_Sîdh, muindor; le ar'wathannen._ (Peace, brother; you are unstained.)

In the silence following this outburst the wind buffeted against them and sent a stinging swarm of crystals curling off the drift into their hair and cloaks. The muted sound as the frozen particles were flung upon the stone intruded with the pinging cadence of hail striking glass.

The catalyst of the debate lay abandoned in the snow.

Elrond used the interruption to compose himself and his reply, unwilling in his obstinate pride to see Elladan's condemnation for what it was: a cry from a soldier over-burdened with guilt, a cry for absolution, at least of this one death, a cry from the soul of his son.

"You surprise me; I thought you were the Wood Elf's champion."

"What has Legolas to do with this?" demanded Elrohir warily.

"While it is impolite to speak ill of the dead, I fear your impression of this diplomat's character is false if you truly believe him honourable. Callon shared a rather sordid tale with Lindir, a story of his association with Legolas whilst serving as an envoy to Mirkwood some time ago. Our household staff are not as discreet as I might wish and the true cause of this ridiculous charge against me has gotten out. Callon thought to aid my plight, probably in hopes of advancing his position, stating he could provide evidence that the Silvan was a willing party to whatever transpired," Elrond sternly rejoined, for the deceased was in fact the very Elf to whom Maltahondo had given Legolas in hopes of quietly ending their illicit affair.

A ripple of uneasiness passed over the warriors and Elrond was well aware of the fleeting glances they cast his way. He realised they had heard the gossip about what was happening and why their Lord was required to answer the charges of the foreign King. It angered him, thinking of his soldiers discussing his personal life at table with their mates and friends, and despite the elevated discord, Elrond could not quell his tongue. He would have them see the truth: Legolas was accustomed to such depravity while their Lord had never before been implicated in anything so base. Who was more likely to have been the instigator of the unsavoury affair? _They will regret their lapse in loyalty and, in gratitude for my swift forgiveness, will swear their fealty anew with greater fervour and stronger dedication._

"Lindir naturally reported what he had heard to Glorfindel. As you might imagine, an interview with our Master-at-Arms had lowly Callon volunteering to return with us in order to make amends for his lascivious and flagrantly twisted relationship with Thranduil's son."

"He was slandering Legolas?" Elrohir half turned to send his father an evaluating stare, seeking for signs of deceit; something he would never have done prior to the letter from Greenwood.

"Slander is a term reserved for stories that are false," droned Elrond, perversely pleased with the shocked expressions on the faces watching him.

The air became animated with the intensity of the brothers' indignant anxiety and crackled in the jagged energy emitted from their internal communication.

_Again! He diverts notice from his actions by pointing to Legolas._

_And to Callon, as if the Elf sealed his fate by his association with the archer._

_If so, what of Adar's future? His conscience betrays him even while his wit denies fault._

_If so, in what role has he cast me? It is my arrow embedded in Callon's heart._

The implications of such a doom sliced through their conjoined minds, dividing them at the point of unity in which the idea resided. They did not retreat to safer ground, however, but pressed to comprehend this new insult to their unclaimed heart-brother. As was often the case, it was Elrohir who must speak out.

"True or not, we would not wish Callon to pay for past misdeeds with his life," he barked, turning fully to glare at his father even as Elladan's hand firmly grabbed hold of his shoulder to keep him still. "Legolas would not want this either. Nor would I have believed you avowed such a creed."

"I do not," averred Elrond, surprised by the vehemence of his son's reaction. "His character was redeemable and nothing in his past warranted such a heavy penalty. Whatever his motives, Callon's testimony would have aided my cause. His death abets my enemies' plans."

He gazed on his sons, nonplussed. It was beyond his emotional comprehension, the cause for their renewed defiance, and equally elusive was the true source of his subsequent needling and baiting. Unable to accept their perceived abandonment in favour of someone they did not even know, Elrond punished his first-born children's lack of respectful allegiance and expected them to seek his pardon. He could not prevent the growing jealousy over the twin Lords' ascent to dominion nor quell his resentment for their open challenge to his authority. Yet neither could he identify these flaws and own them, stymied by the knowledge that his first-born had just accused him of causing the lowly emissary's death. Elrond was the one who had been wronged, not they, and it was he who had both right and reason to be angry.

"I would have preferred him to stand before Thranduil and repeat the tale spoken in Lindir's ear. None believe the Sindarin King would defend his forsaken child, condemning our fallen comrade to the dungeons for these indiscretions, there to rot, a victim of passive kinslaying rather than the beneficiary of a mercy killing. Thranduil has no parental feelings for his disinherited heir; it is far more likely that he would use the information to publicly humiliate his son. Thus, Callon's death at your hand, Elladan, serves to protect Legolas from further shame while sending the fornicator to Námo for judgement and exposing your Lord and father to the indignity of public trial."

"That had nothing to do with it! I acted on instinct," Elladan jumped to his feet and now it was Elrohir who had to make a hasty grab to keep the two apart. The elder twin met his brother's gaze and drew in a slow deep breath to calm his soul. It did not help.

_It is my arrow! He refuses to take responsibility and names me kinslayer!_

_Nay, he does not. Nor do I or any other here, besides yourself. Your arrow freed Callon's feä that is true; but three more are embedded in his body. One of those is mine, Elladan, and it was loosed but an instant in time behind yours. If you are at fault then so am I, yet I do not hear you casting blame in my direction._

"None could abide his screams and mercy drove our desperate acts." It was Dambethnîn's soft voice as she sought to comfort the distress of her mate. The third arrow piercing the deceased had been drawn from Orophin's quiver.

"Valar forgive me, I could not get to him!" Elladan's words shook with his anger and remorse. _I could not bear his terror. They were devouring him alive._ 

"Nor could I. None of us could save him."_Do not torment yourself, muindor. (brother) Know this: you acted on the wish of my heart as well._ 

"You gave him peace, Lord Elladan, and sacrificed your own peace to do so. We honour such strength," spoke one of the soldiers, drawing closer in order to lay a supportive hand on the elder twin's shoulder.

"Though it is a great burden to bear, yet I would ask it, confident of your given word: should Callon's fate be mine, finish me in the same manner," another added.

"Aye, quick and clean. The same compassion we expect from one another, no less would we hope from our Lords," a third confirmed amid the combined avowals of the remainder of the company.

Though this did not release Elladan from his guilt, their firm support lightened the weight of it considerably. There remained only the acrimony between father and son to rectify but neither twin believed such a rift could be bridged. For a long moment there was only the lowing dirge of the frigid wind to be heard as everyone waited for the outcome of the stalemate.

Elrond considered the warriors before him carefully, noting that they had made their decision to stand with the younger Lords of Eärendil's House. Bitterly he recalled Elladan's warning on the night of his confession, that if forced to do so he would choose to act as one of Imladris' defenders rather than stand at his father's side. _I did not believe him._ His heart told him he could yet reclaim his sons' succour and solace, but his wounded dignity shouted that too much had been said, the accusations too damning, for a quick and easy remission of hostility. With no other recourse, Elrond fell back on the tried and true diplomatic protocols that had always served him when dealing with an antagonist, a designation he had never imagined to bestow upon his eldest.

"Aye, Elladan, your actions were charitable and your motives unblemished by intrigue. I regret my callous words; the darkness of battle shrouded my judgement," he spoke with the cool, unruffled diction so familiar to his councillors. "Mayhap your complaint is valid; I might have forbidden Callon's inclusion. Glorfindel's reasons were sound but his wisdom was perhaps blinded by his anger over the sordid tale. If I relied too heavily on his advise, it is only because he is so seldom wrong."

"That is true; Glorfindel's errors are infrequent," rejoined Elladan coldly. _It was not Glorfindel's counsel he supported; he merely wished to deny ours._

"It is not fitting for the evil of this event to linger in our souls," prompted Elrohir, eager to have the dissension excised. _Forgive me; I know it was for my sake that you did not act on the Council's wish. But for that, Callon would have been spared._

"Aye. Let all animosity be buried even as we inter our comrade," Elladan finally relented. _This crime is not yours to claim. The Council was precipitous and you were right to ask forebearance. I was no more ready for their request than were you._

"Callon did not deserve to die but that was his fate. The end Elladan gave him was kind in comparison to the one the Enemy devised. Sîdh ar îdh o Mandos na în." (The peace and rest of Mandos be his.) Elrond concluded the diplomacy smoothly, redirecting everyone's thoughts to the deceased.

At the speaking of this prayer strained nerves minutely soothed and all repeated the invocation, heads bowed and hands over their hearts. If the remainder of the company prayed for more than the felled ellon's soul it is not a thing to promote wonderment. The stability of Imladris was a constant, the unchanging foundation of their contented lives. The formal reconciliation of their Lord's family was but a thin patch over a widening crack, as slender as a strand of silk tossed across the breach, but the division was concealed and the gap bridged.

As unobtrusively as possible, Orophin and one of the Noldorin warriors moved to bury the deceased, wrapping his torn body in a cloak and carrying it from the scene of the ambush. There was no fitting place to lay the former spy to rest and none felt comfortable situating the Elf's remains on the doorstep of the orcs' cavernous dens. A solemn procession formed up: Orophin and the other bearer, Dambethnîn and Elrond next, the twins with the rest of the warriors keeping rear-guard in case the vile demons attempted another sally into the ravine. Last of all came the horses in single file, gingerly tiptoeing over the snow-covered trail.

"Uireb cuil úbreithannen;  
hroä a feä dammen;  
ind uin gûr ristant.

Callon, údartha sí.  
Bado a Mandos.  
Lasto! Námo le cân.  
Post a nestadren le darad ennas.  
Údartho sí, údartho.

(Eternal life should not be broken,  
body and soul sundered,  
inner thought from the heart severed.

Callon, do not stay here.  
Go to Mandos.  
Listen! Námo calls thee.  
Repose and healing await you there.  
Do not stay here, do not stay.)

So sang Orophin softly and the others joined the simple hymn, repeating each stanza in gentle tones of quiet sorrow.

Every one in Imladris knew this Elf Callon was not of a perfect nature. Complaints had been lodged against him in the past. Elrond had even placed a judgement against him once for compromising an Elf visiting from Lindon. Yet the lesser diplomat had recently reformed and none had spoken ill of him in many loar. (years)

What he had done to Legolas was unknown to most; even Elrond had but lately learned of it. Yet had they been told the tale, would any of the party have felt Callon's horrific death was earned? Indeed, the warriors chosen for this journey were of the highest character, selected by Glorfindel for their loyalty to Imladris and its Lord, renowned for their fair-minded attitudes and belief in forgiveness for past wrongs rather than revenge. They were no more likely to take vengeance upon one of their kinsmen than were the twins. It was not in their natures to be pleased over the loss of any Elf's immortal life and thus was Callon's passing mourned. 

At last they came to a broadening of the path as the mountain track opened into a small green cove, sheltered from the chilly winds and unsullied by the foul orcs. Before the first dawn, this had been one of the holy fanes of the unhoused and some remnant of Yavanna's grace yet protected it. In that place was Callon's body laid to rest, concealed beneath a cairn.

No more orcs were encountered as their trek resumed and progress was swift as the snow vanished in the lower elevations. Soon they were able to continue on horseback and traversed a great deal of the eastern slope before nightfall. The entourage decided to halt when annûn painted the sky behind them in pastel hues of lavender and peach.  A sheltered spot had been secured amid a copse of cedars beside a trickling veil of a waterfall. The horses were greedily drinking from the small stream and the warriors had begun to set camp.

"We need not speak of this to Legolas," Elladan said abruptly as he removed the sling and flexed his arm. All activity ceased at his pronouncement as every eye focused on the Lord and his sons.

"Agreed," Elrohir nodded. "It serves no purpose to burden him with such knowledge; Legolas has demanded no recompense from anyone."

"You speak as though you have taken counsel with him," Elrond was immediately irritated, spurred by the lingering strife between him and the twins. The closer they grew to the Woodland Realm the more his concerns centred on what form of retribution the Sindarin King might demand, while theirs was ever on the disgraced archer.

"In my heart I feel it is so," answered Elrohir stubbornly.

"Yet it is not. You have never met this Elf; how can you presume to know his thoughts?"

"I have not met him either, but I know my own heart. If such a death befell someone who had wronged me in years past, I would not want to think on it," Orophin quickly added his voice to Elrohir's. "I would be forced to recall everything I wished to forget. I would be concerned whether I had secretly wished for harm to find that Elf. Guilt would hound me and I would have no means of freeing my soul of its clutches. Elladan is right; let this not be repeated outside our circle."

"I wonder if you will wish to remain ignorant of the extent of the Wood Elf's dallying with your mate," sneered Elrond.

Orophin's face turned dark and stormy and he took half a step in the Elf Lord's direction. Dambethnîn's hand upon his arm stayed him. He met her gaze and they drew together, moving apart from the others as they sought a private moment to console their worried souls. Neither could deny the presentiment filling their thoughts: Erestor was lost to them in favour of this unknown Silvan warrior.

"That was not necessary," chided Elladan but he refrained from leaving his place beside the pool. "Just because you are in error does not permit deliberately striking against another with your venomous words."

"It has not been established whether I am in error for I have not expressed my thoughts on this topic," retorted Elrond.

"You are weighted with fault, whatever your opinion on this issue may be," seethed Elladan, glancing up sharply as his father approached.

"Enough! This contention wearies us all, Elladan. We must be united in purpose for the trials ahead," Elrond rebuked him. That he had used nearly these same words before eluded him.

"Then stop contending against us," demanded Elrohir, likewise relying on words that had served earlier. "We are united; it is you who stands apart and argues in flawed logic and unveiled hostility." He stood and Elladan moved to his side. In unison their arms folded over their chests and they sent him identically chilling glares.

"Let us state the cause that thus unites us," the elder brother said. "We seek to make amends for grievous harm wrought upon an innocent, to remove a stain upon our family name, and to defuse a threat of war against Imladris. All of these your clandestine acts of trespass initiated. Is there another goal you wish us to consider, higher than the ones I have named?"

Elrond gaped, struck dumb to have Elladan reveal this openly before the warriors. Speculation was one thing, hearing their Lord's son confirm the story was quite another.

The guards watched, eager to have the matter resolved while pained to witness the recent accord crumble under the strain of scandal in their Lord's family. Nothing but respect and admiration had they for the twin sons of Elrond, yet the same had they ever felt for the Keeper of Vilya. Still, if the gossip was true the brothers had good reason for their rage, as did every citizen of Rivendell. Nonetheless, the soldiers could not but hope the news was false, for never had any of them entertained an emotion other than pride for their service to the descendants of Eärendil. 

The Mariner's son could not decide whether to be incensed or devastated with sorrow. Anger won the battle, for while he had accepted their brusque interrogation privately he was not pleased to be berated by his sons in public for the second time in a single day. They had journeyed all this distance without loosening their tongues; indeed, he had wondered over their aloof reserve, not knowing of their discovery of Legolas' soiled picture among his papers. Elrond had not found the courage to question them on it, using the excuse of too many ears to let the matter be. 

Yet with every league passed Elrond came to resent his sons' silence more, for he felt disregarded and deceived. Had he not bared his blighted soul to them and begged forgiveness, pleaded their support? Had they not pledged to give it? His heart ached to feel their withdrawal from him but arrogance quickly transformed the pain into vexation. The fissure between them grew in proportion to the distance they travelled. With the added stress of the Callon's death, he was bereft of resources with which to combat the ballooning animosity. Now his sons would challenge him openly and force him to admit his disgrace publicly. He again recalled Elladan's ultimatum, mourning the truth his eyes beheld. "It would seem you have made your choice," he said mordantly.

Elladan met his father's stricken stare coldly, his brows arched in surprise. "If you mean we have chosen to face the consequences of your pitiless plotting with whatever dignity is left for those of our House to present, then you are correct."

"Further, having abandoned all semblance of genuine honour, having forgotten the duty to Imladris your status demands, we feel you are not fit to represent our House," Elrohir continued just as icily, though his eyes betrayed the grief he felt to speak such words.

"The Council agreed to leave the matter to our discretion and determination. We agreed to grant you the opportunity to regain our trust and your honour." Elladan explained.

"Sadly, what we have observed indicates you are but sinking deeper into this quagmire of self-pitying self-deceit," Elrohir inserted.

"In light of your continued lack of contrition, your defiant aversion to admitting your errors, and your insistence in foisting both your responsibility and your acerbic temper upon others, we have no choice but to exercise the trust and the burden placed upon us. Until this matter with Greenwood is resolved, Elrohir and I shall serve as Lords of Imladris," concluded Elladan, knowing well that his brother could never manage it. Unconsciously reaching for the younger twins fingers, he enclosed them within his to confirm their solidarity.

"Gwerrianen!" (Betrayed!) hissed Elrond, lips retracting from his clenched teeth in an ugly scowl, arms raised to his sides in fisted protest.

"Úbedo gweriad!" (Do not speak of betrayal!) shouted Elladan. "Beriam bar mín, Nost Eärendil, ar Imladris. Gweriannech men, gweriannech Arwen, Erestor, ar Ningloriel." (We protect our home, our House, and Imladris. You betrayed us; you betrayed Arwen, Erestor, and Ningloriel.)

"Gerim albeth an man le carnen Legolas. Orbân, gweriannech lín-ind," (We have no words for what you have done to Legolas. Above all, you betrayed yourself.) Elrohir's voice was low and filled with sorrow while his eyes would not look upon his father at all. He tugged lightly on the hand gripping his and led Elladan back to the pool.

The movement broke the warriors free of their stunned paralysis. Noiselessly they dispersed, some tending the horses, some patrolling the surroundings, others setting watch-posts on the camp's perimeter, the rest setting out their blankets upon the chilly late-autumn ground. Orophin and Dambethnîn joined the scouts.

The issue decided, they refrained from comment or discussion and performed the duties Elladan and Elrohir had already assigned them. Not one stood forth to protest on behalf of the deposed Elf Lord. The outcome was not wholly unexpected for Glorfindel had briefed them on this possibility. He had reminded them, quite unnecessarily, that they were sworn to the service of Imladris and all her citizens.

They were soldiers, not politicians, and though many of these Elves had fought with Elrond in Ages past, they were under the command of the young Lords on this mission. That the twins would now lead them in governance as well as in war was acceptable and mete; better this than to continue the unnerving and detrimental altercation. Whatever was amiss, they trusted the decision of the Council and of Glorfindel; they trusted the unimpeachable characters of Elladan and Elrohir. If the twins, who must love Elrond far more than they, would stand against their father, who should gainsay them?

In the centre of the little clearing, Elrond stood alone, his mind reduced to numb oblivion, incapable of forming thoughts, trapped in repetitious recitation of the doom spoken by his children. Ousted by his own sons when all the evil designs of the Dark Lord could not unseat him. All he had worked so long to achieve, the haven of peace and freedom he had built, his island of hope amid the gathering swells of a malignant sea of black hearts and covetous minds, all succinctly removed from his control. There was no need to journey on; he had forfeited everything. What more was there for Thranduil to take?

Above him the night grew, the depth and breadth of the heavens revealed as shadow covered the earth and the small wonders of Arda were obscured. The stars began to gleam, yet their light was no comfort to his soul.

He was lost.

TBC

NOTE: 

I am ecstatic about the number of people who have taken the time to give me so much positive encouragement and feedback in the Guestbook. You folks are without exception the very best and kindest fans in the Tolkien Slash community! I was very reluctant to delve back into Feud, obviously, and if you read any of the earlier drafts of this chapter it is even more evident. I did not want to think what they are thinking and feel what they are feeling. I hope I can do it well enough to satisfy your gracious patience and perseverance in refusing to abandon me and this story.

Cheers,  
Ellen, 09/04/2006

  
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	91. Laer uin Glawar Danna am Meril (The Song of the Sun-ray Falls upon the Rose)

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | Chapter Beta'd by Chloe Amethyst

 

Laer uin Glawar Danna am Meril (The Song of the Sun-ray Falls upon the Rose)

"I have seen him," said Haldir quietly, relaxing beside the hearth where a coal fire warmed the cloistering closeness of the stone-clad study. He sipped from an elaborate crystal goblet, cut and faceted so that the violet wine within flashed and sparked much like a precious amethyst in liquid form.

The Galadhrim warrior had shed his battle-stained travelling garb in favour of a more comfortable set of woollen trousers with a matching robe of turquoise blue. He had refreshed himself before venturing to hold council with his Lord and now the two faced one another across the expanse of a small, exquisitely crafted carpet depicting the famous hunt of Oromë and Iarwain, a legend among the forest folk.

"Tell me," urged Celeborn, leaning back and extending his long legs to rest, ankles crossed, upon the little rug.

He, too, had at last found time to throw off the dust and grime of travel and travail, electing to don a simple set of sleeping clothes in soft silk of rusty brown. He had his own goblet in hand but had not yet sampled its fragrant contents as he waited to hear his most trusted friend's impression of the elusive and controversial Tawarwaith. He intended to be patient, knowing Haldir would choose words with care to precisely express what impact the forest champion had made upon his mind. Yet the pause following his encouragement spun out longer than he would have expected and the Lord of Lothlorien, already duly intrigued before a single syllable left the March Warden's lips, could not help wishing he would proceed apace.

"He was not as I expected, for I had in mind the King and his brothers, so bold are the accounts of Legolas mastery of war craft and his dominance over the woods, both its good and its evil inhabitants," Haldir spoke at last. Then he stopped and took another swallow from the glass, almost smiling to see the nearly undetectable tightening across Celeborn's forehead that indicated the Sylvan Lord's forebearance was waning though he wished to maintain composure.

"I had likewise pictured him in Thranduil's image. He is not similar in appearance to his father and uncles, then?" prompted Celeborn again. He finally tasted the well-aged vintage.

"Nay, externally he is nothing like them. He favours his mother strongly and thus is fair almost beyond comparison, save our Evenstar, yet he is slight, even for a Wood Elf. For all that, he possesses an aura of authority and nobility that put me in mind of Oropher's eldest. Tramborlong bore a quiet dignity that sprung from the soul, an integral component of his nature rather than an affectation wrought by outward demeanour. I perceive the same in Legolas."

"Aye, that trait comes from Oropher. Go on," Celeborn smiled, thinking on the former king of the Greenwood. He and his elder brother Galathil were contemporaries of Oropher; they had grown up together, like steps in a stairwell so close were their ages, in the glory that was Doriath in the early days of the First Age when Luthien ensnared the heart of Beren. "Did you speak together? What did you learn of him?"

"I did not wish to intrude, for I witnessed an intense reunion betwixt him and a former comrade in arms. Verily, the veteran warrior was fading as I watched."

"Yes, the rumour spread rapidly through the stronghold; I believe Thranduil was aware of it before Legolas, for he sent his old friend Talagan to offer aid to the family. We were in the little prince's nursery when word reached us."

"Ah! Tell me of the infant; was the King so proud he had to show you the new heir even before supplying you with rooms, a bath, or a meal?"

"He was and is positively exultant over the child. Thranduil is concerned, however, over the little one's well-being. It seems from the description the King gave that Legolas invoked a very strong benediction upon the babe's first dawn, an ancient hymn of Tawar into which he infused his own essence, which is somehow augmented by Mithrandir and the Forest Spirit. It is very complicated but the result is that the brothers are more staunchly linked than is normal. When Legolas suffers so does Taurant. Thranduil feared his new-born child would die of grief this morning."

"Ai! Surely he exaggerates and worries needlessly," scoffed Haldir. "The King has never understood the ancient ways. The bond I share with my brothers has done no harm to me or to them. Without it we would never have survived the Dark Days."

"That is so but the fact remains that the elfling has been in severe distress throughout the harrowing events just recently resolved," explained Celeborn. "You three were raised by loving parents who invoked a similar yet not identical Blessing. I am sure Meril will have created a link between her three children also; it is a common enough practice among Sylvan Elves. When tragedy struck, you were already fully grown; there had been ample time for each of you to develop independence. The strength of the familial bond was sustaining and beneficial.

"This is not the kind of bond forged between Taurant and the Tawarwaith. Legolas did not intend to make so hindering a tie, I am certain, and wished only for the little prince to know he had a protector. His state of mind and health when he initiated the attachment, however, was quite precarious. He was too generous, not thinking that all aspects of his inner soul would be accessible to the babe, both the joy and the sorrow."

"Does Legolas not realise his muindor laes (baby brother) is thus afflicted? I would think he might make some means to shield the child from such things." Haldir could not quite imagine what Celeborn described, for the communion he shared with his brothers occurred on an intuitive level. He could sense when one of his siblings was in distress but did not experience the discomfort as if it were his own.

"I have no doubt he feels it," commented Lothlorien's Lord, "yet the archer has fixated on another cause for the child's disquiet. Recall Lindalcon's words: Legolas believes this Judgement must be resolved or the elfling's life will be cursed. In his thoughts, the prince and princess of Greenwood owe their existence to the deaths of three valiant warriors. If balance is not restored, the two shall bear the burden of that debt forevermore. Additionally, Legolas has been so deeply immersed in grieving himself that I fear he has not examined alternative causes for Taurant's straits.

"The King shares this notion about his heir's doom, in a different manner. Legolas' life, from all accounts, even Thranduil's, has been fraught with nothing but tragedy. Thranduil believes this is his eldest child's fate and asked me to sever the link; that is the real reason he escorted me first to his son's nursery," replied Celeborn grimly.

Haldir was shocked speechless for several seconds. He stared at his Lord in unvoiced horror. Never had he heard of such a thing and indeed it was upsetting even to imagine his fraternal bond with Orophin and Rumil sundered. "Is such possible?" the March Warden stammered. "Would you agree to a request of that nature? Can the link not simply be moderated so as not to hurt the child? A less invasive connection to Legolas will lend the child strength, for Lindalcon avers that the Tawarwaith is devoted to the elfling. With a father like Thranduil, Taurant is going to need Legolas sooner rather than later, I fear."

"There is no need to be disrespectful; the King is after all my kinsman," admonished Celeborn. "Thranduil's life has not been easy and it is not your place to judge."

"Forgive me for being so outspoken, Hîren, but I am uneasy with this request to sunder the brothers' souls," rejoined Haldir stubbornly.

"In any other situation I would share that uneasiness. As I said, this is far more complex and I am uncomfortable with the strange association to the wizard, though I regard Mithrandir a close friend and a steadfast ally of the Elves. Thranduil reported an incident that occurred here but days ago, which I will not discuss just now, that convinced me all is not right with the Istar. I did as Thranduil asked, though the join between the brothers' hearts is not wholly dissolved. Fear not; Taurant will still share a sense of Legolas' kinship to him, though distantly, while the parental bond will again become predominant, as it should be."

Haldir gifted his superior with the most disapproving, sullenly sanctimonious scowl he could manage. Yet for all this outward bravado, Haldir's heart was racing. The Galadhrim warrior felt himself in Celeborn's presence as if for the first time, so strong was his sense of dread over this news. He had known the great Lord his entire life and their friendship was so close that it was easy to forget Celeborn was a First Age Elf, one of the few remaining from the days when the Green Elves learned the ways of shifting Nature from Melian. The making of a bond was a sanctifying action; was not then the breaking of such its opposite in character? He shivered and strove to dispel that idea. _Celeborn the Wise knows things even Yavanna has forgotten. There is more to this than I can comprehend._ He took a sip of the wine but found the fruity vintage had lost its savour. He set his goblet aside on the table at his elbow and turned his eyes to the incandescent coals and their softly sighing flames of blue.

Celeborn smiled fondly, watching Haldir's dismay on behalf of an Elf he had but glimpsed and a babe he had never even beheld. His March Warden's innate sense of protectiveness was an invaluable asset and one of the qualities that endeared the Galadhrim archer to the noble Lord. "I did not do it to appease Thranduil," Celeborn said and smiled again as Haldir's attention was instantaneously and completely his. "I did this for the brothers. How could I permit an infant to undergo needless torment? And what of Legolas, should his ill-luck be the cause of Taurant's demise? Would he survive that?"

A disgruntled sigh of capitulation followed this explanation, for Haldir could not counter the logic of such arguments. He met Celeborn's eyes with a grim smile of his own. "Nay, I do not think he would. He was willing to die for them if that would secure their safety."

"Indeed, he nearly did according to the healer. Now then, as we are back on the subject once more, tell me of the Tawarwaith," coaxed Celeborn. "You have kept me in suspenseful anticipation long enough."

"So I have," Haldir laughed. "Very well, I will try and do justice to the scene, for it was intriguing and inspiring at the same time." He took up his goblet and tried the wine again, watching to see if Celeborn would react, and grinned hugely at the frown now openly displayed. The March Warden relented.

"I was with Lindalcon and the healer in the formal gardens, trying to calm the youth for he had succumbed to supreme agitation over his perceived betrayal of his adopted elder brother. He was ready to flee, thinking to go forth and seek the true culprit of the Erebor Judgement: our recently banished immigrant, Rochendil. While we were thus engaged, a commotion arose in the kitchen yards and we all desired to know what transpired, for Lindalcon heard the disinherited prince's name spoken. We reached a hedge of yew trees and halted there, observing without being noted for all attention was fixed upon the unfolding drama.

"A large crowd had gathered in the stable yard and there within this loose encirclement stood Legolas, clasped tight against the frail frame of the ailing Elf. The Tawarwaith was cloaked with a regal mantle of panther skin clasped about his shoulders. It spilled down his back to the crease of his knees. The breeches he wore were stained with gore and his tresses were likewise tinged red as if dipped in fresh blood. One arm was bound in a sling and without any shirt or tunic the thick bandaging with which that shoulder was swathed stood out against skin turned golden from long exposure to the dappled sunlight under the eaves. He might have been a ghost from the Last Alliance: primitive, wild, and fiercely defiant yet possessed of a naivete common in children. The very picture of what I imagined a woodland warrior must look like when I sat upon Adar's knee as he told tales of that doomed battle.

"This encounter was painful to behold, for Lindalcon made the dying warrior's significance clear to me: he is the only survivor of the sortie against the goblin guards, meant to provide Legolas a chance to kill the vile Bolg. The Tawarwaith was frantic to help his old comrade and beset with forlorn anguish to know he could do nothing. It seemed to my eyes that Legolas did not want the soldier to be parted from him, fearing the Elf would fade from life in his absence. The parents were insistent, however, and at last placated their son's colleague enough to depart. At that point, Gladhadithen left in hopes of offering the family some comfort and Lindalcon went with her, desiring to speak of his father with this Elf.

"Now as the gathered Elves began to disperse I beheld a scene even more unusual than the one just described. The Tawarwaith turned to leave, heading in my direction though he did not discern my presence, for the shrubbery concealed me. Talagan followed closely after and as I watched a second Sylvan approached, leading a mare bedecked as befitted the mount of Thingol or Dior. She was draped in richly embroidered silk and satin, her forelock outfitted with silver bells that sang a quietly jubilant song when she proudly tossed her head, her mane and tail braided, laced with ribbons, and bejewelled with precious stones. More bells were therein entwined as well and she looked like a horse ready for some grand procession, meant to bear a great Lord among the people, bound for a reception of high honour and import.

"The Sindarin captain, the Sylvan archer, and the Tawarwaith began to converse and I was as amazed as Legolas to hear Talagan profess he was there, at the bidding of the Tawarwaith's foster-father, to ensure a suitable and secure means of transport through the city in consideration of the wild Elf's depleted health."

"Ah! The King's war-brother makes concessions because of his guilty conscience," Celeborn nodded sagely, not in the least surprised by this news.

"Aye, no doubt you are correct, Hîren. There is more. The Sylvan archer pledged fealty to Legolas and begged a place amid his army," Haldir grinned to see astonishment wash over his Lord's generally placid expression.

"What answer did Legolas give?" demanded Celeborn, shifting forward in his seat in anticipation of the answer.

"He was struck dumb! He had evidently not envisioned such a situation. Talagan found that amusing and advised it was but the first of many such demands from among the woodland warriors." Here Haldir held up his hand to forestall his Lord's next comment. "Then something happened that even took Talagan by surprise: the Tawarwaith commissioned him to fulfil a task, a lowly request any messenger or servant might accomplish, and the captain acquiesced."

"What say you? Of what nature was this request?" Celeborn was fascinated by this unexpected turn from the norm, considering the lofty opinion Thranduil's best friend harboured of himself.

Celeborn knew the captain well, having watched the two friends grow up together in Beleriand. Thranduil and Talagan were alike in mind and manner; sworn blood-brothers and comrades in arms. There was scarcely an event in one's life that the other had not been at hand to witness; what silent oaths they had made together the Sylvan Lord could well imagine. Talagan, who was not of noble birth, bowed to Thranduil's will in deference while from all others he demanded the respect this friendship had bought him. It was one thing for the veteran warrior to perform a token kindness at the behest of Legolas' foster-father, arrogantly assuming so small an act of generosity would expunge the horrific consequences his condemnation on the field of battle had generated. It was another matter entirely to take orders from a humble Wood Elf he had formerly commanded. "You must be mistaken; it had to be something quite serious."

"Perhaps, yet I distinctly heard the Tawarwaith ask the captain to go and fetch Fearfaron. Talagan was displeased and made to walk away, yet Legolas called him back, insistent upon the chore being completed by none besides the renowned warrior himself."

"What did the captain say to that?"

"I know not, for the two bent their heads close and spoke too softly for the words to carry. Whatever Legolas told him was sufficient; I followed Talagan from the gardens and he went straight to the carpenter's abode."

"Did Fearfaron act on Talagan's instructions?'

"Again, I am ignorant of the final outcome. The carpenter and the warrior parted company immediately and I followed Fearfaron. He went to the talan of the fading soldier and there remains, as far as I know."

"That must have been the request, then." Celeborn murmured. "Why is this ailing warrior so important that Legolas sent his adoptive father to abide with the Elf?"

Haldir shook his head. "Mayhap it is nothing to do with him. Mayhap Legolas wished to show Talagan that things in Mirkwood have changed, flexing his new-found power a little."

Celeborn considered that and discarded the notion. A lifted brow in Haldir's direction elicited a wry grin and a shrug from the March Warden. "Nay," agreed Haldir, "that does not fit within my estimation of Legolas' nature either."

They were silent for a time, ruminating on the Galadhrim guard's account of the evening. Then Celeborn sighed. "We shall have to wait to learn from Legolas what it was all about," he said.

Before Haldir could respond, a brisk knock resounded from the closed door and a voice called from without: "Lord Celeborn, may I enter?"

"You may, Dúnadan," answered the Lord, gladdened to hear the Man's voice, and rose to greet Aragorn as he strode through the door. "Mae Govannen. How you come to be here now is a tale I would much like to hear told. I had thought to seek out you and Mithrandir but wondered if you had retired for the night."

"Nay, I have only just left the kitchens," the Man said with a broad smile, "for Fearfaron and I were so busy at the talan in the clearing that I neglected to partake of the repast this eve."

"How fares Lord Erestor?" asked Haldir.

Aragorn shrugged. "He is healthy and his memories seem to be slowly returning to him. We shall know more with the dawn for Legolas is with him now. Fearfaron sent the archer home to renew his bond with our seneschal, hoping to promote Erestor's recapture of lost events using the sweetest sort of stimulus possible."

Celeborn smiled to hear of the impending reunion, pleased for some happiness to find Legolas at last. "We shall have to ask Fearfaron or Lindalcon why the dying soldier is so closely watched, unless you know something of it?" he queried the mortal.

"Not I," Aragorn shook his head as he joined them by the fire. "The carpenter and I missed all the excitement. He was engaged in schooling Erestor in proper conduct toward his adopted son; I was merely enjoying a quiet walk amid the trees to the baths. You shall have to make certain to take the waters; very invigorating and restful at the same time."

"Hah! I should have enjoyed watching this Wood Elf teaching Elrond's haughty cousin bedroom etiquette!" laughed Celeborn, but silenced his glee upon seeing Haldir's brief flinch of discomfort. The Lord frowned and sat forward, reaching a hand to rest upon his friend's knee. "Forgive me, mellonen, I meant not to slight your brother's woe."

"Nay," Haldir sighed, "I am resigned to Orophin's loss of his Noldorin mate. While I am not pleased for muindoren (my brother) and Dambethnîn to endure such a breech of faith, I trust in the strength of their bond to see them through the strain of this separation. Orophin has a good heart and 'Beth is the personification of compassion; neither would want to deny Erestor a true soul-mate, even if that means he will not be part of their lives any longer. Besides, after hearing of Legolas' suffering from Lindalcon, how could I wish to sever him from the only joy he has ever known?"

"Well said; I am of like mind. Tell me, how does Lindalcon fare after your counselling?" asked Celeborn and thus adroitly turned the conversation from Erestor's wandering heart.

Now Haldir's disquiet deepened, maturing into uneasy foreboding. He was always one to trust his instincts and every nerve and fibre warned that the youth was bound for danger and disaster. "I am not satisfied. He is as I was after Durin's Bain once more fled from free air and clean sunlight into the depths of Khazad-dûm, having wearied of slaughtering Elves and Dwarves. Alas, I have not your wisdom and have thus far failed to break the barrier of anger and guilt surrounding Lindalcon's heart. Though the failing warrior diverted him from this precipitous plan to seek out Rochendil, I fear what he may yet do."

"That is not good. We must keep our eyes upon that young one, Haldir, lest some irreparable grief befall him," intoned Celeborn.

"True. Only Legolas has endured more strife in this unpleasant business," added Aragorn. "Lindalcon needs guidance and I am pleased he has made your acquaintance, March Warden. Do not discount your influence; mayhap he will heed you now that Legolas' fate is less precarious. We may yet turn him from so dark a destiny as you foresee.

"Now, what of these charges against my father, Lord Celeborn? I understand he is already en route, for a messenger bird arrived with news. Have you learned what Thranduil may seek in compensation?"

"Nay, of that we have yet to speak. Still, I am the King's kinsman and have aided him once or twice in the past. It is my hope this relationship will afford me the opportunity to mitigate whatever revenge brews in his heart."

With that the three turned to the impending trial and Lindalcon's fate was dismissed for a time. It was of no consequence, for it was already too late to prevent the predicted catastrophe from coming to pass. Even as they conversed in peaceful comfort in the luxury of the King's subterranean palace, Lindalcon was ascending to the royal chambers some three tiers above them. He had concluded his conference with Gildin and now sought to determine the accuracy of the soldier's testimony. It was difficult to refute such, as the narration had about it the sound of facts bound within every cadence, tone, and inflection.

Valtamar's son arrived at his destination and for long minutes simply stood staring, unable to make his hand obey the command of his thoughts. A servant passed near by and the movement roused him from his dark and doleful trance. Finally he raised his fist and softly rapped upon the boards. The latch turned and the barrier swung silently on its hinges, revealing Meril's smiling face in the expanding gap, a look that faltered and faded the instant her son spoke.

"Gildin is dead." His voice was cold and emotionless, betraying not the turmoil within his ravaged soul.

Lindalcon waited upon the threshold of his mother's open chamber door for her to invite him within, watching her eyes as she absorbed his announcement. He watched as she stood staring, frozen and silent, letting the implications of his sentence gel within her thoughts. A strange array of emotions swept through the shifting light of her vision, swift as swallows in a summer sky, surprise melding into shock, a spark of satisfaction igniting instead a brief flare of fear, caution and wary appraisal reflecting from her hazel irises. Lindalcon's heart quailed even though his feet remained firm; surely he could comprehend her every thought and these were not flattering. How had he never noticed before that calculating, predatory glint of self-preservation filling her gaze with its subtle sheen?

Enlightenment of this nature was naught but a torment. Such illumination revealed only the slithering, crawling, foul things of nature; things that made the soul cringe and the mind rebel; things that could not be of Eru's will. Lindalcon recalled the night Legolas had first expressed the idea of Meril's involvement in Valtamar's death. Had it really been only a handful of days gone by? He felt as though he had lived a thousand years since then. The notion had been growing and gaining strength every day despite his desire to force the concept from his thoughts, distracting his mind with Legolas and Erestor, seeking for an alternate answer in the Council Chamber. These efforts had not dispersed the gnawing trepidation steadily consuming his heart, nor had they worked to win peace for his father's soul. The youthful ellon had thus taken himself to Ben'waeth's talan, there to hear of the Battle of Erebor from the only Elf still living who had fought side by side with Valtamar.

Gildin's words, could they be trusted, revealed the black, poisoned heart that had engineered his father's death. _And a death-bed confession is hard to refute._ Lindalcon had come to his Naneth needing answers, determined to resolve the issue once and for all. For he had clung to the fading remains of hope that it could not be her, that another solution had been overlooked in his grief. Gazing upon her now, he could conjure no faith in that decaying confidence. The last tinge of an elfling's tenacious loyalty dissolved.

"That is ill news, Hên Faen, (Radiant Child) but he was failing and perhaps it is more merciful for him to seek the peace of Mandos." Meril attempted a motherly smile but found she could only manufacture a poor fake, chilled as her spirit was to see the darkening of her first-born child's brilliant nimbus. So bright had he been at birth that his father had declared him kissed by the holy light of Laurelin and had named him on the spot. There was a tightness, a drawn and weary look about her son's face that made her uneasy, something she had no wish to define. The fact that he was the one bringing her this information was ominous in ways she had no desire to fathom. "Were you told to bear me these tidings by Ben'waeth?" 

"Nay. She is overcome in lamentations. I come of my own volition, for I was there at his passing. The final words he spoke were heard only by my ears; the last breath to pass his lips, I have taken into my lungs. All that was Gildin is known to me."

Meril exhaled suddenly, not realising until that second that she had stopped breathing, and awkwardly took a step backward. There was an element revealed within Lindalcon's gaze she had witnessed once before. A sense of knowledge pervaded his presence, not unlike the dawn twelve years ago when he had come to her, cheeks stained with salty sorrow, and declared that his father was not coming back, not ever. Before that day, before the first episode of dreaming his Adar's last moments ensnared him, Lindalcon had not truly understood what death meant. Now Meril beheld the same kind of horrible comprehension cloaking his fair form.

"Why were you there, ion?" (son) _Comprehension of what? He cannot know; Gildin could not have revealed information that was never his. Besides, his mind was broken._  "What took you to that place of heartache?"

"Adaren." (My father)

Meril felt a great pressure building in her chest such that it required effort to draw air. She could only stand and gape at Lindalcon, unwilling to accept the meaning packed into that single word. Somehow he had learned the truth; she wondered if Ben'waeth had finally broken faith with her. She would not discuss this with her child, not now, not ever. _But is this still my son?_Fuelled by her husband's graphic explanation of how it could be achieved, possession of the living by unhoused souls raced through her perception. She fought a tremble of dread from betraying her revulsion as she surveyed her son.

A piercing, unsparing misery shone from dewy ochre eyes that normally sought hers to give and to receive love, to ask for and to grant reassurance, to find and to offer hope. Now she beheld accusation, betrayal, disgust, and anger. Across her mind galloped the memories spanning Lindalcon's nativity to this instant and Meril found that she was afraid of the Elf revealed before her. This was not the elfling she knew and cherished any longer but an ellon fully grown, all innocence erased, replaced by bilious acrimony and seething fury. She moved the door closer to her body subtly to block free passage into the sitting room and displayed again the fine, straight upper row of her perfect white teeth, a false show of warmth from a heart thudding so heavily it must have turned to lead.

"What do you mean? How is Gildin's death linked to Valtamar?"

"It is not, except that Gildin would not release his feä with so weighty a burden of guilt yet bound within it. He desired to cleanse himself of this stain before facing Námo."

"Guilt? Tell me not that this ancient and worthy warrior was involved with the terrible events at Erebor. Will that dreadful day never cease to plague my heart?" she railed. "Is there no Elf free of the taint that battle spread upon our folk? If so valiant a spirit as Gildin's could be turned to evil, there is no refuge in which we may safeguard our lives and freedom. Alas that the curse of the kinslayers has pervaded the purity of our people!"

Lindalcon listened to his mother lie, marvelling in sickened admiration at her skill in presenting just the right combination of incredulous repugnance. This was not the Elf he so loved and cherished; it could not be the same elleth who had given him life, created him within her body, nourished him in infancy, rocked him in her arms when he was fearful, taught him to read and to sing and to love the trees. This was some creature, some hideous thing disguised as his Naneth, some dire abomination generated from evil intent and selfish desire, a fiend craving power and prestige and caring not what means must be employed to secure those objectives. Then she prattled these deceits and he knew it was her, knew these two concepts must be conjoined, the demon and his mother, into a single entity, and Lindalcon's heart tore.

"Of course he was involved; he was a soldier and he fought there beside Adar. He was not responsible for any evil deed, however, save perhaps that which all the realm must equally own. He attached no import to what he knew, for he attached no value to the Elf it concerned: Legolas."

"Speak not of Tirno! I already know he has been absolved of all wrong and the Judgement lifted. This is a grotesque perversion of justice! Who now shall secure Valtamar's passage to Mandos?"

"I shall."

"Lindalcon! What is this you say?" Meril was horrified, imagining her first-born attempting to earn the grace necessary for his father to gain entry into Námo's domain. She no longer doubted that this was her child addressing her for only Valtamar's son would make such a declaration without giving a second's worth of consideration for the magnitude of the sacrifice. "This is not your task to finish. Hênen, (my child) you are overwrought and thinking irrationally. Let this go, I beg you."

"Let it go? How can you ask such a thing? Do you not wish for your first husband, your true husband, to find peace? Valtamar did nothing wrong yet he suffers. Legolas did nothing wrong yet his torment has been extreme. Rochendil perpetrated this misery yet wanders at will across the lands. Malthen has committed hideous crimes yet walked free, a respected member of the community, until this day. Yet though I have laid the burden of Release upon him, I have no faith in his intent to fulfil it. He is craven and foul; he will die a dishonourable death and the offering will be for naught. There is no one else who can do this, Naneth."

The resolute and controlled manner in which Lindalcon made these statements was shocking and Meril found she needed to hold tight to the door handle to maintain her upright position. Her conscious mind refused to allow this idea room and she shook her head slowly, her wide brown eyes locked upon her son's.

"There is Rochendil," she whispered hoarsely. "He is the true instigator of all this tribulation. Thranduil will have him found and punished, Lindalcon, you do not need to take this upon yourself. Hear you mother's plea! Do not put my heart in such jeopardy!" Impulsively she reached out to him and gasped in disbelief when he pulled back to evade her touch.

"Yes, there is still Rochendil to consider. It is of this Elf I have come here to learn. Let us go in, Naneth, for I leave in the morning and would like this resolved before I do."

"Leave?" Meril's voice climbed an octave, stunned by the expression of disgust on her child's face, the determination within his words. "Where are you going? Tell me you are not taking ship to Aman."

"Nay," a dismally lopsided smirk upended his lips as he shook his head. "I already explained it to you; I go to complete the Task for my father. Now let us discuss what we must." He motioned with one hand to the room at her back, brows arched in expectation of her compliance.

"I have nothing to say on Rochendil; I barely knew the Elf. There is nothing for us to talk about." Her left foot reached behind her and as she shifted her weight onto it her fingers pulled on the handle of the door. Her other hand reached over to rest casually against the lintel, obstructing the entrance. The gap reduced to the width of her petite frame.

"Aniron ped ah le. Alannathach enni dâf minno?" (I wish to speak with you. Will you not give me leave to enter?) said Lindalcon as his palm pressed upon the smooth, polished grain of the heavy oaken barrier, just above the height of her head. His right foot bore him forward into the space her retreat created and his countenance was cast in sable shade. 

"Sen arad trastannen a pathrant nîr o Taurant. Boe gerin îdh. Alben ista man minuial tegitha." (This day has been troubling and filled with Taurant's tears. I must have rest. No one knows what the dawn will bring.) Meril answered sharply, fixing him with the weight of her long years of parental dominance over his will.

"Iston. Na minuial, I ben-odhril a ben-odhron. Na minuial, bedithon eddaur faro dagnir o Adaren. Pedithon a le si." (I know. At dawn, I will be motherless and fatherless. At dawn, I will go from the forest to hunt my father's murderer. I will speak with you now.) Valtamar's son shoved and the door flew from her grasp, striking the stone wall into which it was set with a reverberating report, and resiliently returned to graze against her knuckles where they were still poised in mid air. While she stood gawking and frozen in shock, he grabbed her at the wrist and pushed her backwards, clearing the threshold and kicking the door closed behind him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded sternly yet the notes trembled as they passed her lips. "Release me, Lindalcon, and go. I have told you I am weary and need…"

"I have told you I will speak now," he dropped her arm and watched in a peculiar sort of detachment as she rubbed it as though he had bruised her. He had not, this he knew, and he snorted in combined ire and contempt at this affectation. "Nay, do not try such foolish ploys with me. You are not injured in any way, for I know my strength and would never use it against my naneth. You are the one who has done all the damage and now you will reveal to me every detail."

"You are not making any sense, Lindalcon. I have not harmed anyone." Meril decided it would be wise to distance herself from her first-born, for the meaning of his words was plain. She hastily strode to the hearth and made a show of tending the fire.

"How dare you?" he shouted and followed her to the fireside, face contorted with undisguised anguish and hatred. "Tell no more lies to me! I am your son; I am Valtamar's son. I deserve to hear it from your own lips and in your own voice, the same voice that soothed my terror when I dreamed of spiders as an elfling, the same voice that consoled me in my grief when Ada did not come home, the same voice that boasted of love and pride in every aspect of my character. Tell me how you plotted Adaren's end; tell me how I was conceived solely to make this life you now have possible!"

"Daro! You do not mean these things you speak!" Meril gasped out, dropping down into a chair before her legs failed.

"I do not even know what you are!" he raged, pacing before the hearth in agitation. He halted and turned, pointing at her in damning accusation. "You cannot hide it any longer, for I have sworn only one oath and that is to see justice fall upon my father's killer. I will not break this vow, even though you are the one I must now hold to account for this horror. Answer honestly and beg mercy from the remnant of your son's love, for therein lies your only refuge. Gildin confessed all to me with the last of his breath and life."

"Gildin?" Meril was both frightened and confused, wondering if Ben'waeth had confided in her great-great-grandfather. This seemed unlikely, for Ben'waeth felt naught but pity for her ailing kinsman and would not have wished to add to his burdened feä. The Royal Consort decided the veteran warrior must have been ignorant of her true dealings with the horse master and could not have said anything of import. _Nothing that can be proved, at any rate. His madness will prevent anyone giving credence to his words._ A seed of hope sprouted in her breast and her heart's cadence smoothed into a more regular rhythm. "What did he say to you? You cannot accept his testimony for even his kin believe his mind to be ruined." She stalled, thinking to make her son reveal the extent of his information.

"Do not do this." Lindalcon's low, quavering voice was filled with pain and despair. The bright glint of doom threatened from the penetrating glare he trained upon her. "The time when I would have hearkened to you is far away, more distant than the shores of the Undying Lands. I offer you this one chance to seek clemency. If you refuse it, woe be unto you. I will disown you publicly. I will have you charged and put in the dungeons. I will take my brother and sister from you and flee with them to Lothlorien."

"You would not!" Meril shouted back shrilly, clutching at the fabric of the cushion beneath her frantically. She wanted to get up and run to the nursery, there to gather her elflings to her. Lindalcon's menacing presence barred her way. "Thranduil will not permit it and you will be the one punished for such a vile charge against your own mother! How can you say such things to me?"

"I say them because no one else will, no one else has the right to do so," he countered in icy tones and pointed at her heaving chest, "save Legolas, and he will not speak for dread of bringing grief upon Taurant and Gwilwilith. He does not understand; the core of their existence sprung from evil and they were so marked at the instant of conception. Just like me, they cannot escape the fate you have made for us.

"Shall I repeat to you the last words of the ancient warrior, the only survivor of the five brave volunteers who undertook to distract the goblin guards that day?" She did not answer but he had not expected her to and paused just long enough to draw a strengthening breath.

"Gildin remembers a party held in the meadow by the baths, a celebration of the company's safe return from a three-month patrol into the Central Mountains. Everyone was there and brought all their family, a great number of elves. I remember this event and so then must you, Naneth."

"There were many parties; one was much the same as any other," she shrugged nervously as all the colour drained away from her rosy cheeks.

"This was the last get-together held by the company before the troops rode out en route to the Battle of the Five Armies. Does that help you place the event more fully in your thoughts?" His pitch was mocking yet laced with sadness.

"I remember it. Andamaitë and Rochendil hosted the event that time. What had Gildin to say of these festivities that has so overcome your natural feelings for me?" Meril's heart was hammering erratically and again the notion of an avenging spirit broke from her subconscious, exhorting her to flee, insisting that she was not treating with her eldest son. She shrank back against the plush upholstery and a hand climbed to press against her chest, desiring to still the pounding pulse resonating there.

"He overheard a conversation he was not meant to hear. No one was to be privy to such speech, I am sure, other than the principals involved in generating it. Those were you and Rochendil, Naneth. Do you recall speaking with him that day?"

"Really, Lindalcon, I spoke to everyone," she tried to dissemble and make light of his query but failed, shifting awkwardly in her desire to get farther from his reach. "It was a social gathering; do you imagine I would sit in silence and not greet your Adar's colleagues and friends?" she scolded, hoping her words sounded unconcerned and indulgent rather than stuffed with the panic his talk produced. It was a mistake to answer thus, however, and she quickly regretted it.

"Do not mock me!" Lindalcon shouted and paced away only to return and tower over his mother's cowering form. "This is more serious than anything we have ever spoken about and I am not a child any longer. You will treat me with respect!"

"Respect? That is a sentiment you owe to your mother, Lindalcon! I will not tolerate your insolence. What would your Adar say of such behaviour?" Desperately she tried to invoke her son's conditioned reaction of immediate remorse for causing his mother displeasure. This, too, failed.

"He would say he is sorry and beg my forgiveness," whispered Lindalcon, unable to prevent the overflow of tears that drenched his pale cheeks, "for he was not free of fault yet he could not see how he was manipulated. He never suspected such treachery, least of all from you."

Meril sat in silent and profound apprehension as she watched her son, for these assertions and the abyssal despair from which they welled convinced her that nothing would sway him. He knew and there was no undoing it. She had no more tricks to try. There was nothing left but lies and more lies, denial and refusal to admit the truth of his words. Instinctively she longed to reach out and wipe away the bitter fluid coursing down Lindalcon's face but refrained; he would only repulse her hand and revile her more. This was not supposed to be happening; Lindalcon was never to learn these things. She loved him, no matter what else had transpired between her and Valtamar, their child was beyond it; her love for him transcended it. _How can he not perceive this?_

"I love you, child, will you persist on this loathsome course? Only tragedy lies at its ending, for you and the little ones as well. All that has happened will remain unchanged, whatever action you may take, and never will your father return to you; this is the way of things. Let him go. Let him go, Lindalcon, before every good born of your affliction is destroyed!" She pleaded, tears now cascading from her eyes steadily. She was beyond rational capability and prayed for the vengeance of Valtamar to pass her by.

Lindalcon shut his eyes, physically faltering under the weight of her declaration, for he could hear that it was real, the emotion she claimed to feel, and this was even harder to bear than her repudiation would have been. Yet though her expression was genuine, what she termed love was not the same thing that defined the concept within his perception. For Meril, love was something to be bartered, a commodity traded only on terms advantageous to her, a sensation too easily mitigated and truncated, too readily converted into mere affection or blank disregard. He took a shuddering gasp of a breath and steadied himself with a hand upon the delicately carved tracery of ivy rimming the edge of the mantle.

At this moment, excepting his Naneth, he alone knew with certainty the degree of her involvement in the deaths of the Lost Warriors. Once uttered, the words he would voice could not be revoked. Should he give them life by the breath of his lungs, their vibrations would rend the fibres of Vairë's loom the way a clear, high note ruptured glass, reducing him to an orphan and leaving his siblings in the care of Greenwood's self-serving, mercurial monarch. Within his hands he held not only her fate but all of their destinies combined, and though he loved her and adored his baby brother and sister, the burden of his vow, the intensity of his wrath, and the magnitude of his grief consumed him.

She had offered nothing to ameliorate the wounds she had carved within his heart. She cared nothing to witness her son's soul withering in the blast ignited by her lust for prestige and power. His despair, his sorrow, his slow descent into unending torment, none of it touched Meril. He forced himself to look upon her, to confront her openly as he spoke her doom.

"It is already finished, Naneth, how can you deceive yourself into believing otherwise? How shall I choose betwixt your love and my father's, between duty to you and my vow to Adar, between my future and that of my siblings? You ask what is impossible; I cannot resort to rationalisation and perfidy as you so ably do. Like a foul seep of black tar within a pool, this vile history will not remain submerged. Listen, and say no words to me nor seek to halt my narration, for it is better to hear it from my mouth than from Iarwain. He will show you no mercy, yet with me there is still a hope for that if you will put aside this pretence and answer when I am done. Heed me: I would salvage what is left of my family."

He paused then, just staring into her disbelieving eyes, wondering when her mouth had fallen agape and whether she would realise it, and could not really tell how long they remained thus, locked in raw and ragged communion, sharing the silent dread of the fate about to overtake them. His vision blurred as a fresh wave of weeping crested his lower lids and he blinked, swallowing down a harsh sob, and then Lindalcon commenced his recitation.   
    
"So spoke Gildin to me, Lindalcon Valtamarion, with the final breath of his body and the terminal thoughts of his mind:

"'It was a good party and I was pleased to have the chance to relax and converse with my friends and fellows, easy and safe within the bounds of the King's city. We congregated in the meadow by the limhir (trout stream) and Tondorn (Tall Oak) had brought his lyre and was strumming accompaniment to Aurhain's (New Day) flute. Talagan was flirting with his latest conquest and Analdîr sat playing Aegleben Nedhtî with his father. (Five Points in a Row (Gomoku Narabe - an ancient strategy game still played today, sometimes called simply 'Go')) A crowd was gathered watching, for they were well matched, and bets were being placed. Andamaitë and Ben'waeth were helping her brother with the preparation of food while some of the other warriors' mates watched over the younger elflings at their games. Valtamar and Roval (Great Wing) were arguing politics again. Legolas was leading an archery contest for the older children; you were in that, Lindalcon. Do you remember?'"

"I remember," I answered him, smiling, for this was a good memory and I had no idea where his narration would lead me. "I did not win but Legolas told me not to be concerned, for I had improved my control of the bow and my aim was better. He said he was proud of my effort but more so of the goodwill I showed to the victor."

"'He was always among the young at these gatherings and I never really thought about why,'" Gildin resumed. "'Over time I have come to understand it: Maltahondo never attended and the rest of the company ignored Legolas, overall, except when we wanted a sad song or someone to help clean up. Once I realised this, the next question that arose was why he chose to participate at all?'"

"That I could understand, having been forced to dwell in the shadow of Thranduil these last few years, and so I told him."

"'Ah, true; no love lost between them. At any rate, the party proceeded in this harmonious fashion throughout the day. We dined and drank wine, danced and waded in the brook, sang the old songs and enjoyed the peace. After a time, I craved a little solitude and went to walk among the trees. The pathway was carpeted with the last of autumn's leaves for winter was at hand. I wandered away, giving no thought to my destination, and soon came to a fine othol rind (dreaming ring) formed by twelve old cedars. I settled at the base of the tallest tree and let my thoughts roam.

"'How long I was there I am uncertain, nor can I say when I left the dream and merely watched the scene. Perhaps it is of no importance, for the mind perceives much and understands even more in this state, as you can no doubt attest. Two Elves stood outside the ring and my presence was thus hidden from them, for I was pressed close to the ground, sprawled beside the mightiest trunk. I could see them plainly, however, for they were framed between two bolls opposite me. These were Meril and Rochendil and they conversed in terse and argumentative tones. What they said was strange to hear and yet I did not really think much about it at the time. Long have I regretted my lack of perception.

"'Your Naneth boldly and sternly remonstrated the horse master, saying to him: _'You have had these last three months to accomplish the deed. Was there no chance for you to see it through? Valtamar tells me many spiders were hunted and killed; surely you might have taken a moment to fire two arrows.'_

_'I did not have the chance to do so unobserved,'_ declared Rochendil. _'I am master of the horses not the bow. For me to locate myself near enough to hit my mark would incite curiosity and questions. What would I say when Talagan wants to know why I seek to place myself among the best of his archers?' _

_'How can it matter what answer you give? Are you a Wood Elf or a clumsy Noldorin smithy? You are as well skilled in slipping unseen among the branches as any other warrior, especially when your comrades' attentions are focused on the hunt.'_ Meril mocked him. _'I think there is another reason. You are too timid, Rochendil. My husband did not report of any failings on Legolas' part this time. How can this be when you were set the task to make it so?'_

_'It is not so easy a chore. The archer is not stupid for all he is naive. After the first attempt's success, he has avoided me, not trusting my overtures to make amends and pursue a friendship. He suspects I have some unseemly motive.'_

_'Well that is your fault! You should not have revealed your interest to him. What were you thinking? You have nearly ruined everything!'_

_'Forgive me for seeking an honest means to achieve my end.'_

_'Honest? You are joking. Legolas will never willingly accept you whilst you are bound to another. Besides, he has not taken a lover since Callon left him. Some say he grieves. You will not get what you seek with Andamaitë as your mate. There is no alternative save to accept that fate denies your fulfillment. I for one have grown weary of my pre-ordained place in the Music.'_

_'You would not have to endure it but for your own folly! Andamaitë would go from me if you would free Valtamar of his bond to you. Yet though you express that very desire, you produced a child by Valtamar to hold him to you. He will never leave your side or abandon his son. I should accuse you of spoiling the plan!'"_

Lindalcon fell silent as he struggled, head bowed low and fists clenched, to rein in his riving emotions. "Can you imagine how my mind rejected these words? Can you understand what I felt to hear that my father wished to be with someone else and that you had made me just to keep him bound to you? Little then did I understand what real torment is, for that would have been easier to comprehend and bear than what followed."

He trained his stricken gaze upon Meril as she gasped out a strangled moan of despair. Lindalcon did not fly to her side to offer comfort, as he would surely have done but a few hours ago. Naught but the tiniest increment in the great long history of Arda had transpired, yet in that dusty mote of elapsed time he had transformed from her staunchest defender into her most brutal accuser. He waited as she rocked to and fro, a subdued keening issuing from behind hands covering her face, until she composed herself and dared to lift her red-rimmed sight to his, and began his recount anew.

"I challenged Gildin's words, but the failing Elf did not heed me. He went right on with the tale and I had to silence my protests in order to understand what he needed to reveal:

"'Meril was not perturbed by his retort and answered immediately. _'My desire to create life is none of your concern. The plot is foolproof if only you will steady your nerves and follow through.'_

_'Nay it is not. I am the one taking all the risk and if something should go wrong I am the one who must face the dire consequences. I am thinking the archer is not compensation enough for so dangerous a scheme.'_

_'Ah, so it is a question of return on your investment? Why did you not simply say so? I can arrange for you to become quite wealthy once this is done. You can emigrate to Lothlorien or Imladris in grand style, a noble Lord of the Nandorin people, a respected breeder and trainer of exquisite steeds unmatched in any lands. To tend your every need and desire, you shall have at your disposal the misbegotten child of Ningloriel.'_

_'How so? You have no holdings nor treasure coffers to empty in payment to me.'_

_'Not yet, but should you manage your part I will have wealth to rival the King from which to draw your reward.'_

"'Then the two contemplated one another in silence as Rochendil thought upon her speech. When he replied, I admit to complete confusion as to their meaning, yet I recall what was said distinctly: 

_'Ah!'_ cried Rochendil, and threw back his head as he laughed, long and low and with great delight. _'I bow to you, Lady, for that is indeed well thought. This explains the child; you mean to invoke the old Law.'_

_'I do. Now, are we in agreement to carry on or should I search for another means to achieve my goal?'_

_'Other means? There is no one else who would be willing to help you, Meril, so do not pretend you have no need of me. Our pact stands. I will see it done on the next patrol. You see to it that my compensation is sufficient for the lifestyle you described. Should you renege, I will…'_

_'You will what? You can say nothing against me without implicating yourself, Rochendil. Do not make idle threats.'_

"'With those words Meril turned and left him. Rochendil cursed her under his breath and then walked away in the opposite direction. I laid where I was and considered their talk.

"'It was an ugly business and clearly involved some plot to discredit Legolas; I remembered the detestable incident of the archer's drunken excess revealed to us by Rochendil, for he reminded us of it often enough and was always finding fault with him. Like everyone else, I was prepared to believe it, having heard Callon boasting of his lover's depravity in the past. Now I no longer question why the horse master was so vitriolic in his hatred for Legolas, though to be honest I truly never gave it much consideration: he yearned for what he could not have, had been spurned in his attempt to gain it. I wonder now how many years he nursed this hidden proclivity?

"'Additionally, the pair spoke of dissolving their bonds to their mates. The remark about the old Law, this I did not see the pertinence of until after the fact, for such a notion was unthinkable. I did not understand what Meril wanted though Rochendil's lust for Legolas was evident. It seemed his goal was to bring the disgraced prince so low that he would accept any companionship, no matter how demeaning the affair might prove. Indeed, from Callon I was led to believe Legolas preferred to be abused thusly. I could not purceive the real intent then; the concept of Chastisement did not enter my mind. Can you see how I was blind to the truth? Who would consider it possible for two to plan the murders of their own mates and then seek to lay the blame upon another?

"'Alas! This is what happened and I did nothing to stop them! Rochendil made good his promise, using the confusion of the bloody battle to unleash the rocks that disabled Legolas' consummate skill. How clever he was, removing any chance for the deed to find its way back to him, for had he done as they planned, your father and his lover would have died with the Tawarwaith's arrows in their hearts. For all his twisted nature, the horse master could not bring himself to take life with his own hands. How pleased he must have been to find that fate would for once assist him, and he availed himself of that aid fully.

"'The rest you know. Meril changed her destiny and altered the Song, displacing Ningloriel by stealing the title Prince of the Greenwood for you, Lindalcon. How well she understood our selfish Queen's heart! How fully did she comprehend the King's hopes and dreams! Now she has produced Thranduil's heir and her future is secured, whether you remain a prince or renounce the title.

"'The horse master succeeded in gaining control over Legolas and used it ruthlessly, by all accounts that reached my ears. Yet of this wealth they discussed I know nothing and that alone mystifies me still, though I have pondered it all these years. None can gain entry to the vaults save Thranduil, and so I began to think perhaps he was aware of this plot from the very beginning. Mayhap he has been quietly buying Rochendil's silence with Legolas' body and treasure all along.

"'Now I am finished, only child of my former comrade, Valtamar the Valiant, a decent and honourable Elf, no matter what his infidelity reveals. No one is without flaws, Lindalcon, and he did not deserve to die for his. As for Andamaitë, I have come to pity her, for as Rochendil's mate, what kind of torments did she silently endure? Do you remember her at all? She was fair to look upon, slender and yellow-haired with eyes of pale green like sun-bleached lily pads. No doubt she was the object of the detestable ellon's cruel tortures until her death.

"'Not a day passes that I do not pray for her to be at peace, healed of such strife and woe. Indeed, I beseech the Valar to permit Valtamar and Andamaitë to be together in Mandos, for surely they have earned whatever comfort such a place may grant them.

"'Render your judgement, Lindalcon, for I would sooner accept your verdict than that of Námo. I am prepared. If you hold me liable for Valtamar's death, I will accede to your charge and undergo any punishment you deem fitting. I should have revealed to your father what I overheard. I beg you will find a means to forgive me in time.'"

Lindalcon ceased talking and concentrated on breathing, fighting the overwhelming urge to retch. It was more difficult than he could have ever imagined, for he had convinced himself that repeating Gildin's testimony would make the pain less and the horror more bearable. Instead his agony doubled and he struggled to remain on his feet, determined to see the trial through to its completion. Sweat collected across his upper lip and every breath drawn was like inhaling a thousand daggers, so cutting was the assault upon his heart. Within the grinding jaws of the grieving sickness, Lindalcon wept openly for his shattered spirit and for that of Legolas', who had borne such dire distress of hroa and feä for so long. This was not an experience Lindalcon was pleased to share with his adopted brother.

During these interminable minutes of her eldest child's cruciation, Meril remained fixed within her seat, daring not to go to him, to touch him, nor even to call his name. What could she do to amend this horrendous result of Gildin's return? Lindalcon would despise her now and disown her, even as he had threatened, and she could only think of how to prevent him from bringing his grief upon the younger children. She had already lost her first-born; she must not lose Gwilwileth and Taurant. They were the future; they were the reason for all this, the purpose that justified whatever wrong she might have conceived. It was never meant to come to this; it was all Legolas' fault. The outcast should have perished in the wilds before the second year of his banishment.

"Silence! You will not speak! I forbid you to speak until I am done!" shrieked Lindalcon, his ragged voice fraught with the racking aguish assailing his soul.

Meril pressed both hands over her mouth to hold back the scream threatening to burst free, horrified to hear her son in such despair, unaware she had been babbling her thoughts aloud, and found that she had not ceased crying for her nose was dripping with the excess of fluid.

The outburst forced Lindalcon to focus on something other than the pain, though the image that formed in his mind was frightful in its vivd detail. Involuntarily, his hands lifted, fingers curved and ready like the talons of a hunting hawk, ready, even aching, to encircle the slender white neck from which issued such insidious falsehoods, such brazen deceits. He could feel the satisfaction throttling her would grant, craved the sensation of choking the breath from her, ending forever the opportunity to give voice to such distorted interpretations of the concepts of love, devotion, and maternal responsibility. He would drive out that false vindication shining through her fear, force her to admit with her final gasp the supreme self-seeking ambition that drove her thoughts and actions. He watched her eyes widening, the tears ceasing as realisation overcame her and she shrank from his impending assault.

"Nay!" Meril brokenly cried, terror and guilt limning the word, drawing her knees up as a shield and dashing her arm wildly against his imperilling hands.

That contact woke him from the lucid dream and Lindalcon straightened up, startled to find himself so open to accepting the lure of violent expulsion of his wrath and hate. _Hate? Do I hate my mother? How alike we are; she cares not for the child of her body while I find means to despise the elleth that created me._ Shame overcame the anger; an intense feeling of how deep would be Valtamar's disappointment to know his son had sunk so low. Abruptly he turned his back to Meril, squeezing shut his eyes to block the sight of her frightened face from his mind. He had not come here to act the part of executioner, yet even as the thought filled his mind he was forced to acknowledge the reality such imaginings revealed.

A hard and brutal truth was that to stomach, yet Lindalcon refused to hide from it. He could kill her; the capability but lay dormant, a dagger sheathed but ever at hand. He could indeed find enjoyment in claiming so final and complete a vengeance, and not for Valtamar alone but primarily for himself, for Meril's betrayal, the rape of his innocence, the destruction of any hope for happiness._She deserves such an end and I claim the right to bring it about._

Yet he had sampled the flavour of revenge and found it an unsatisfying substance to ingest. Verily, it seemed his partaking of it had created greater emptiness within his being, a ravenous hunger for more that had served only to bring him closer to committing the sin he sought to condemn. He saw himself anew, two views of Lindalcon displayed for his edification. One image presented the ellon he wanted to be, the son Valtamar smiled upon and loved, his father's pride and joy, an elder brother his siblings would look up to for guidance, a warrior worthy of such respect and admiration. The other showed Lindalcon as he was: broken and twisted, a soul warped by the incessant pressures of loss and guilt and anger, deserving only pity and rejection.

The idea revolted him and Lindalcon fought again the need to vomit. _I will see Ada again; I will!_ And when that day came he wanted nothing more than to look into those same adoring brown eyes that had always smiled upon him from the valiant warrior's loving visage. Gathering that concept closely around his bruised and battered heart, Lindalcon chose to remain the son of Valtamar.

The decision did not relieve his suffering, however, and granted but meagre comfort to know the power of choice remained his. He summoned the will to finish his inquisition, heaving several laboured breaths before he could retain enough air to give voice to his thoughts. He turned with opened eyes to Meril.

"Of course I forgave Gildin. He was not at fault. Hearing that one conversation without knowing the end of the tale was not enough to make the picture clear. He was right; none would first think that kinslaying was being so coolly discussed. Breaking sacred bonds and discrediting Legolas, these were serious enough errors, yet Gildin did not feel it was his place to interfere. The schemers implied that their mates were unfaithful; who would not think of separating from false lovers? As for Legolas, the old warrior felt he had not much status of which to be stripped anyway and was unconcerned. I forgave him, on my behalf and Legolas', for I have learned the burden revenge lays upon the soul of those who claim it. Gildin's last exhale was used to thank me; he has found peace.

"Now is your opportunity to ask the same gift of me, for I would rather grant expiation than exact retaliation. What have you to say to this, Naneth? Will you recount the history that led to the scene Gildin witnessed?" Lindalcon stood before his mother, face contorted in bereavement, voice calm yet tense with bitterness, braced for her retelling of the incriminating event.

Meril found her mouth dry and her thoughts as dust, scattered on the wind, whirling in all directions, incapable of being collected into any coherent order. She could not admit that her undoing had come about, especially in such a manner. She had thought herself safe once Rochendil was forced to leave the forest. Ben'waeth's tongue she could control, one way or another, and no one else knew anything. Never would she have considered a third party was eavesdropping on her meeting with the horse master that day. That Gildin had chosen to unburden his soul to her son was preposterous. It simply could not be happening; she must be trapped in some insane nightmare. She stared at Lindalcon and listlessly shook her head. Her son could not be standing here proclaiming her doom.

"Will you not answer? I need to understand. There has to be an explanation and only you can provide it. This at the least you owe me," he reiterated, his tone now pleading and his eyes aglitter with the clinging liquid layer left by uncountable tears. He took a tentative step toward her and held forth his hand, but his soul blenched even as his mother recoiled from him, her shrewd, calculating eyes surveying him closely. He let his arm drop limply to his side and just stared at her in dismal despondency, for the elleth before him was more foreign to his perception than any orc could be.

Yet Meril said nothing.

"What of the payment in treasure? How did you buy Rochendil's silence? Was Thranduil involved in this? Speak, Nana, I beg you!" Now Lindalcon dropped to his knees on the floor and took her hands forcibly into his, gripping tight as she tried to get loose.

"Is that what you would ask me, Lindalcon?" she snapped, her tone fraught with contempt, yanking free of his hold, arising so that he was forced to stand and move back. "How Rochendil was paid for his nefarious deed? You do not question if Gildin's summation is true; you have no desire to hear me refute these unforgivable charges? Be cautious of repeating this tale, for the story indicts Thranduil in an act of kinslaying. With far lesser provocation the King has broken many an Elf. Let this go, Lindalcon, before I lose you."

"Lies and threats, this is the way you reply, denying it to my face, hoping for Thranduil's love of the children to prevent him from acting against you?" seethed Lindalcon. "Perhaps he would have me killed indeed, but you cannot. If you were capable of such a thing my father would have died in his bed at home instead of on the field of battle. I warn you; it is not Thranduil with whom I will share this knowledge but the Council. Iarwain will do as the Law allows.

"Yet if you will be honest with me no one else need ever know. I will escort you to the Grey Havens and see you off across the Sea. There you may start over and find means to repay the horrible debt you owe to so many: Ada, Andamaitë, Analdîr, Fearfaron, Gildin and his family, Ningloriel, Legolas, Taurant, Gwilith, and me. What say you, Naneth?"

"There is nothing to say, Lindalcon, for you have already judged and convicted me. What use are my words in the face of such betrayal?"

Meril's cold response fell like biting sleet upon naked flesh, so harsh was their impact upon her first-born's ears. Lindalcon heaved a great sigh and his chin fell to his chest, eyes closing to shield his mind from the sight of her. He did not look upon his Naneth again as he spoke to her for the last time.

"Then I relinquish you to the verdict your silence has chosen. I go to inscribe all that was told to me by Gildin in a declaration of condemnation. I will name you a kinslayer, the author of Adaren's murder."

He heard her sharp intake of air as he turned and trod the few steps to the door. The distance seemed leagues long and he felt nigh exhaustion, for these recent days had been trying beyond anything in his previous experience, culminating in the ultimate loss of every normal, familiar, and comforting aspect of his childhood. It seemed to him that such were not events fit to mark an Elf's Coll O Gweth. (Coming of Age) He opened the portal and paused just beyond the threshold, hoping to hear her following, hastening to stop him, to confess to him, to explain everything in such a way that he could forgive her and permit himself to love her still. He heard nothing beyond his respiration and the hasty tempo of his heavy heart.

Lindalcon shut the door softly and left the stronghold.

  
TBC

 

  
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	92. Nedhan Dor Nîr ar Naeg (Into the Land of Tears and Pain)

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

 

Nedhan Dor Nîr ar Naeg (Into the Land of Tears and Pain)

The air was raw, an aching, bone-gnawing cold, wet and penetrating, heavy with the threat of bitter snow. Looming low the sky bore down, a seemingly solid mass of grey, transmuting what meagre winter sunlight Anor shed into a bland lack of darkness, as if night had withdrawn rather than dawn arriving, revealing a straw-coloured world in shades of ochre and dusk.

Bent and broken by the weight of the season's first snows, the remnants of summer's grasses and grains cushioned the saturated ground for feet weary and sore from the long trek across the stony, ice-clad mountains, yet the horses did not seem less strained. The stark flatness of the level fields made travel painless and security certain, for nothing could remain hidden from elven eyes in such a landscape, yet the sense of safety was acute in its absence. In its place a suffocating blanket of stagnant doom had settled, as omnipresent as the glowering clouds, and its influence rendered the broad valley tense and chary of visitors. 

Collected in morosely unified discomfort, the host from Rivendell paused where the East Road faltered, cut by the deceptively quiet flow of the south running stream. It would be difficult to determine whether they had brought the unwholesome gloom with them or merely wandered into the unsettling miasma by virtue of the journey's path.

_And now here we are, the esteemed Lords of Imladris and their elite warriors, halted upon the western shore of Anduin to wait upon the whim of Thranduil, last of Beleriand's Sindarin Kings._ 

Elrohir stared in mute appraisal at the smear of shadowy darkness that bounded the river's territory, the abrupt wall of trees presenting an impenetrable barrier. His thoughts were sour, for often had he set his mind to travel here yet never imagined this scenario. 

_Why did I never come before now? I came of age to make my own decisions more than half an Age ago; have I been so cowed by the consequences of disregarding my father's wish? It must be so. Mayhap, had I obeyed my heart instead, this unfortunate fate could have been averted._ 

It was a soul-trying observation and one he could never prove, and as it had the feel of self-serving pity about it Elrohir was inclined to reject it. _Pointless hand-wringing and wailing. I do not control anyone but myself; my choices are now history, as are Adar's, and so we have come to this place._ 

His motives were honourable, his father's base but it did not seem to matter. Combined, the actions and omissions arising from their separate intent had crafted the present. Elrond's haphazard disregard of his own ban against visiting the woodland realm was more than disturbing. It revealed an arrogance Elrohir had never resented before; Elrond considered his whims superseded any harm the repercussions realising them might generate. 

_What mockery he has made of my steadfast love and loyalty. Aye, that is what this petulant indulgence truly reveals: my wounded feelings and damaged pride. It hurts that Adar thought more of this shadow family than his legitimate one._ 

Yet Elrohir had to conclude that it was a kind of caring he did not envy, for Elrond's fascination with Ningloriel's world was but a tortuous, black obssession, a tearing and grinding need, a means to purge the dark detritus of poisonous grief infecting his soul. It had to be so; no other conclusion could be derived nor would he entertain alternatives. His history, his family's, the long Ages through which the nobility of Eärendil's lineage had prevailed, that history could not be the lie, could not be the charade, the cautiously constructed cover built to camouflage a flawed and failing House. 

Elrohir did not share these putrid notions with Elladan, feeling his brother had enough misgivings to manage without absorbing his twin's regrets. The elder sibling had long ago made it plain he was weary of speculation concerning blood kin dwelling within Mirkwood's eternal twilight. The weighty compunction born of this persistent denial bled from Elladan's soul into his brother's awareness.

_No shield is required, muindor, nor is the concept tenable; your hurts are mirrored in me. I say it is right to indulge these morose insights; better to do so now and dispel them ere we stand before whatever judgement awaits._ Elladan's mental response made his brother smile the same wry grin he was wearing. There was no mirth in it, however, and the expression quickly faded, replaced by tenacious fortitude as Elladan affirmed his brother's beliefs. 

_We are the reality: you and I, Arwen, Aragorn. As long as we breathe our House shall not fall. Cracks, rot, broken beams, shifting foundations, such decay is to be expected from exposure to so marred an environment as we inhabit. All this can be repaired, Elrohir; it is only feigned ignorance which causes a structure to collapse. The damage was hidden but we see it now; our diligent effort will effect restoration._ 

It was not a false declaration and both welcomed the task of ushering this rejuvenation into being, yet it was underscored with the discomforting truth that their House was the last sprung from the noble Noldorin blood of Finwë still extant in Middle-earth, and in this fate they were no different than the woodland King and his purported link to Elwë; all of them lesser representatives of greatness that had dimmed ere the Second Age dawned.

Eyes narrowed to concentrate his sight, Elrohir put the unpleasant comparison out of his thoughts and attempted to pierce the forest's gloom, hoping to discern some detail that would reveal its nature. Such was impossible from so great a distance and he was left with only the impression of absolute stillness, a lack of motion and sound that was a diametric counterpoint to the character of the subdued and wintery valley. This soft open ground swathed in pale light and filled with the voice of the water's sleepy current rolled right up to that dim overcast zone of silent brown sentinels and there it simply ceased to be. Who, then, was master in this valley? Mayhap Anduin and his drowning flux kept the trees at bay, preventing full invasion of the lush bottom lands. Or was Greenwood yet advancing, inexorably annexing the open meadow within her soaring ranks of wooden warriors?

It was telling that in such a fertile strath, unclaimed by any realm of Elves or Men, no farmsteads arose along the banks of the stream. No villages were settled, no towns established. Only the Beornings had holdings in the vale, yet their dominion was limited to a small region bounded by the Carrock in the north and the Forest Road to the south. What habitations Men secured in this place were not revealed under the open sky but hidden beneath the protective boughs of the forest's eaves. The mortals seemed to understand this was no quiet, gentle land of high summer grasses and singing larks, but a battle plain. They had chosen which camp would own their allegiance, and that was telling,too.

"Daunting, is it not?" the gravely voice broke the solitude and in unison Elladan and Elrohir turned questioning eyes upon the speaker. This was one of the Beornings, the Toll-master of the Ford, but his name he would not give. It was so for all the shape-shifter folk for they deemed themselves too removed from other people to share such details. The Toll-master continued, answering the silent query with a gesture toward the wooded horizon. "Yon land of wild elves, a mite disheartening to genteel folk from Rivendel."

"True enough. Seldom do we venture here." Elladan saw no point in disputing the obvious and let his brother's derisive snort express what they thought of being labelled 'genteel'.

"Yet the woodland King has had many visitors of late, both from over the mountains and from the south," the shape-shifter elaborated, his sight resting briefly upon Elrond, who was dressed in much grander style than when last he had crossed the ford, hastening to leave Rhovanian. "Is aught amiss that the High Elves seek the council of the Soul-catcher?" the toll-taker asked, using the name for Thranduil Beorn had granted him of old.

It was enough to make the Noldorin warriors startle and shift in discomfort, but Elladan laughed. "Soul-catcher?" he shook his head in amused disbelief. "The Elves of Imladris seek no such audience. It is Thranduil who requests our attendance; we would not refuse such an invitation from our kin beneath the trees." His jocular tone put the troops at ease and silenced the curiosity of the Beorning, though he was certain the shape-shifter knew there was more to the visit than this. "Be assured, if there is any danger threatening the valley-dwellers, we will share it with your Lord."

Now it was the Toll-master who scoffed, for the ways of the shape-shifters were not as the ways of Elves and even less like unto the ways of Men. Beorn was more than a Lord yet never their Master. He knew he could not explain this in terms these strange people could properly interpret, however, and said no more.

The assembly resumed wordless examination of the distant woods, all eyes drawn to it by unseen lines of keenly distinct tension, anticipation mounting, senses heightened, muscles readying for action as in the interminable interval of false and rigid passivity preceding battle. Minutes passed unheeded into hours. Unseen, the sun climbed towards her zenith. The horses refused to graze; not even hunger prevailed over this concentrated study of the forbidding trees. The Noldor could do naught but wait upon the whim of the Sindarin King. For surely his sentries were there among the branches. Surely their approach had been noted long ago, as the faintest glimmer of dawn lit the land, surely.

As they watched, a vague shift in the shade commenced, a slow transition from inanimate warding to creeping advance. From the unbroken line of towering trees, a slender, sinuous tendril of darkness snaked out, reaching into the valley's domain as if to snatch up some of the dull illumination from the overcast atmosphere. As one the Elves leaned forward, straining to decipher what manner of spectacle this could be, and then in similar accord all relaxed and resumed the sternly disciplined demeanour of well-trained troops. Under the influence of brighter light and diminishing distance, the bizarre manifestation resolved into a company of warriors, their fine raiment and sturdy chargers indicative of Lothlorien's guards. It did not take long for them to reach the eastern bank of the ford, where they reined in.

Foremost in the column was Haldir and by his side rode Talagan, the only woodland warrior present. He cast his gaze upon the three Elf Lords and when he encountered Elrond's eyes his lips curled in a sneer of disgust. Wordlessly, he leaned aside and spat.

Elrond's face remained placid and gave away nothing but in his heart he was pleased by the soft murmur of displeasure arising among his guards.

"Mae govannen, Haldir o Lorien," Elladan's calm greeting and commanding tone intruded upon the rising agitation and tamped it down.

"Suilad, Elladan," Haldir dipped his head politely and turned to Elrond. "Hîren, I bring the grace of Celeborn the Wise and the indulgence of Thranduil, Greenwood's King. You and your sons are granted leave to enter the lands of the sylvan folk." Now Haldir was great friends with the twin sons of Elrond, but he had seen too much of the strife their father's misdeeds had wrought upon the Wood Elves to refrain from this oblique reprimand. Indeed, he had but to glance upon his brother and law-sister to know the hurts struck too near to his own heart.

Beside him, Talagan chuckled. "Mae pennen (Well said), March-warden. Come across the flood, noble scion of Eärendil, and meet your doom honourably, if it is in you to manage such."

The harsh discord of swords sliding hastily from leather sheathes amid voluble curses was silenced by Elrohir. "Stand down!" he ordered and urged Namië out of formation, splashing into the icy stream and then wheeling to charge straight into the gathered warriors. They were forced to pull back to avoid collision and quickly mastered themselves under his evident disapproval. "Your duty here is discharged; ride on to Lothlorien and await news of our departure." 

For a second or two it seemed the soldiers might not heed this directive and a few looked to Elladan; ensuring he was of like mind to his twin. Then the long years of training overbore any personal reluctance the warriors might individually harbour against leaving. Loathe they were to desert Imladris' ruling family, abandoning the House of the Mariner to the care of other guards, yet none could bear to defy their Lords and quickly formed up ranks. With a final salute they faced their steeds to the south and cantered away, spirits as burdened and dreary as the cloud-ridden day.

Now during this disturbance Haldir and the Galadhrim remained outwardly impassive, trusting the twins to manage their countrymen's wrath, yet certainly it was unusual to see Elrond and his sons remain so reserved in the face of such an insult. Not that folk of the Golden Wood expected the noble Lords to challenge Talagan to a duel, for such rash behaviour was beneath them, but neither was Elrond known to withhold a fitting rebuke when it was due. Elladan and Elrohir were equally capable of matching their father's eloquently acerbic tongue and neither one did more than send Thranduil's Sindarin captain their cold hatred through eyes glittering with unvoiced fury. Their stoic silence erased any lingering hopes of Elrond's innocence the Galadhrim had retained.

The toll was paid out and no doubt the shape-shifter was more than ready for the Elves to get on their way, taking their volatile situation under the trees and out of his valley. No sooner had the remaining five riders crossed the stream than Orophin and Dambethnîn joined Haldir, anxious for news. The trio lagged behind, the March-warden's melodious voice too low to carry beyond those intended to hear, and his absence forced Elrohir to pair up with Talagan in order to forestall further abuses to his father. Yet whether it was the younger twin's presence beside him or the lack of his troops to back him, Talagan seemed content to refrain from further comment, his features arranged in the smug contours of a victorious grin. The party progressed with only the sound of the stream and the horses' foot-falls to accompany them.

The river receded under the steady gait of the chargers' loping strides and soon the dark majesty of the forest reared up before them, dominating the field of view and obliterating any thought of a bright horizon ahead. Then Talagan signalled a change in direction and they turned aside from the main road, taking a smaller track leading to the Forest Gate. Not a proper gate of wood and iron, of course, but a portal nonetheless and a more insidious entrance would be difficult to conjure. Here covetous limbs cast a spindly shadow of the shade pervasive under the canopy. This close to the imposing trunks and bolls, the vibrant potency of Tawar's presence seeped from the interior, forbidding intrusion while conversely beckoning, promising to immure for eternity any who disregarded the warning: _enter at your peril, but enter; do enter for then you become ours forevermore._ Here even the Galadhrim felt a compelling urge to turn and race for home lest their souls become entranced.

Talagan stopped, unaffected by the menacing whispers of the static limbs, and waved for Haldir and his kin to ride up. As they did so, a lone silvan emerged from the ebony void between two towering holly trees and eased her mount into the light. "I have secured a guide for you," Talagan addressed Orophin and Dambethnîn directly and with unexpected compassion. "Thranduil has heard of you from Mithrandir and from your Lord, who bade me relay his leave to refrain from anything beyond your duty to Lord Erestor during your stay." 

The grieving lovers needed no further invitation. The overwhelming dread these trees inspired notwithstanding, Erestor was somewhere among them and so they must enter. With quick and silent glances they exchanged good-byes with Haldir and greetings with the Wood Elf and parted from the main entourage. The three horses broke into a gallop and dashed beneath the branches, the sharp report of their hooves instantly muffled by the cloying closeness of the dun coloured air. It was as if the forest had swallowed them.

A moment passed. Haldir sighed and pivoted his charger round so that he faced Elrond, sending the twins a look rife with apology and remorse. "It falls to me to make this statement of the terms under which you may enter. Your arms you must surrender into my hands, assured upon my oath that your safety will be purchased with my own blood if necessary." He lifted his right hand to silence the protest he could see gathering in the brothers' eyes. "Nay, my friends, it must be so." Haldir's customary pitch of aristocratic formality was lacking, replaced by real sorrow to inflict this humiliation upon his Lord's kin, his close companions. It fairly pierced his heart to watch Elladan and Elrohir cast down their eyes in shame as they unbuckled their broadswords and passed them into his keeping.

Elrond, he noted with a flicker of anger, showed only mulish refusal to comply. Haldir was thus forced to repeat the ignominy. "Your sword, sir." He met Elrond's cold glare with blatant disdain, yet the Elf Lord never flinched and actually gave an irreverent sniff as of amused acquiescence while removing his weapon. "Follow closely and remain within the centre of our formation. Be forewarned: the trees are not the only entities creating this mood of high wroth. The silvan people would welcome any excuse to engage in battle the one who has wrought so much damage upon their Tawarwaith. It is my duty to make certain they do not have that opportunity, for both Celeborn and Thranduil wish the full account of these heinous acts to be documented for the histories."

"Tawarwaith?"

The query issued simultaneously from both twins and Talagan laughed at their ignorance. "Aye, that is the title Legolas carries here. He is no longer Thranduil's heir, 'tis true, but he is perhaps something even more commanding. As far as you lot are concerned, consider him at the least level in stature to yourselves."

"I have not considered him lesser in the past, whatever tales emerged concerning him. Indeed, I am gratified to have this proof that he lives," replied Elrohir with quiet dignity. "Neither would I disrespect his status now, though what it means to bear the title you have named remains obscure."

"Worry not; you shall be enlightened soon enough," Talagan grinned around the words. He had been vocal in expressing his displeasure over permitting the Galadhrim to enforce the demands Iarwain's councillors had imposed upon the accused and his sons, but this was turning out quite satisfactory after all. It had obviously cost them much to have the conditions dictated by a dear friend, far more than had he been the one to disarm them. "It is late; we must proceed if we hope to arrive at Ennyn Daer (Great Gates) before Ithil sets tonight." So saying, Talagan turned his mount to the woods, Haldir joining him, and led the escort into the trees.

In twos the riders passed the gate, entering Mirkwood's dusky gloam. At once the impulse to bolt vanished and without that unnerving distraction a different sort of mood altogether came to the fore: the fulsome satisfaction a great predator exudes once its belly is filled. Yet even a dire wolf inspires appreciation, respectful recognition of a magnificent power few creatures possess, and so it was for this forest. Here the strength of Thranduil's magic still preserved a portion of Greenwood's former, terrible splendour.

Elrond was surprised, having explored something of the south and central regions, expecting the whole of the forest would be equally dreary and depressed. These trees were not bound up in the constant struggle against the Shadow he had felt nearer to Dol Guldur and even surrounding the woodsmen's village. Here was as fair a scene as any winter weald could offer and reminded him of Eregion before the wars with Sauron ruined it. The resemblance was enhanced by virtue of the elf path meandering down an avenue defined by endless red-berried evergreens. Eregion, however, had never evoked this response of visceral awe. These hollies were stately, even regal; grand old trees clad in emerald and appointed in garnet, yet they did not welcome. Surely it was mad to be here, to walk willingly into the wolf's lair and ask for clemency.

_Nay, I did not come to beg mercy of Thranduil._

Elrond scowled and glanced around at the trees, annoyed and agitated. He was inclined to ascribe his reaction to that generic discomfort experienced by any civilised person upon encountering the wild. Even in Lothlorien, he found it mildly disconcerting to suffer shortened vision, the natural sharpness of elven sight blunted by the feeble light filtering through the net of over-arching branches. The faint illumination here lacked the warmth of the Mellyrn's golden glow. Greenwood's wan and jaundiced air was cold; its touch upon his face and hands too tactile, as if the forest was examining him.

_What foolishness! These trees do not discriminate so specifically. Indeed, they seem as provoked by the Galadhrim, forebearing their presence with little more tolerance than a caravan of churlish dwarves would receive._ 

That was certainly true, yet as the journey carried them ever deeper into the heart of the woods, Elrond's dread only increased. There could be no mistake; the trees were affronted by his intrusion. Like Thranduil, the Lord of Imladris was predisposed to dismiss the sylvans' superstitious sanctification of the woods. Finding a realistic cause for this unpleasant phenomenon was not difficult. _What I am experiencing is born of the natural distress the impending confrontation arouses. This is a forest, ancient and majestic but nothing more._ Despite these efforts to rationalise the situation, he was unable to shake the sense that he was not so much advancing as the trees were encroaching.

_They recognise me._

An oppressive absence of sound enhanced the mood of foreboding and lent the atmosphere a distinct note of accusation and censure. The Lord of Imladris shivered under his cloak, glancing to his left and right where Elladan and Elrohir bore such dark looks that he knew they felt it, too. This was a world secret and secluded, forbidden land not to be trespassed without brevet. Yet though that warrant was granted now, trespass had been done, a grievous invasion of wilful malice and cruel subterfuge upon the very heart and soul of Tawar. Repercussions would resound; restitution long past due would be exacted. Elrond realised how tenuous was the constraint that granted his safe-conduct and wondered from whom the order arose.

Surely not from Thranduil, for the Elven King would hardly care if his antagonist encountered some minor troubles along the way. Celeborn, perhaps, had ascertained this passport, yet Elrond did not believe the Lord of Lothlorien held any sway over these wild and archaic trees. Unbidden, the image of Legolas as he had first beheld him arose in Elrond's mind and his heart surged briefly in the remembered intensity of the feral Elf's eyes. All the longing he had fought to deny boiled up; dared he hope Legolas wished him to come through this intact, dignity and honour unsullied? Would the Tawarwaith grant him reprieve, forgiveness, an opportunity to rejuvenate the ephemeral bond that had germinated between them?

On impulse born of the memory of that initial meeting, he glanced upward, searching the curled and spiny leaves for a familiar figure poised upon the branches. Legolas was not there, nor was any other Wood Elf in evidence, yet Elrond started and let out a surprised "Ah", the sound overloud in the interminable silence. He beheld a sight few besides the woodland folk had ever seen.

Strung amid the twisting limbs were innumerable silken streamers, long ribbons of fabric decorating the canopy, some hanging free in the open spaces while others were irrevocably tangled around the interlocking twigs. Most were faded and ripped, torn and tattered into frail flags by exposure to the changing elements of Arda's seasons through a tally of years untold. A few were still bright and unfrayed, pinned proudly to the wood by arrows fletched in colours to match the cloth. The significance of such adornment was incomprehensible to him, yet before Elrond could inquire his internal speculations were interrupted by Haldir.

"A custom among the silvans, Hîren. Upon leaving their home, warriors place a token of rank and station at the exit, denoted by yon ribbons. When returning, the banner is retrieved. What you see is testimony and monument combined, for all that remain embedded in the trees belong to Elves lost to Mandos or departed on the journey to the Havens, nevermore to dwell under the protection of Greenwood," he explained solemnly and then answered the unspoken question. "I asked Lord Celeborn when we first arrived, for he has been here before and knew of the practice."

"There are too many tokens," murmured Elladan sadly. "What fragment of the woodland folk remains?"

"Quite a substantial fragment, Hîren," admonished Talagan. "The sylvans breed large broods and do so often. Additionally, the race has been greatly improved through the influx of Sindarin bloodlines. You will find the population hearty and thriving despite the losses faced in defence of our home. Those who leave us, well, I admit it rankles, yet it is better that they go. What good do the constant gripers and moaners accomplish through their wailing and tears? None, for only discord and distraction arise from such useless complaint."

"So you still mark the distinction," Elladan reproved, "though you have lived amid these trees for thousands of years and dwelt in but a different forest before then. Are you not a Wood Elf, Talagan?"

"A Wood Elf, perhaps I might be described thus and no fault would I find in the analogue. Sindarin I am by blood and birth and that cannot be changed."

"And what might being Sindarin signify in one's character, beyond an inexcusable arrogance and bull-headed stubbornness?" snorted Elrond in contempt.

"Ravens and crows, my Lord! Your lineage is a mixture of many nations yet have you not called yourself Noldorin? Few would link the quality of humility with those folk."

"So others name me, yet I have not done so myself."

"Deeds are perhaps more voluble than spoken claims, or even silence. You are Gil-galad's sycophant, no more need be said."

"You go too far!" hissed Elrohir, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his absent sword.

"I agree," announced Haldir with his usual imperiously haughty tone. "Silence would be a welcome addition to this conversation."

Everyone seemed ready to adhere to his request and the party progressed with a semblance of peace for a time.

"To whom does Legolas belong?" Elladan unwittingly spoke aloud thoughts he meant only for Elrohir, proof of how severely his heart was being tried. 

"To Greenwood."

"To Tawar."

"Legolas is Tawarwaith."

The answers flowed from the deeps of the trees on either side of the track, clear, distinct, and compelling, filled with both pride and something near to adulation.

The escort halted and the horses shifted in place, nervous and unsettled on dancing feet, each one's rider searching the surrounding branches. No motion gave away the origin of the eerily disembodied declarations and no further exposition was offered. Weighty and expectant silence enveloped them and they waited in dread though for what they knew not.

Then commenced a dull creaking of branches, a subtle noise of wood rubbing wood, of stiff, brittle limbs bending under stress. The sound swelled in volume and the dry, moaning wail writhed through the scene as copious limbs swayed in the windless and stagnant air. All around them, the disturbing display was accented by the harsh rasp of the hollies' spiny foliage and a pattering rain of the vibrant red fruit. Just beyond the path's confines, the brash report of a cracking limb was followed by a ponderous thud as it struck the ground.

A high, piercing note of terror and despair burst into this bizarre cacophony as an elven voice rang out. "Tawar mín beria! Tûr an Tawarwaith mín!" (Tawar protect us! Victory for our Tawarwaith!) The cry was duplicated in every direction as though a hundred voices raised the chant, adding their pleading mantra to the grave and fervent gyration of the woods. 

"What does it mean?" shrilled one of the Lorien guards.

"Exactly what your senses warn," said Elrond tersely and sent Haldir the wordless demand of a Lord to his liege.

As quickly as it had arisen the unnatural agitation stopped. All the trees were still again, sleeping as they should in winter. The sylvan prayer ceased simultaneously and unbroken silence once more descended over the anxious travellers.

The chargers snorted and twitched their ears, snuffing the air and stamping in the effort to obey their masters and hold fast. Their fear was infectious and the Galadhrim gazed uneasily from the unending emptiness of the crowded forest to their captain, but Haldir was no less unsettled and his frowning features bespoke more than annoyance.

"Aye, something is amiss," Talagan confirmed needlessly. "Let us hasten for the road is long and whatever is transpiring feels urgent. I do not like being apart from my warriors when Greenwood performs this keening ululation of groaning limbs." He did not await a response and his horse needed no further prompting to spring forward. The remaining ranks broke into a brisk canter behind them.

  
TBC

* * *

  


####  **Note:**

_ Back into this gloomy tale. Elrond and Company finally arrive in Mirkwood, expecting to be the centre of attention and prepared for a humiliating experience, only to discover a more terrible tragedy has befallen the folk of the Greenwood and Thranduil in particular. Erestor's Lorien lovers make their peace with the seneschal and Dambethnîn receives a long cherished wish by proxy. And Legolas? trouble, of course._   


  
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	93. Amarth od Elrond (Elrond's Fate)

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

 

Amarth od Elrond (Elrond's Fate)

 

It was strange to come upon the stronghold of the woodland King by night and find it dark and sombre. Normally the limbs of the trees sparkled with the gleam of a thousand lanterns, the footpath bright with the glare of torch-fire. Wood Elves loved the evening as well as the day and spent Ithil's hours with the same combination of joy and fortitude that defined Anor's tour across the sky. Beyond that, silvan and Sindar alike were drawn to spectacle and Talagan was accustomed to arriving home amid a throng comprised of well-wishers, curiosity seekers, friends, and detractors. The captain scowled, sweeping his gaze through the network of branches as he walked. The pathways and the courtyards were empty, lamps hung from their branches unlit, talans and flets remained veiled, and the only sounds were those quiet stirrings of the nocturnal denizens of the forest. 

That, and the incessant wailing of an infant somewhere deep in the cavernous fortress.

This reaction was opposite to what he had envisioned, considering the people's interest when he had dumped Erestor into the dust. Whatever dire events had precipitated the Greenwood's agitation had apparently affrighted the populace so much that none would venture forth. Not since the disaster at Erebor had the silvan folk been so reticent. He shuddered; the place radiated a dour and apprehensive mood the like of which he had not felt since his return from Morannon at the end of the Second Age.

With Haldir at his left matching him stride for stride, he led the Lords of Imladris into a deserted courtyard on foot, for all had dismounted hours ago, their horses near exhaustion from the lengthy journey and the mad race down the Elf Path. Now the chargers plodded along in the rear, a second company, heads low and gait stumbling. Right up to the great open arch of the council chamber they all marched, but no welcome shout rang out and no one came forth to greet them. The tall torches mounted on either side of the entrance supplied the only illumination in the compound. On the ground beside them, their shadows danced to the drunken rhythm of the wavering flames.

In common achord, the escort stalled before the entrance. The space beyond was bleak, leaking a wavering, anaemic lustre into the empty blackness as footfalls announced the approach of two who were not elf-kind. A young page peered out, leaning into the night as if loathe to venture from the protection of the cavern, and the next instant disappeared inside. 

"What can this mean?" Haldir worried. "I would not have thought Thranduil would fail to indulge this moment of triumph. At the very least I expected to be met by Lord Celeborn and Iarwain."

"Where are Greenwood's people?" asked Elladan, for he had imagined a great crowd of onlookers eager to witness the arrival of the debased Noldorin Lord. Before anyone had time to answer, both Mithrandir and Aewendil crossed the threshold and stood before the group.

"Mithrandir," Elrohir did not try to disguise his relief to meet a familiar and steadfast ally.

"Suilad, mellyn," the wizard said and his tone expressed a weary discontent that boded ill. "I will not say 'mae govannen' for it would prove my tongue false." His eyes searched the surrounding faces until they found Elrond's. "So you have come. Are you here to make amends, to heal the wounds you have inflicted?"

"I am here to answer the charges of the Mirkwood King," said Elrond darkly, but his bold stare was not so self-assured when gazing upon the disapproving visage of Olórin.

"We will represent Imladris," Elrohir stated firmly, "and correct any wrongs within our power to mend, may Manwë bear witness."

"Nobly said, yet this time silvan judgement will not fall upon the shoulders of the innocent," the Brown wizard intoned dolefully.

"Innocence is a rare commodity in these darkening hours of a waning Age," scoffed Elrond. "Especially in a place like Mirkwood."

"All the more reason for it to be cherished and protected," admonished Gandalf angrily, "an idea that you once took as your personal motto, a tenet by which you have fostered untold innocents from infancy to manhood. Recall yourself, son of Eärendil!" the wizard commanded, though he did not have his staff in hand.

"I have not forgotten, Gandalf. I am the one who held true, the one who stayed to bear the burdens of that esteemed House."

"Enough!" Elladan's ragged exclamation prohibited further remarks.

A foul silence followed, cold, carrying in its ether a taint of malevolence. The Galadhrim warriors fidgeted, as uncomfortable in the eery emptiness as they had been within the crowded council chamber after the failed uprising. They subtly withdrew from Lord Elrond and his sons, leery of the unwholesome atmosphere collecting around them.

"Where is the King?" asked Elrohir, his voice hard as the frozen clay beneath his boots. "Let us face this test and learn our doom now, the sooner to affect whatever relief to Greenwood we may."

"Thranduil is within the throne room. We are not permitted entrance for the proceedings are dire and such a thing has never been observed by outsiders," Gandalf grimaced, disgust for the primitive ways of the Wood Elves evident. Not since cradling Legolas' broken body the morning after the Judgement had he felt so sick at heart.

"Nay! We cannot permit that," Elladan announced, stepping closer to the Maia. "It is our right to hear the evidence first-hand."

"You two are not charged with any crimes and the closed hearing does not concern Elrond," explained Radagast quickly. "It is wholly an internal matter that has so subdued the populace. We are here to see to your quarters until that issue is resolved."

Talagan cursed under his breath and paced away from the group and back. He did not like the sound of this, for the Judgement of Erebor had been resolved before his departure. Whatever threat had loomed over Greenwood due to that unpleasant debacle was removed, or surely should have been. The wailing of the child worked through his consciousness and he swore again. _What ails the prince now if his brother's honour is restored?_ The answer was in his mind but he had need of confirmation.

"Wizard, you withhold much. What has happened here? Speak!" he demanded, not caring which of them replied.

"The true architect of the murderous acts on the plains of Erebor has been named. Meril now faces trial before the King and Council," answered Aewendil.

"Noss od Oropher dannen!" (The House of Oropher has fallen!) Talagan hissed out, followed by a long string of coarse obsceneties. He drew his sword and shook it at the bleary black sky, exhaling an incoherent shout of impotent rage to billow through the unseen stars. He cast his weapon upon the ground and ran inside the fortress, forgetting Elrond in his wrath over the dread outcome this latest crisis must provoke.

As he went in the page stumbled out, obviously shoved aside by the tall Sindarin captain, and was steadied by a different warrior and his comrade. The trio gazed upon the assembled elves and wizards with apprehensive indecision, uncertain to whom they should report in Talagan's absence, before stepping up to Mithrandir and bowing low.

"We are charged by King Thranduil to take Lord Elrond into custody," said one soldier as he straightened.

"Nay, I will remain with my sons," countered Elrond. "I am no criminal."

"You will go with them," Elladan commanded, his voice dispassionate and calm. 

He and Elrohir had expected such a demand. They had discussed the possibility with Glorfindel and their councillors before leaving the valley, unanimously agreeing to permit incarceration as part of the penance to be paid. His father's haughty attitude only solidified Elladan's resolve, for the Lord of Imladris remained unmoved by either remorse or pity. _We will not leave him in their care too many hours._ He reassured Elrohir's faltering spirit.

"You cannot mean that!" hissed Elrond, backing away slightly as the guards came forward, flanking him right and left, laying hands upon him. He glared first at them and then his sons. "You would commit your father to the keeping of his enemies?"

The younger twin met his livid gaze briefly, communicating plainly on whom the fault for the circumstances lay. He then assessed the guard, who was studying him intently. It seemed more then curiosity about twinning, so searching was the examination. He raised his brows in inquiry and the warrior blinked, dropping his eyes at once.

"Your pardon, Hiren, but have we not met before? You are familiar to me," said the soldier respectfully, confusion in his bewildered tone.

"Nay, I have no memory of you, sir." Elrohir paused before continuing. "I would know where he is to be held," his voice was firm despite his worry. "Lord Elrond has yet to face his accusers; nothing has been determined regarding the verity of the charges. Let not punishment be dealt before a sentence is passed."

"It is not a dungeon cell, if that is what you fear, but a plain and simple room where he may be alone with his thoughts, so to consider the actions that have brought him here," assured Aewendil. He looked upon the Elven Lord with dismay, seeing the Shadow gathered tight around him like a cloak against the winter wind. "Where is your heart, Elven Lord, did it die with Elros so long ago?"

"Why do you ask this now, if you suspect such, rather than pose the question when its answer might have prompted some aid?" countered Elrond bitterly.

"I was not on these shores," stated Aewendil, "else I would have done."

"You rank yourself more compassionate than any other, then, for the thought never occurred to my kin," the Lord of Imladris' words were thick with both scorn and self-pity.

"Daro, Adar!" Elladan snapped, embarrassed to have such things spoken before Thranduil's guards and the folk of Lorien. The Galadhrim refrained from speech but had not withdrawn more than a few paces, even Haldir stayed to witness the sordid scene. "Erestor never left your side, by your own avowal. Yet this is pointless badgering on your part, Aewendil of Rhosgobel, and jeering is beneath the dignity of your Order, I would think."

"Indeed it is," Gandalf intervened as tempers threatened to flame beyond control. "Lord Elrond, I beg you to comply willingly and forestall the use of force. There are terrible events unfolding now; the magnitude of the malice precipitating them dwarfs the petty jealousy that inspired your spiteful deeds. It may be that your plotting has been forgotten; all Thranduil's thought consumed as it is by this new tragedy."

"Ai! The children!" Haldir cried softly, his head dropping low as he murmured prayers for their safety, painfully aware of the distraught and unceasing fretting of the infant prince. "The Tawarwaith was right."

"What does this mean?" asked Elrohir, alarmed, for he did not know the significance of the named culprit. Mithrandir quickly explained and both twins immediately added their prayers to the March Warden's.

"What of Legolas? Is he with Thranduil and the sequestered court?" Elrond dared to inquire, his voice edged in hope and hunger.

"Nay," said Mithrandir. "He has left the city, searching for Lindalcon, an Elf unknown to you, for the youth is Meril's first-born and also her accuser. Like a brother he is to the Tawarwaith."

"Iluvatar, vile progenitor of this folly, follow thy servant into the Void!" Now Haldir cursed, a sharp and bitter denunciation of Eru that shocked his friends deeply. The look of rage and regret that twisted his fair features caused even his own warriors to draw back. "Alae, Lindalcon, what have you done? Where and when, Mithrandir. I must follow and lend what aid I may, though little hope do I envision for a fair result in this foul chain of events."

"Peace!" exhorted Aewendil, offended by the Galadhrim commander's blasphemy. He advanced upon Haldir and it was well for Lorien's captain he did not hold his staff that night.

"We know not when the young one left, before dawn certainly," Gandalf's hand restrained his fellow Istar's menace. "Legolas learned of it through his foster father, though all the palace has been in chaos since the writ was discovered at the door of Iarwain's chambers. Needless to say, he departed at once, alone as is his way, but what direction is left to guesswork. Aragorn took a company of soldiers out right behind him and we were forced to put Erestor in restraints to prevent him from dashing madly into the trees after his mate."

"Aragorn!" Elrond exclaimed, jolted from his thought of Legolas at the mention of his fosterling. For answer he received only a harsh look filled with disdain from Aewendil.

"That is the reason for the distress of the trees, Hiren," one of the Mirkwood guards added, ignoring the interruption. "The young usurper has gone after his Adar's murderer and Legolas has gone to stop him, for the youth has little knowledge either of combat or the forest beyond the bounds of the realm. The Tawarwaith fears he will fall to Orcs or spiders, or worse should the Wraiths discover him first."

"I will not stand for it! I count myself responsible in part for Lindalcon's rash heroics." The March Warden ground the recrimination through his clenched teeth. Now with the absence of Talagan, Haldir assumed control, turning to his soldiers. "Take the horses and have them stabled, procure fresh mounts and what supplies may be found, and gather Greenwood's forces. We ride."

"Greenwood's forces have been sent forth," said Gandalf, "thus you find the place deserted. One company after another has formed up and departed, for word has come back throughout the day and night of many Orcs gathering and skirmishes breaking out all around the city. In the war room you will find the charts and maps the others used, but I cannot say that any of it will be helpful."

"We will go with you," Elladan announced as he and his brother moved to join the Lorien warriors hustling to obey the orders of their captain.

"I forbid it!" Elrond shouted. "Your allegiance is to Imladris, to me. You will not abandon your father to chase after that outcast." He leaped from the lax grip of Thranduil's guards, meaning to grapple Elladan and hold him fast. He found Elrohir in his way.

"Dare you speak such hypocrisy with so much arrogance?" Elrohir breathed a heavy sigh and shook his head. "Did you not forsake your family and your people? Indeed, your very honour you discarded to seek the self-same elf."

"Nay! I held to my family and my people to the despair of my own well-being. How can you see it otherwise? If I have renounced anyone it is myself. Do not go from me now!" he grasped the younger of his sons only to find himself shoved back into the waiting hands of the woodland warriors.

"Daro, Adar!" Elladan commanded once more, pulling Elrohir to his side. "We will act as our consciences direct. You do not truly want Legolas dead, even if you do not see this now. Be grateful we are here to compensate for your lack of reason."

"And compassion," added Elrohir. "Ada, do as Thranduil bids and accompany the guards. We will return as soon as Legolas and his friend are found." The younger twin turned to Haldir. "Our swords, mellon."

Elrond gaped, completely at a loss over his sons' decision. He watched in helpless denial; they would not go and leave him to be locked away like any common thief. They would not turn their backs on him. They would not ride out and let him face Thranduil alone. Yet as he watched the brothers accepted their arms and did exactly that, without a backward glance, striding quickly after Haldir to secure new mounts. In mere minutes the courtyard was empty save for the wizards, Elrond, and the guards. The Lord of Imladris looked to them, summoning up the most indignant and austere expression of disapproval he could produce, completely unaware that it was a pale imitation of the daunting demeanour for which he was legendary. He did not fail to comprehend the dawning of pity in the piercing eyes of the canny wizards. The shock of seeing it washed the false bravado from his features.

"You will not be left on your own for long," instructed Mithrandir gravely. "Put the solitude to use and benefit from the lessons such introspection may teach. There is someone here most anxious to make your acquaintance, though I cannot say if you will appreciate the visit."

"If you mean Thranduil, be assured I do not quake at the thought of confronting him," Elrond boasted, not as sure of his resolve as he hoped he sounded. In truth, he had no desire to meet the Sindarin ruler alone and unarmed.

"I do not mean Thranduil," Gandalf spat back sourly, calling up the memory of Legolas' agony during the night of grieving and with it numerous justifications for giving equal hurt to the Elven Lord. The soft pressure of Radagast's hand upon his forearm brought him out of his vivid ruminations and he drew his features into a horrific scowl of utter repugnance. "I am done with you, Elrond of Rivendell. I cannot say what I hoped would happen upon this meeting, but you have not mitigated my fury nor allayed my fears."

"Instead, remaining near you pushes us beyond the capacity for charitable consideration," Aewendil interjected. "Call us not 'mellyn' again until you show yourself worthy of that friendship." 

"We will not back you in this confrontation," finished Gandalf. The Istari turned in unison and strode back inside the cavern.

The page resumed the watch at his post inside the portal and the guards shifted subtly, turning the Noldo Lord to face the rear of the stronghold. Sharing a glance between them to strengthen their courage, they marched forward, lungs resuming their function once their charge fell into step as well. They followed the curve of the garden wall but did not enter in, heading for the stable yard and the barracks beyond. As they progressed, the sound of Haldir's warriors galloping through the postern and into the woods briefly met their hearing and as quickly receded. 

Eventually the light from the torches diminished until it was no more than a faint glow behind them. Their breath fogged the air around their chins, a shimmering ephemeral mist greedily absorbed, hoarded to manufacture winter's desiccated frost. The deserted grounds stretched ahead in distorted obscurity, the features of the landscape transmuted into shapes and forms that described a hint of peril in false repose. 

Elrond at first attributed the uneasy tribulation building in his soul to the presence of the silvan people, hidden all around them in their treetop talans. That or the undeniable sentience of the ancient forest. _Perhaps the two concepts are not distinguishable or separable. _

Yet even lacking as he was in knowledge of Greenwood's culture, he could discern the barrier here between Thranduil's fortress and the crowding trees. _To keep them out or to seal him in?_ 

To his right, Orod Im'elaidh (the Mountain Amid the Trees) rose up, obliterating the skies and surmounting the tallest trees. Scattered round its skirts were low buildings of wood and daub for housing the warriors, livestock, weapons, and supplies. Everything seemed in order but order was not of necessity benign. Too long had he lived to ignore his insight, and Elrond's instincts were alert to some undefined danger that was wholly new to his experience. The soldiers turned slightly and he found himself headed toward a long black flank of the mountain, facing a point where the solid rock melted into oblivion, a gaping hole cut into the stone.

"Hold, what is this place?" the Elven Lord demanded, struggling against hands that gripped his elbows and pressed at the small of his back, not shoving but not yielding either.

Whatever he had expected to endure during his inquisition, this was not part of the imagined scene, this small, dark, dirty storeroom smelling of foul seeps that usually stained the ground after battle or coated the walls and floor of a dungeon cell. Fear gripped him. Inexorably closer he was drawn, simultaneously compelled and repulsed by the entrance, a yawning rectangle of black obscurity. Something sinister had happened within; the frigid air reeked of it and Elrond balked at entering a room so steeped in evil.

"You must enter," said one guard quietly.

"Nay, take me to Thranduil at once!"

"It is the King who commands it. This is the place where you will wait."

"Am I to have no trial, then? What madness is this? I will not suffer confinement in so foetid a tomb!"

Elrond fought them, jerking against their unbending solidity, scrambling his fine boots in the gritty dust to gain purchase enough to free himself. They stopped moving and merely waited, holding him tight and secure, not attempting to subdue him or harm him or propel him forward, until their indifferent complacency finally attracted his notice. He stilled, breathing hard more from the engulfing dread the room exuded than his futile exertion. From one to the other, Elrond stared at the warriors, seeing now that they were neither wholly sylvan nor Sindarin, and understood why the folk of Mirkwood referred to themselves as simply Wood Elves. They looked back upon him, nothing of their thoughts revealed in the bland expressions.

"Ready now, Hiren?" said the one on the right, but his inquiry was genuine rather than fraught with gloating mockery. 

His companion said naught, merely waiting for their prisoner to comply. Neither one enjoyed this allotted task yet it had fallen to them and so neither would they fail to see it through. Small it was but vital, that verily defined it, and while there was little glory in guiding a prisoner to his doom, a veneer of pride remained to them for being so entrusted. 

Thus was the lot of warriors under Thranduil's command. Many orders given were unpalatable to accomplish, their aftermath ill-suited to the the confines of the conscience, but to be in Thranduil's favour was like basking in the sun. He was as generous in repaying loyalty as he was brutal in punishing treachery. He forgot neither a deed well done nor the slightest affront, be it thousands of years in the past. They had made their choice half an Age ago and more, affirming it during the recent strife; they would serve their King.

"Please, what is this place?" Elrond was pleading now, no longer trying to disguise his terror behind tones of feigned superiority.

"It is not a good place, Hiren," one warrior sighed as if the vile taint of sorrow and torment emanating from the storeroom pained him to exhibit, as it did. Admitting its existence shamed him, displaying it to outlanders was mortifying, but he could not deny the justice in revealing it to this particular Elf.

"Our Tawarwaith endured much suffering here and here our King demands you to be held," the other appended.

"If I refuse to go in?"

"You cannot refuse. I think the room has been kept this way just for you. Be thankful the chains are there to see only and not to hold you bound."

At this statement a strong premonition of despair overtook Elrond, nearly a vision it was, vivid with the fullness of the humiliation and degradation certain to be visited upon him. Upon him personally and not upon his House or his children or his realm, this was to be a punishment endured alone. For the first time since the day the formal charges arrived in Imladris, Elrond was isolated from everything he knew and everyone he loved. 

_Hecilo._ 

He stared at the bleak hole in the stone, swallowing in revulsion as a memory arose: his fingers running over a myriad of criss-crossed, layered, and over-lapping scars, marks in flesh that should never be marred. It was in this room, then, that those grotesque wounds had been laid down upon Legolas' body. Panic gripped Elrond and sweat, rank with the stench of his own dread, broke from the pores of his upper lip. Wars he had fought, wounds he had taken, but Elrond had never faced torture, but once.

Once, he had been hunted down and captured. Once, he had been shoved into a cold, empty cave, shut away, alone, parted from Elros for the first time since their genesis. He could neither hear him nor feel his thoughts and the isolation initiated a break with reason, believing his brother was dead. What transpired during the interval of separation Elrond's mind refused to present, even now. Events leaped from the heart-stopping shock of solitary existence to their reunion, kneeling on the floor of some drawing room or study, sobbing brokenly, clasping each other close, wordlessly supplying mutual comfort as a tall and princely Elf looked on. A tug on his arms jarred him back to the current situation. He stared at his captors' placid faces.

"What will happen here?" he shuddered involuntarily and braced his feet upon the ground, desperate and determined. "Why do you not answer?"

The black void loomed. 

_I will not go in._

The woodland warriors took a solid step forward. Elrond's feet skidded through the dirt. 

"What will happen here?"

The air became heavy, rolling out of the room frigid and cloying like a fog off the sea, enveloping him, tasting him, poking its ghostly fingers into his psyche, the weight of its substance animate and aware.

"I will not go in there!"

The soldiers stoically resumed the journey, forced to drag the noble Elf the last few steps. They refused to meet his wide and wild eyes, ashamed for him since he could not muster the emotion for himself. He thrashed against their hold and kicked out at their legs, but they were well prepared and he could not escape. He shouted the names of loved ones to rally to his aid, a horrendous and deafening din to which they made no reply. He went limp under their hands, a dead weight pleading mercy, beseeching any form of punishment but this, promising wealth untold, renown, and fair lands in exchange for freedom. 

It meant nothing to them. With a mighty heave they shoved him through the opening and slammed shut the heavy door, throwing the bolt with a grating rasp. 

He pounded against the barrier for a time, alternately demanding to be set free, begging for light, imploring for his sons to come. No one heeded him. He ceased yelling, realising the guards had left long ago, and huddled on the floor against the wooden planks, for he was not alone. He recognised them, for they wanted him to remember who they were. In confusion he attempted to bargain, not understanding what they wanted of him. In the end, Elrond had no means to combat them, understanding little of unhoused spirits. A long, piercing, shriek rent the night, a sound made by a body struggling against the prying invasion of a foreign soul, rising in pitch and volume as the battle peaked, wavering, dying into echoes absorbed by the stone. 

  
TBC  


  
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	94. Amarth o Meril (Meril's Fate)

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

 

**Amarth o Meril (Meril's Fate)**

  


  
Gandalf and Radagast trod the metres separating the courtyard from the Great Hall of the Elven King in grim and silent drear, their ancient faces engraved with new lines of dour rancour as they considered the confrontation just enacted and the one still to be enjoined. 

While an acute sense of hearing was not a notable attribute among the Maiar, the noise Elrond of Imladris generated en-route to his temporary 'quarters' was not the sort for which elevated auditory capabilities were required. Faint and distorted beyond recognition, his words reduced to inarticulate cries of raw emotion. The unguarded emanations of his rending mind carried on the cold, dead air and the wizards cringed, fighting to master crawling skin and rising bile as the sounds of humiliation, abandonment, and awakening terror washed over them.

Simultaneously both sighed as the subdued report of the storeroom door slamming shut prefaced the sudden silence of the frigid night. Distance and the barrier's density obstructed further exposure to the unpleasant incident. They were not of a mind to feel sympathy for the disgraced Lord, yet pity was not beyond their capacity. Possession by the Unhoused was not a desirable experience. They shared a brief, unvoiced exchange, each hopeful that the encounter would do Elrond good. Otherwise, it was naught but cruel torture.

The sound of their shoes upon the polished stone corridor was subtle and muted as if even the faintest whisper would be an affront to the solemn and sombre gloom engulfing the underground castle. Even the dissonance of the infant's frantic wailing had ceased and for this one minute indication of hope in a situation poised for calamity the Maiar were grateful. Indeed, the uproar and mayhem of the thwarted coup had been less ominous than the lonely, melancholy cries of Greenwood's prince.

The vaulted corridor leading from the entrance was empty; in fact the whole of the palace might as well have been deserted. Never had the austere and regal beauty of the fortress seemed more a barren cave than in the frail light of the archway torches and the subtle mutter of the wizards' boots. It required but the span of minutes to reach the massive, oak wood doors of Thamas uin Aran. (Great Hall of the King) Nearly seven metres tall they stood, each panel at least a metre across in breadth and thick as an elf's body, braced with tremendous iron hasps joined to hinges the girth of a dwarf's fist, all set into the solid beams that faced the bare rock of the cavern. 

Upon the polished panels was carved the seal of the House of Oropher: a beech laden with mast, the spreading arms reaching out in welcome from the broad, strong trunk. This emblem was carved on both sides of the colossal doors for Thranduil was proud of this symbol and would have it seen whether the portal stood open or not. Indeed, rarely was the way shut. It was closed this night, however, the forbidding barriers looming in shaded tones of black and grey outlined in bright bands of brilliant yellow where light seeped through the minute space required to permit the doors to swing freely. Gandalf and Radagast halted before them.

No guards stood watch to bar their entry and the wizards did not feel the need to ask admittance. In accord, each grasped a handle and pulled, blinking in the glare revealed by the widening gap. They passed the threshold and heaved the doors to before progressing further, the rumbling concussion sounding like the knell of a terrible and portentous gong, the toll of doom and dire deeds, reverberating as the Istar proceeded deeper into the interior.

Already frowning, but the wizards scowled more fiercely as their eyes peered through the august chamber and focused on the tableau in the centre of the room. There stood Iarwain and Fêrlas and the rest of the King's Counsellors, upright and stern in their pomp and dignity, wearing their formal garb, ranged by rank in a semicircular manner, their pages and aides grouped behind them, all diminished in this immense space devoid of its usual bustle and hum from the curious sylvan populace. The small knot of elves partially surrounded a lone figure before the dais, dressed in sumptuous clothes of satin and silk, laces and bead-work borders, frozen in fear, isolated in shame: Meril, Royal Consort to the Sindarin Lord. The space betwixt her and her judges was a veritable moat of disgusted antipathy; none wanted to so much as breathe the air in contact with her person.

There stood also another occupant of the household, one who had been a part of the King's life far longer than Ningloriel's diminutive replacement. In a simple gown of homespun hemp she presented herself, crisp white apron tied about her waist and sturdy leather shoes upon her feet. The yellow, dancing torch light was repelled by the drab display of her corona, a wavering film more of shadow than of light, shot through with nervous dread, dull and weighty and the colour of lead. She was not speaking, having just announced her desire to unburden her soul, for this was Ben'waeth, once Meril's bosom companion, Gildin's great-great grandchild's grandchild. In dismal determination she waited, eyes turned to the glittering granite floor, hands clutching at the apron, anxious to hear her King's reply.

"You are her dearest friend, like a sister, even, to the accused. All this time you have held your peace and now you would speak out against her? Why?" Thranduil's tone was dry and cold, for he was not really curious at all and did not care a whit what her answer would be. It was required, for the infernal Record, that he ask this ridiculous question and so he did, seated straight and proud upon his gilded throne. 

He was regal and removed and dreadful and wondrous, like some magnificent admixture of Elf and Ainu with piercing emerald eyes that surely saw all there was whether living or dead, dream or reality. His attire was luxurious, the material sumptuous, more splendid than any mere composition of ermine and velvet. It seemed he was clothed in living stuff, a robe of revenant souls clinging and swirling in the flickering light, pulsing with the throb of his heart, shifting in colour and density, now a heavy opaque drape, now a sheer veil of faint translucent hues. Amid this swash and swirl of sentient ether sparked the flash and glint of gem-struck fire, for each finger bore a ring set with diamonds, carbuncles, and spinel while every clasp or tie of his clothes was composed of mithril and gold.The crown upon his head this night was not the woven winter circlet of holly boughs and ivy but one reclaimed from Dagorlad at the Last Alliance. Thranduil wore Malgalad, the golden coronet of Amdír, once Lothlorien's King and the last sylvan to own such high estate. 

Seldom did he reveal himself thus, for it was unnecessary, yet his ire was high and he cared not to conceal his might. He wanted them to know, to see and feel the strength at his command, the power he wielded to call to him the spirits of the dead. From the distance granted as much by right of his majesty as the expanse of the dais, he surveyed them whilst acknowledging none, neither wizards nor councillors nor subjects nor kin, save one. Upon his faithless, vicious, beloved Meril all his thought rested until surely she must break under the weight of such enmity. He would never permit that, though, for he wanted her sane and clear-minded. He wanted her to realise her doom fully and in whose hands its determination lay.

"The death of my ancient grandfather prompts my actions. My conscience bade me come forward, Your Majesty," Ben'waeth bowed low, gaze still upon the floor. "I owe no less to my forebear, Gildin, and to the innocents who suffered due to my long silence."

"Let it be so noted, Fêrlas: Ben'waeth chose to reveal this information only after Lindalcon's Writ of Accusation implicated her family," Thranduil denounced her with unhidden disgust. The King lifted his hand to stall Iarwain's inevitable counterpoint for he was aware of the wizards' approach and wished to wait until they drew near. He shifted on the throne, stretching his long legs forward as he leaned back, glancing to the Elf on his right just beyond his line of sight.

Beside the royal seat of power stood Celeborn the Wise, one hand permitted to rest upon the shoulder of the King as a sign of their solidarity and kinship, for none, not even he, self-proclaimed cousin to the Sindarin Lord, sat when Thranduil's presence occupied the throne. Celeborn was dressed formally but with less opulence than one might imagine so revered and august a ruler deserved, but he was far from his home and next to this fey manifestation of Greenwood's monarch he looked almost plain. Yet none would mistake him for an underling and Celeborn was not unnerved by the seeming disparity. He needed neither circlet nor golden chair, nor jewels and chains of precious metal to project his innate nobility. The Lord of Lothlorien exuded a calm, fraternal demeanour: Thranduil's equal in rank and stature with perhaps greater experience, a more profound sagacity. 

There was also the unmistakable import of his presence as a supportive ally against the infringement of Imladris upon the Woodland Realm. The leader of the Golden Wood was satisfied to stand together with his counterpart in Greenwood and for that choice to be recorded in whatever annals might survive the conclusion of this darkening Age.

Celeborn had the distinct sense of being present at a historic moment, though it was not a pleasing thought for the history of the First-born was filled with like moments of bitter strife and unspeakable horror. What new species of sorrow would this night produce? He knew no account of any Elf undergoing trial for wilful murder, the malicious and deliberate plotting to end the life of a spouse, the co-author of a child. _A child conceived only to guarantee the ploy would bear the richest fruit possible. Lindalcon's lot is wretched indeed._ 

Not even Feänaro in his vile madness had envisioned such a horrendous thing. In Doriath, no charges had ever been proposed, no retribution exacted from the kinslayers, though Thingol's kin, and Celeborn's with them, had paid in blood for the Noldorin immigrant's futile vow. Nay, even Melian had refused to seek justice for the slain innocents and many had taken that as a sign that Manwë would not approve such measures. It was an unvoiced tenet accepted by all elf-kind: to Námo was reserved the adjudication of souls, be they innocent or sullied with the blood of thousands.

Celeborn compressed his lips firmly, recalling when he had been glad to embrace this notion and forestall the stigma of additional censure from attaching to his Lady-wife. Banishment from Aman and her kinfolk across the sea was enough; she had found her own way to right whatever her wrongs might be. Yet now he stood here beside his cousin wondering if it was so fine a concept after all. Though outwardly reserved and calm, Celeborn believed Thranduil to be so near to explosive and violent revenge that he doubted anything could stop him, and if the King lost control, what of the people he governed? If only there was some established rule to which Celeborn might allude, mayhap he could take charge of this ominous hearing, lawfully referring the crime to an external tribunal. He glanced at the approaching wizards, hopeful for a second or two, but their stoic glowers affirmed that the Istari would hold to their vows of non-interference. 

The pair stopped beside the gathered Elves and bowed solemnly to the King. "All is as you requested," Mithrandir said.

"Then let us proceed. I am eager to rout out all the vermin inhabiting my fortress. Speak, faithless Ben'waeth, and do not hold back a single detail nor the name of any other who might corroborate your words," commanded Thranduil, casting Iarwain's pious mewling out into the air for all to hear, amused even in his dark mood to see the Istar do his bidding so graciously.

"I will tell all I know, but there are no others involved," murmured the housekeeper.

With a short sigh Celeborn addressed the servant. "If what you claim is true and you had knowledge of Meril's conspiracy with Rochendil, then your failure to speak earlier is a grave offence. Legolas has suffered greatly at his hands. How could you remain silent in light of the torture he was forced to endure?"

"I did not know they were plotting anything together, Lord," Ben'waeth insisted. "I just know that we…Meril and I…talked of how it could be done, how Legolas might be…removed and Ningloriel driven off. I did not think anything would come of our idle chatter."

"Such gossip is hardly laudable yet I see no reason to name it betrayal," said Iarwain. "Merely suspecting Meril was involved does not make one responsible for what happened. I began to wonder about her complicity myself, as did Mithrandir, long before the Tawarwaith returned from the wilds."

"That is true, yet I had no way to link Meril to the events other than through gain," replied the wizard. "There was no doubt she and her family were the only ones to benefit from the horrible deaths, but I believed she was opportunistic rather than murderous."

"What say you, Ben'waeth? Did you know that Meril and Rochendil conspired over this abhorrent tragedy or not?" asked Thranduil.

"Nay, my Lord," the servant insisted, nervously twisting the apron between her fingers, eyes flickering over to Meril for an instant. "As I said, it was just talk, nothing more."

A small, contented puff of a sniff exited the former Consort's delicate nose. She felt every eye focus upon her; a grim smirk touched her lips. Ben'waeth's grudging admission would not be enough to save her, not against the damning account in her son's writ. She remained still, having made her denials earlier, citing Gildin's feeble mental faculties, calling Lindalcon's action the erroneous conclusion of a soul overwrought by grief. She twitched, an unwilled flutter of nerves, cognisant of Thranduil's attention, waves of anguish from a heart betrayed inundating her soul, the fierce outrage of a protective father breaking upon her shrinking psyche. Yet the weight of his inner turmoil was her only comfort for it revealed a heart still engaged, their bond not severed as yet, and if he loved her still then surely he would spare her. 

"Then why are you wasting our time?" groused Mithrandir, beyond peeved, for he and Aiwendil wished to settle the matter as quickly as possible and move on to resolution of Elrond's trespasses.

"I'm the one who gave Meril knowledge of the royal family's personal affairs. I divulged everything amiss and how best to benefit from it. I knew what would drive Ningloriel away, who among the warriors most despised Legolas," she blurted out suddenly, eyes filling in shame and remorse. "If not for my help, mayhap Meril would never have discovered Rochendil's unreasoning hatred. Without him, her scheming would have come to naught. I regret telling her." She broke off suddenly and covered her face with the apron.

"Yet you did. What made Legolas your target, Ben'waeth?" asked Aiwendil, for this was something he simply could not comprehend. In all the years he had known Legolas, seldom had he heard the Wood Elf speak out against any of the staff in his father's keep. In fact, he but rarely mentioned his childhood.

"Like many others, I considered Legolas a spoiled child, a younger version of his naneth. He was fey and aloof and never mingled with others of his age. Everyone knew he was not the King's son and we shunned him because of it. It was easy to discount him." The elleth drew a trembling breath to reign in her emotions. 

"That is no reason to condemn someone. He was not responsible for how he came into this world," Radagast chastised her. 

"Aye, it was not only that." She raised contrite eyes to the Brown Wizard and shook her head as she gave a meagre shrug. 

"Have you not dwelled in this fortress since it was constructed?" asked Celeborn, frowning as she nodded. "Then he grew up literally under your feet. You must have seen that this less than kind picture you paint of Legolas was false."

"Nay my contact with him was not so extensive as you imagine," the elleth protested. "I am the housekeeper, not a wet-nurse or a nanny. Ningloriel employed others to fulfil such duties. My sister was one of his minders and it was she who told me this. When he was on the cusp of maturity, Legolas was a wilful and sullen youth. He deliberately baited the King and drew down wrath upon those charged with his warding. There were reprisals, among them reduction in wages, loss of privileges, no escort for journeys beyond the borders of the forest. 

"My sister grew angry and soon wearied of it, for Legolas did not care about her suffering and refused to cease his impudence. She resigned her post and left Greenwood, intending to reside in Lothlorien. Whether killed by Orcs or reduced to fodder for the spiders I shall never know, but neither she nor her mate ever arrived there. I held Legolas to blame for it." Ben'waeth inhaled deeply before continuing. "I learned but recently why Legolas was so belligerent, so troubled. It was during this time that Maltahondo first took him to his bed. Almost immediately after that, Ningloriel and her lover once again abandoned him, departing for an extended visit to the Golden Wood."

The silence that followed this account was charged with combined horror, sorrow, and shock; crammed unto bursting with a profoundly raw sensation of disbelieving revulsion, for among the room's stupefied occupants only a few knew this truth. Thranduil, the wizards, and Iarwain were in turn dismayed, for while the King had once wondered subsequent worries drove the question from his thoughts. The rest had never suspected Ben'waeth was aware; thus, no one had cautioned her to hold at least this one degrading facet of Legolas' life in confidence. Now the ugly fact must be entered into the Record as part of her statement, documented for all time, open to any who wished to learn of the Erebor trial and its aftermath.

Mithrandir groaned, eyes squinched shut and head bent low as gnarled fingers clutched at his stomach. Aiwendil shared his indignation with Iarwain. Thranduil trained such a vicious glare upon the elleth that she shook with fright. Meril gasped aloud and stared at her friend, mouth agape, recalling the half-lie told her that fateful night following the Tawarwaith's intrusion upon her infant son. The Councillors and their pages exclaimed startled and incoherent noises of denial and repudiation. Celeborn's fingers dug into his cousin's shoulder as he gripped hard, struggling to retain his composure.

"Maltahondo bedded your child?" he sputtered out in hoarse, discordant tones, shifting so that he could meet Thranduil's eyes. "When? How? Elbereth, what manner of land is this? What breed of Elves do you govern? These are the ways of fiends and Orcs!" The noble Lord was deeply disturbed by this revelation and troubled by guilt, for never had he attempted to intervene on the young Elf's behalf, unwilling to involve himself in the conflict between Elrond, Ningloriel, and the Woodland King. "Had I known, had I but suspected such was possible…" but he failed to complete his thought, for it was far past the time when aid from him might prevent the deed and his rationalisations availed Legolas naught.

"I am not adding this to our history," announced Fêrlas angrily. "Is it not enough that all his other torments are documented? Must this shameful abuse be put on display? Lord Celeborn is right; we show ourselves to be as base as mortal Men."

"Peace," whispered Aiwendil. "Blessed Manwë, there must be peace for Legolas soon."

After this all the voices died down again for none could summon words to express the depth of their repugnance. Simply hearing of it was beyond their capacity to bear and each felt the strong desire to quit the room and suspend the trial. Yet, no one had the energy to disperse and under the weight of this grotesque confession all were rendered physically immobile, impotent of thought, emotionally paralysed.

"I never imagined such a thing. I would have stopped it, this I swear." Ben'waeth was openly weeping, repeatedly wiping at her streaming eyes with the hem of the apron. "I regret my poisonous thoughts and venomous tattling, truly. I would do anything to…"

"You cannot undo it anymore than I," snapped Thranduil. "Stop wallowing in this drama! No one knew. Maltahondo is no fool and practised his vile seductions in secret. Do you suppose the healer would have ignored visible signs of harm upon my son's person? Would your sister?"

"Nay, Lord, she never dreamed anything so heinous and would have informed you at once, no matter her displeasure over Legolas' rebellious nature." Ben'waeth gasped out, her stuttered reply masking the sound of everyone else inhaling sharply as one. Thranduil had just named Legolas his son, for the Record. Paying no heed to their amazement, he continued the ranting derogation.

"So really you brought all this up because you wish to admit your wrongs and be shriven," Thranduil's mocking tone made Ben'waeth flinch. "No thought at all for what effect this unburdening of your conscious may have upon others. I am not moved by your tears; it will not be so easy as that. Nay, the truth is that you fear to share in Meril's punishment. You worry that she will name you her accomplice, thus you have turned on her first, rationalising your omissions and distracting our purpose by revisiting another's sin that we cannot now amend."

"I must agree." Celeborn was truly sickened and only with effort maintained an even tone. "Had you given Rochendil's name at the time of the Judgement, or even at any point thereafter, in conjunction with revealing these 'idle chatterings' between you and Meril, then the true culprits would have been questioned years ago. Most likely, the Council would have rescinded Legolas' banishment. Twelve years of torture, Ben'waeth. Sufficient blood stains your hands to condemn you."

"Nay! Nay, I couldn't be certain! I asked her and she denied any involvement; there was no proof of it!" Ben'waeth pleaded frantically but found no compassion in the eyes watching her display. "I beg you, be merciful!" The housekeeper turned to Mithrandir in hope of a more sympathetic ear. It was a foolish notion.

"Mercy? Did you spare any for Legolas?" boomed his powerful voice. He had not wished so strongly for the might of his staff within his fist since learning of Elrond's betrayal of the wild elf. "What reason can you give for holding your tongue so long? What explanation could serve to mitigate your just punishment?"

"Reason? No one cared about Legolas; there was no concept of betraying someone already outcast, reviled, universally discounted." A brittle and fractured voice interrupted, issuing not from the lowly housekeeper but the former Consort, for Meril was no longer willing to stand quiet before her Lord. Mayhap she recognised that the conclusion of Ben'waeth's testimony must usher in the culmination of her trial and had no wish to learn what her sentence would be. "Why do you ask her such when it is obvious? Why does no one ask Thranduil what caused him to so quickly affirm a battlefield Judgement with such dire consequences? He wanted to get rid of Legolas as much as anyone, nay, even more."

"Silence!" thundered the King, arising quickly, impelled from the throne by the vehemence of his wrath. "You have recited your version of this story and it has been proven naught but lies. I will hear you no more."

"Strange that a King and a commoner may benefit from the same sin, yet only the sylvan must bear the burden of guilt for it," she said bitterly.

Thranduil's face turned crimson and his eyes blazed as he stepped down and crossed the floor to his beloved, subjecting her to the same towering intimidation which Legolas had borne. It made his heart swell to see her cower down, too stricken in dread to even cry out, though whether this emotion permeating his soul was delight or despair he was unable to distinguish. He heard the subtle sound of Celeborn's shoes as the Elven Lord left the raised platform, hastening to his side.

"To benefit from unforeseen events is far removed from being the cause of those events," Celeborn stated, reseating his steadying hand on the monarch's shoulder.

It was enough; Thranduil calmed, several long breaths venting his lungs, and stepped back from Meril. This was not the place or the moment for such displays of anger. A swift glance at Fêrlas decreed resumption of the Record. With a startled little jerk the Councillor nudged his page to commence writing and Thranduil sent them each a decidedly unpleasant smile. 

He breathed in and circled his beloved with slow and purposeful movements, evaluating her keenly, seeking to find what he had once seen in her. She was not worthy of him or his bloodline. He could not love so lowly an elleth; he could never love so foul a thing as a kinslayer. _And yet I do._ A swift, slicing agony pierced his chest and Thranduil had to halt and gulp back the groan that rose to his lips, steeling himself against the reeling confusion and absolute despair bursting through his thoughts. He staggered and found a hand on his elbow: Celeborn.

"Na him, garo gorn, muindoren," (Be steadfast, have courage, my brother) came the whispered entreaty, too low for any ears but his own, the grip firm and strangely comforting as it tightened around his arm. Thranduil looked at his cousin and found only concern and sympathy; the Lord of Lothlorien certainly knew a bit about loving someone with grievous flaws.

The pain eased; it was not as terrible as that he'd suffered when his Naneth died nor when Oropher fell on the field before the Black Gates of Mordor. _Not yet, at least. I must think of the little ones. I must persevere._ Thranduil stood tall again as the spasm passed, acknowledging Celeborn's support with a grateful nod, and his eyes fell once more on Meril. A sudden rage flared through him to behold her subdued and humble stance, head bent, eyes down, hands clasped over her breast. Somehow he knew this was but farce. Within her soul she was laughing at his display of weakness.

_I do not love her. It was never love, only base lust and desire, the long years of frustration over Ningloriel's rejection. I will not mourn over this vile affair's ending._

That was false, every word of it, and well he knew it, but just now he could not own the truth, not if he would survive this night and do what needed doing. There was no other who could, nay, none but he possessed either the courage or the skill required. He must see it accomplished for the sake of Taurant and Echuiross if for nothing else. That this should be the mother of his youngest children disgusted him. Whatever Ningloriel was guilty of it was as nothing compared to this abomination's dealings, this Orc in Elven guise. Death was too good for her. Thranduil spoke:

"You call yourself common but it is your deeds that expose your lack of breeding, your renunciation of morality," Thranduil hissed at her suddenly and everyone shifted in awkward discomfort. "You are not fit to be counted among the sylvans, prattling of benefits and burdens whilst striving to squirm free of responsibility. That is the concept that divides thee, deceiver, from me, Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Greenwood. Responsibility.

"Everything I have done has been open for all eyes to see, while you seek to blind even yourself to your real intent. Whatever decree I have made was proclaimed in words chosen to convey their actual purpose, for any other's tongue to denounce that would. Your declarations, whether of love and constancy or grief and woe, are but a fraud filled with misdirection. Whatsoever I have willed is the design of my mind, my thoughts, that any might oppose who possessed the conviction to so do. Your deeds reflect a mind conquered by Shadow governed by a black and corrupted heart.

"I stand by my works and say to you the responsibility for those actions, and whatever consequence befalls me and mine due to them, all rests upon my shoulders, upon my honour and dignity. I say to you, kinslayer, bane of your bound mate, murderer of your child's Adar, that I regret not a single one. What say you, Meril? Will you own your treachery and defend its purpose? Have you any remorse to express or will you cling to your denial of guilt?"

In the glorious showcase of the King's throne room, everyone waited to learn the answer to this query, recognising this was Meril's last opportunity to admit fault and plead for clemency. Time dragged by; no answer came.

"You must respond," stated Iarwain, stepping forward to flank the downcast elleth. "Your fate has not been determined yet; perhaps if there is some reason, some cause which we may be made to comprehend…"

"Nay, her punishment is clearly indicated and shall surely fall upon her," interrupted Thranduil. "That cannot be averted now. It is for the children that I have offered her this chance to speak, for the nature of the penalty is yet under my consideration."

Meril's head snapped up and she met his gaze of feigned loathing with real malevolence. "They must not suffer!" she shrilled, hands tightening into rigid fists at her side. "You would not commit them to the languishing death of bereavement for loss of their Naneth, your own elflings. Taurant is your heir and Gwilwileth the very sun in your world. You will spare them!"

"Spare you, I suppose you really mean to say," growled Thranduil, determined to remain unmoved by her sudden display of fiercely maternal concern. He was glad she brought up their offspring; this served to harden his hatred, for it was her lack of trust that set them upon the path of this doom, even as Legolas had warned. _And I aided her, fool that I was, but no more._ "Are you experiencing some form of regret for your dealings now? How short-sighted of you not to anticipate this outcome and plan accordingly." His cutting sarcasm fooled none, however, for Thranduil could not keep the tremor from his voice.

"Have I not?" Meril lifted her chin, a sadistically confident smile curving her lips, eyes alight in the assurance of her hold over the King. "You would not do harm to your own children, you who suffered the death of your mother. You will not part me from my elflings; they have need of me. 

"All of this is but happenstance, circumstance and coincidence, the vagaries of Vairë taking silly fantasies shared between old friends and transmuting them to fate. Must I pay for foolishness with my life? It was all Rochendil's doing; the deaths were his plot. He was at Erebor, not I. He was cruel and brutal; we all have seen what injuries he inflicted on Legolas. Perhaps it was Ben'waeth who relayed our wicked musings to him."

"That is a lie," said Ben'waeth.

"Is your word more worthy than mine?" laughed the discarded Consort. "I am the mother of Greenwood's prince and beloved of Thranduil."

"And still a liar and a murderer," Celeborn interceded on his kinsman's behalf, for he could see this sudden assertion of innocence was a shock for the King. He did not know if Thranduil could render judgement, now that its time was nigh, and hoped there might be some aspect of sylvan custom that would relegate the task to the Council. "Your own son condemns you, who must bear greater love for you than Thranduil. Gildin sacrificed his chance for healing and peace in Aman to return here and give his confession. Your best friend indicts herself to confirm your long-held plans to usurp Ningloriel's place. These facts outweigh the slender doubt your claims inspire."

"As for Rochendil, he will meet his doom by and by; have no concern for his escape, fair fiend. To name him the sole miscreant is folly, for that Elf earned no benefit from this endeavour save the twelve years of sick pleasure he indulged." sighed Thranduil, staring at the defiant form of his beloved. "It could all have turned out so differently," he murmured in distraction, for he would have forgiven her anything, concealed all her errors, covered over her crimes in an avalanche of misdirection had she but believed in his love for her. Again he felt the gentle pressure of his kinsman's grasp upon his shoulder and turned away from Meril, striding back to resume his seat upon the gilded chair.

"Iarwain, I believe there is sufficient evidence to rule," announced Thranduil, his gaze clear but not upon the accused, righteous authority filling his voice. "No further testimony shall be heard on this issue."

"So noted," intoned Fêrlas.

"Nasan," (So be it.) the eldest Councillor bowed deeply to his King and then in quiet whispers Greenwood's elders conferred. It did not take long. "We have reached a decision, my Lord."

"Speak."

"We accept the death-bed testimony of Gildin, as reported by Lindalcon, first born of the accused and to whom it was spoken, as truth. We accept the account of Ben'waeth concerning the association between Meril and Rochendil as truth. Meril is judged the author of the deaths of Annaldír, Andamaitë, and Valtamar. In equal measure must the burden of responsibility be shared between her and Rochendil, whose hand brought the crime to fruition. Ben'waeth is judged a co-conspirator for withholding this information, assuring that the wrong party was convicted and punished for these reprehensible deeds."

There was a quiet sigh from Ben'waeth, a sound something like relief, followed by fresh tears as she once more buried her face in the damp and wrinkled apron. From Meril there was no reaction at all. She remained as unmoving and silent as the hibernating trees. Celeborn stepped up onto the dais, perhaps to counsel his cousin before sentence was pronounced, but Radagast intervened.

"My Lord," Aiwendil's voice was filled with weary dismay as he addressed Greenwood's King, "there has been enough of sylvan justice. I plead, indeed, Thranduil, I beg for you to abjure your sovereignty and permit the greater Powers to determine the penance owed by these Elves."

"No." Surprisingly, it was Mithrandir who supplied the rebuttal. "I do not approve of the Wood Elves' so-called Law, but I am not Elf-kind, Aiwendil, nor are you. It is not our place to revoke the customs that mould their world. However, like Lindalcon I am weary of its strangely random application. If it is Law then it should fall upon all who break it."

"Olórin, this vengeful path is not the way of Iluvatar," argued Radagast, shocked to hear his brother Maia contradict him.

"This is not Aman and the will of Iluvatar is that Middle-earth shall be under the jurisdiction of whoever has courage enough to stand against the Shadow and strength enough to govern those who would stand with him. In Greenwood, that person is Thranduil," said MIthrandir.

The King rose. "Nothing further will be heard on that point. Any who oppose my right to rule will be escorted to the borders." No one dared even breathe much less to speak and Thranduil was satisfied. His cold eyes landed upon his children's mother but his words addressed his kinsman. "Celeborn, I would ask of thee a favour."

"It is granted, whatever you may require," answered the sombre Lord, saddened for his cousin. It was clear to him that Thranduil did love this elleth, despite his outward demeanour of scornful contempt. He could not imagine having to pass judgement on his beloved Galadriel and would do what he could to see Thranduil through this odious duty.

"Ben'waeth and all her kin still dwelling in my realm are banished from Greenwood for as long as the forest lives. I have no desire to place hardship on those of her people who are innocent. I ask that they be granted refuge in Lothlorien, should they desire it."

"Thank you, my Lord!" gasped Ben'waeth, falling to her knees, profoundly grateful that her failings would not afflict her family too severely.

"You cannot stay either, of course," remarked Thranduil, almost as if just now reflecting on the matter. "Take up what you need and flee to the Havens. Journey over sea and place yourself before the Valar for your punishment, for I know not the real extent of your malice. I believe that fear silenced you, for if your dear friend had no compunction against killing her own mate, what value could mere friendship hold?"

"Praise Elbereth! You are most merciful, my Lord," gushed the stunned housekeeper. Ben'waeth did not wait, scrambling to her feet and flying from the room, the door's hinges groaning in protest as she shoved it briskly ajar.

"What of Meril?" asked Iarwain. "Will you commit her to the Tasks of Release?"

Now she reacted, stared boldly at Thranduil as she crossed her arms before her, fully expecting him to reject that pronouncement for it was still there, glimmering in the depths of his emerald eyes, the spark of his adoration for her. He stood quiet, eyes distant, considering the elder's words, and of a sudden Meril was bitten by a small and spidery fear. She inhaled and addressed him: "May I speak?" 

"The trial is done," Iarwain's irritated reprimand sang out.

"I accept the rule of the Council," she said contritely, "but would ask for lenience from my Lord."

Thranduil shifted, roused from his inward pondering, and permitted his sight to lie upon her upturned face, observing the way the light of the torches played over her features. _So fair. Even now, I would forgive her and find the means to salvage our life._ "I will permit this plea."

A wild scritching and scraping commenced in the pause that followed, for all the pages were busily scribbling down this unprecedented concession. None of the Councillors knew how to respond and so they simply waited in silence. Aiwendil muttered a prayer of thanks but MIthrandir was not pleased, anymore than was Celeborn. Neither felt this elleth worthy of further consideration. 

"What I have done, I have done." Meril began, seeing she had everyone's full attention but directing her speech to Thranduil alone. "Sometimes tragedy must be endured to ensure future happiness. None comprehend this better than you, my Lord. If I have benefited from sorrow and misfortune, so have you, so has all of Greenwood. I gave you an heir who is the pride of your heart, a princess who is the delight of your soul. Two children and I would gladly bear you more," she said, her voice entreating, couched in the soft and mellow wiles it was her wont to use. "Do not discard the love we have discovered and nurtured, for such you will not know again in this life. Let me remain at your side; do not part me from our babes."

"You go too far," barked Mithrandir. "You ask not lenience but complete remission."

"This is Greenwood and Thranduil rules here; did you not just assert this fact?" Meril countered. "It is our Lord who will assign my doom, not outlanders, spies of our enemies."

"What nonsense do you utter now?" demanded Celeborn. "Are the Valar your foes? Mithrandir and Aiwendil are emissaries from Aman, not Mordor."

"All such aside, the children must be considered. I will not condemn my own flesh and blood by sending their mother into the wilds," Thranduil broke into the petty bickering.

"Thank you, my Lord!" Meril enthused, pleased as she bowed before him. As she straightened, her victorious gaze locked with Thranduil's and a gloating, predatory cast stole over her soft features, robbing them of the tender contours love produced, revealing them for the false mask they were.

Thranduil saw it clearly and felt the same combination of crawling revulsion and soul-rending abandonment Lindalcon had experienced. He sucked in a deep breath, his pain audible and visible as he slowly sank into the chair, gripping tight to its arms as if he might not be able to remain conscious otherwise. His awareness registered but vaguely Celeborn's presence bending low, speaking in his ear, tugging at his shoulder, trying to tear his sight from the false elleth. He could not look away.

_She does not love me, or if she does it is some permutation of that feeling unknown to me. She will be the end of me._ 

He swallowed to keep the acid in his gut where it belonged. A sound like the roaring cataract of the upper falls resounded through his ears as a dense sensation of gelid presence collected around his person. Thranduil shuddered in its icy grasp and gasped out, his exhaled breath a misty fog in the living vapour. Again he felt the weight of a hand upon his shoulder but it was not Celeborn's. 

_See how she mocks you._

_Will this go into our annals, that Thranduil fell victim to a broken heart, pining for one who despises him?_

_You give her the Regency, for Taurant is but a babe._

_She would steal our Adar's legacy and destroy all your efforts to strengthen this land._

_Was Ada's death for nothing?_

_You must not surrender so easily_

_Hold to your resolve. Do what you know you must._

_The babes will flourish; they possess mighty spirits like their father and their brother._

_Do not shame the memory of our Adar by forsaking his eldest grandson._

_Avenge him._

The words slithered through his thoughts and he opened his mouth, permitting them to pluck life from his vocal chords. "Avenge him." Thranduil stood, the manifestation vanished, and the cold dispersed in the heat of his anger.

Now Celeborn had drawn back in amazement and no small dread as this occurred, retreating from the dais to join the wizards. From their expressions he knew they were as alarmed as he while the sylvan Councillors looked ready to bolt and some of the pages had already done so. The Lord of Lothlorien regarded his cousin anew, doubting no more the presence of the spirits of the gates.

Before any of them could regain their wits, Thranduil spoke directly to Meril. "I will not send you weaponless and alone into the harsh wilderness beyond my borders, but neither shall you stand by my side. The evil you have done cannot be reversed but neither must it be ignored. Clemency is denied."

Meril gasped, shaking her head in disbelief, raising her hands imploringly, hastily reorganising her features to present the gentle demeanour Thranduil so adored. "Nay, Thranduil! Our children!"

"I will consider carefully what manner your sentence shall take, for I am not unmindful of the needs of my little ones. Yet they are not without family and will never be without love, whether you are here to give it or not. Until I decide your fate, you shall be detained in the dungeons."

A collective gasp escaped the Elves still present, for the cells had never been used to harbour one of their own, yet none could find the means to countermand this order.

Thranduil stepped down from the dais, passing the stunned form of his former Consort and moving across the floor toward the doorway. "See it done," he called over his shoulder and he exited the throne room.

TBC

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#### Note:

_ OK, here we finally have the long awaited trial of Meril. Justice for the real culprits of Legolas' terrible ordeal, for Meril's fate is also Thranduil's. Unfortunately, the children will not be left unscathed. Still no news on Legolas and Lindalcon. Elrond remains in the foul storeroom while Thranduil's deceased brothers are still drifting about, for those gates and key have NOT been destroyed. Though they are imprisoned in their agonising partitions no longer the spirits are still bound to the stronghold; so unfortunately they cannot go forth with the many many Elves and one Man searching for our hero and his sworn brother. The Lorien Elves, Erestor, Feafaron, and Gladhadithen are not present for Meril's trial, and while that might seem strange, especially for Fearfaron, there is a reason. _

_I know where I am going with this and what's to be done to her, and maybe some folks have already guessed based on previous chapters. That's ok with me. Just don't be angry that I stopped here. It seems like a cruel cliff-hanger but I had to get this part down as a way to see if my decision rings true or not. So, if you want to comment anonymously (or any other way) and give your opinion of the 'spiritual' intervention, or any other parts of this, feel free! :) Oh, and Amdír's crown is something I made up, though the name Malgalad (Golden Light) was one used by Tolkien to refer possibly to Lothlorien's King, possibly to his predecessor. Since it's all so vague, I decided to give Amdír's crown a nick-name and have it end up in Thranduil's hands, as most of the ancient wealth and works of the Elves seems to have done, in this story anyway. AU, friends! Thanks to one and all for still reading!_

  
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	95. Amarth od Elrond (Elrond's Fate)

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

 

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Just so no one get's confused, the first, _italicised_ part is a MEMORY replaying through Orophin's mind. The scene? That night in Lothlorien so long ago, after Ningloriel foisted responsibility for Legolas' well-being onto Elrond and he and Erestor plotted the wild elf's seduction and ultimate ruin. (That is the chapter titled "Idhren terias…".) Explicit M/M/F three-way between who else? Penbara, Penraug, and Penraun. (That would be Dambethnîn, Orophin, and Erestor) Ready now? Let's go then.

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### Amarth od Elrond (Elrond's Fate)

  
_"What did he want of you, Penraun?"_

_Dambethnîn draped herself over her dark-haired lover and brazenly helped herself to his left ear. Her attentions coaxed a rumbling moan from his chest as strong arms wrapped round her waist and pressed her close. She smiled as she tongued the reddening tip; Erestor had come home hard and willing._

_"Just the usual, predictable whining about the lovely Ningloriel," he mumbled, kissing her neck in quick little wet, sucking caresses that made her shiver. Suddenly she went limp and he caught her, slipping down to the floor to settle her in his lap. Her eyes locked with his, lit with merry mischief, and her lips covered his mouth. "Penbara," he tried to murmur but her tongue took the opportunity to slither inside and interfere in the most delightful way. _

_"Then he will not be needing you 'til morning. I have little doubt where Elrond will be tonight," a third voice interjected, its source joining the pair of enmeshed Elves on the floor by the glowing grate._

_Orophin chuckled appreciatively at the sight, for Dambethnîn had managed to discard her soft silk robe and was now naked in Erestor's lap, legs straddling his hips so that his balls would be nearly inside her had she managed to get the seneschal naked first. The subtle shifting in her back and shoulders betrayed her efforts to achieve that goal. He knelt behind his hervess and began nibbling at her ears, hands working around and between them, one cupping a warm, round breast, the other gripping on to Erestor's hot, hard rod poking out of the half-tied pants. Both his mates squealed in delight._

_"Ai! Orophin!" Erestor breathed out harshly and pushed forward to increase the tantalising friction, which drove Dambethnîn's back into their guardsman; his solid erection radiating heat even through his leggings. That made them all shudder out a decadent, needy little whimper. "Bed or Bench?"_

_"Why not right here?" mewled Dambethnîn, fingers busily unbuckling and unfastening the Noldorin Lord's clothes._

_"Nay, I wish not to be burned," muttered Erestor between panting breaths, still rocking avidly into Orophin's steady hand._

_"Are you still complaining about that tiny blister on your toe?" laughed he, relinquishing his wife's ear to lean forward and claim a kiss from his husband. "How are you doing, 'Beth? Ready for me to slip off the boots?" _

_"Aye, all done. Strip him for me, my love." She stood, glittering eyes locked with Erestor's, and Orophin's hand slid down, caressing her belly and stroking her thigh as his tongue followed the gentle groove of her spine, leaving a slick trail from nape to arse, which he bit as she stepped aside. She grinned over her shoulder and wiggled enticingly as she sauntered to a chair and sat, spreading her legs wide, hands demurely overlapped upon her navel._

_Her lovers were frozen for a second or two and she could verily hear them mentally contemplating whether to comply with her demand or just pounce on her. Since neither had yet shed their garments, she knew they would obey and grinned as they shared a smouldering look. _

_Orophin pulled on Erestor's cock, bringing him to his feet and squeezing out a trickle of cloudy liquid from the organ. Then it was all he could do to remain standing as Erestor snatched him close and plundered his mouth in a ravaging kiss, grinding into his grasp and growling. He let go of the rigid penis and took the gaping leggings in hand, yanking them down from the slender hips. He had failed to get the boots off, though, thanks to his lovely mate's tempting display, and Orophin exhaled an impatient grunt as he dragged his tongue away from the sweet stimulation and knelt. _

_This brought him face to face with the maroon column of ardent flesh jutting from the crux of the seneschal's legs and Orophin could not resist a lick across the tip of the leaking shaft. Of course that was not enough and he had to take the head between his lips and suck. _

_"Oh yes!" cried Erestor, hands framing the fair face and combing through the pale mane of flaxen hair. When Orophin lifted those deep blue eyes to his, he thought he would come. He would have, except the Galadhrim archer stopped, pinching hard on his root. "Penraeg!" Erestor's agonised yell was loud enough to be heard in Imladris. He had a hard time breathing for a moment or two, dimly aware of his legs being lifted one at a time and the low boots being removed, followed by the leggings. Of his own accord he shrugged out of his robe as Orophin stood. "I shall punish you for that."_

_"Nay, I think not," smiled Orophin, hastily divesting his mate of the open tunic and it's accompanying undershirt. Finally Erestor was naked. "Glorious," he sighed, running his hands over broad shoulders and along the strength of muscled biceps, nipping playfully at the clavicle, pulling to draw him close, letting him feel the tight, warm leather covering his restrained penis. Hands grabbed him at the waist and the crotch and held tight; Erestor's mouth sealed to his. In no time his leggings were open and his erection freed; Erestor's hand withdrew and joined the one at his hip, crushing them together. Heavy balls knocked against Orophin's and a flare of brilliant violet lit up his brain._

_"Now you."_

_The throaty whisper reached Orophin and he turned, having momentarily been distracted from his fair and beloved 'Beth, to find her hands had changed position. One remained on her stomach but the other was settled over her brown pubic curls, a finger inserted between the parted lips, carefully circling the hidden nub of excited ruby skin within. Now, Orophin was a master at discarding his clothes rapidly but doubted he had ever done so with such speed before. He lunged to reach her, longing to replace that fortunate digit with his tongue, and found he had competition as Erestor shoved him sideways. As he staggered to regain balance, Erestor flung himself to his knees and slid across the remaining space._

_'Beth let him burrow between her legs, lifting her hand out of the way to stroke his head, moaning and shifting in the chair to grant him better access. The scent of her secretions permeated the air and coated the advisor's hair. Her head lolled back and she whimpered out a string of crooning endearments. Then she drew in deeply, filling her lungs, and released a yearning cry. "Come to me!" Her eyes met Orophin's and he was there in two bounding steps. She lifted her mouth to his, reaching for his cock. Just a few fast strokes and she let go, a hungry look shining in the gaze that captured him anew._

_He straightened and again her hand claimed his shaft, tugging this time as she leaned over and sealed her lips around him. His heart surged, knowing now how she wanted it, knowing she loved him enough to choose this way for their first coupling so he would not need to ask. Orophin pumped vigourously but carefully, mindful of her comfort, and stuttered out a hoarse cry as her fingernails trailed the underside of his sac. "Valar, 'Beth! How I love you!"_

_She smiled as she sat back, the long red shaft retreating from her mouth with a slurpy little pop. "I know," she cooed sweetly even as she yanked on the handful of ebony hair to lift Erestor's face from her crotch. She turned the smile to him. "We're ready, Penraun; how about you?"_

_Erestor needed no further encouragement, slapping her hand out of his hair and scrambling up off his knees. He grabbed her hips and pulled her rump to the very edge of the seat, mounting her in a single, powerful lunge as her legs came up and hooked around his back, locking him in. The lovers were silent in their joining; it was Orophin who groaned in a delicious agony of expectation. They waited for him, Erestor braced on the arms of the chair, 'Beth tasting the tart smear of her wet heat on his lips and tongue, fingertips traipsing up and down his spine._

_Orophin did not remember moving, but found himself positioned behind Erestor, kneading the tautly quivering flesh of the advisor's arse, teasing the exposed opening, sneaking his hand down the lean belly to explore the place where they were joined. It was all hot and sweaty there where the coiled hair merged: 'Beth's soft and silky, Erestor's wiry and thick. A quick, sharp moan of ardent longing chorused from both and Orophin knew he could delay no longer. He penetrated slowly, spreading Erestor's relaxed anus as he entered, relishing the firm resistance of the constricting muscles. Once he was all the way in, he rested a few heartbeats, waiting for his pulse to synchronise with Erestor's, whose heart already kept time with 'Beth's. The second the three organs sounded a single, thudding pump, he burst into motion._

_Erestor yelped and shook, his inner core stroked on the very first thrust, his cock ground so hard against Dambethnîn that he could feel her pubic bone pressing down. As Orophin retreated, Erestor instinctively pushed back, following the motion to prevent the solid intrusion from withdrawing. His penis pulled almost completely out of Penbara before Orophin's next shove drove him back inside. All her muscles seemed to jerk at once and she gasped, clutching to his arms._

_"Yes, Orophin, again, hard!" she demanded through clenched jaws._

_That was the last articulate thing any of them said as the trio found their rhythm, bodies and souls melded, rocking in a panting, grunting tangle of legs and arms and hair to an incredible conclusion. 'Beth came first and kept on coming, her clitoris rippling with spasms, Erestor's engorged organ stroking it incessantly as Orophin drove into him. Her excitement was infectious and both males could smell the rush of fresh fluid coating the penis piercing her. Orophin caught sight of her eyes, hazed in sublime ecstasy, and just then Erestor shifted, his arse squeezing impossibly tight around him. With a long, low cry he spilled, the sensation magnificent beyond thought, and that sent Erestor spiralling into orgasm. _

_While Orophin and Erestor rested, they kept 'Beth in a frenzy of erotic delirium, for she remained primed and eager for stimulation. Orophin got his turn to feast upon the swollen bit of jumping flesh buried in the folds of musky skin, lapping up the seneschal's semen, while Erestor suckled at her breasts, biting and tugging until he drew a clear, sweet nectar from the ripe, red nipples. Oh, how that had made her scream and arch and part her long legs. That got Orophin excited so he fucked her, mouth clamping down on the tit Erestor held up for him. After he came, he stayed inside her while he sucked Erestor off, growing hard as he did but refraining from moving. He pulled out of her, presenting his hard, hot erection for them both to see, and she groaned in regretful disappointment. Erestor reached for it but he evaded the grasp; he would not give it to either one, not yet._

_Somehow they got 'Beth off the chair, carrying her to the Bench. They fingered her, first Erestor and then Orophin, holding her squirming, writhing body down for one another, kissing and licking and sucking every sensitive region they could access. Soon Erestor was hard again and they took her together, one cock up her vagina and the other up her arse. It took longer to recover but 'Beth kept them both content, seated on the Bench with her, Erestor in front and Orophin at her back, as she listed the various positions they might try, tallying up the benefits of each. It was the warden who made the choice. Orophin seated himself carefully on a thick, slick mithril phallus; 'Beth sank down onto his rigid rod of flesh and blood, and Erestor buried himself to the balls in the Galadhrim archer's mouth, working the lever to the mechanism as they worked one another to climax._

_Hours later, when it was finally over, they had snuggled into the hammock and Erestor had prattled on about his journey to the Golden Wood, the recent news from Imladris, all the latest gossip, and had recited his traditional catalogue of complaints against Elrond, Glorfindel, and Lindir. He was happy and content, his manner giving no indication that he was disturbed or conflicted regarding his discussion with Elrond. Not a word did he utter about searching for the disgraced archer._

"You deceived us," said Orophin sadly, recalling that steamy, exhausting night in Lorien.

It had been their last coupling before all this trouble, for Erestor and Elrond had left the following day due to Ningloriel's departure. The Imladrians planned to join her escort for the crossing over the mountains, parting at the ford across Bruinen. It was only to dissuade her that they had travelled to Lorien at all. Orophin had no reason to imagine then that it would truly be their last time together, but he had no doubt of it now. The new bond, a true and eternal one, was evident in his lover's eyes, which Erestor was desperately trying not to let him see.

"I did not mean to," whispered Erestor. He looked to Dambethnîn, pleading silently for understanding.

She smiled from her comfortable seat in the rocking chair, drawn close to the crackling fire though the room was not overly cold for the shutters had been drawn across the open alcoves of the balcony. In her arms she cradled a small babe, only a few weeks old, humming softly to keep him in oblivion. Every now and again he would draw in a loudly shuddery breath, the remnant sob of a lost little soul, for this was Taurant, infant prince of Greenwood and Thranduil's cherished heir. The three lovers were collected in the babe's nursery, for DambethnÎn had been drawn thither by the child's woeful cries. Orophin had followed her and Erestor had come running as soon as the healer informed him of their arrival.

"We know," she soothed quietly, vision flickering to Orophin briefly and back to the seneschal. "We have expected this for a very long time, Erestor."

"I was not referring to your new lover," hissed Orophin, trying hard not to sound like a heart-sore rejected suitor. "Of course you could not know then you would fall in love with the out-cast. You did, however, know Elrond's intentions were less than honourable. You were willing to help; nay, you were eager to help. All that he planned could only do harm to an Elf who had never sought to injure him in any way. To hurt someone who had not wronged you, that is not like you, at least not like my Erestor. That is the deception I am concerned about." 

His stern gaze burned into Erestor's, determined to learn exactly what had changed him. Erestor had always been wily and cunning, some would even say devious, but never unscrupulous or dishonourable. That roguish streak of artful duplicity had never been put to the harness of iniquity. Orophin blinked suddenly and physically straightened, unconsciously drawing back. There was no evil in Erestor to see; whatever aberration had afflicted his heart was gone. Instead he found an all-consuming fear and suffocating sorrow. Orophin understood; this grim terror concerned the absent Wood Elf. 

He found that it hurt just to look at this opening wound in Erestor's soul and rose from his spot on the floor at 'Beth's feet. Erestor's arm half-rose toward him but that was easily evaded. Two steps carried him to the door to the adjoining parlour and he went through.

"Orophin?" 'Beth's worried voice followed him but he gave no answer. The small sounds of clinking glassware filled the silence and then he returned, bearing three tall-stemmed goblets of amber wine. Erestor took his, eyes down, but 'Beth refused. Orophin let a disgruntled yet resigned expression cross his fair face and sighed, gulping down his wine and then hers in quick succession as he resumed his seat by the rocker.

Realising they both expected him to respond, Erestor sipped his drink slowly. How could he answer what was a puzzle even to his own mind? "I have no sound reason that would exonerate me," he began, finally chancing a peek at the slender, blonde archer. It was with a heart-rattling shock that he recognised the physical similarities between his beloved Pen'rhovan and Orophin. They were of a type: lean and graceful, lethal predators like the great panthers that once stalked the mountain passes in Beleriand. Erestor took another swallow of the wine, wishing it were stronger stuff, and let the alcohol steady his nerves a bit.

"You are right; I did not plan to love Legolas, but neither did I seek to wrong him. There was the Ring." Erestor shrugged helplessly; he knew how pathetic this sounded. "With Ningloriel gone Elrond hoped to make Legolas reveal a means to get into Thranduil's vaults."

"Must we hear this garbage from your lips as well? Elbereth! Do you possess your own mind or are you forced to mimic whatever your Lord says?" Orophin's angry retort exploded from him before he even knew he wanted to say it. He could not reclaim the words now, though, and so refused to apologise, fixing his expression into one of harsh disappointment.

Erestor stared; this reaction was like the Orophin he had first met, so filled with anger and lacking any patience or tolerance. A crawling nausea clutched at his gut, believing he had reversed whatever healing their union had accorded the Galadhrim warrior. He dropped his eyes to his lap, not certain how to repair the damage, frightened that anything he said would make it worse.

"Forgive Orophin's sharp tongue," said 'Beth quietly, for she knew her beloved would not retract them. "We had to listen to Elrond make similar excuses. You should know he accused you of treason against Imladris and betrayal of our bond."

"What?" Erestor raised his head in an instant, furious. "I never did any such thing. Never!"

"Aye, we knew that," Orophin grinned in grim ferocity."You should have seen 'Beth rally to your defence! Oh, and he insulted our fair Penbara, calling her…"

"Do not repeat those words!" 'Beth stopped him. "I never want to hear them, especially spoken in your voice, not even to explain what happened."

"There is no need; I can well imagine the foul things he uttered!" Erestor stood up and paced around the room. "I shall thrash him; he had no right."

"That will not be necessary; 'Beth walloped him quite soundly," Orophin chuckled darkly, eyes glinting when Erestor turned to meet them. "Come, return to your seat and let us hear the tale." He motioned toward the chair and sighed at the seneschal's hesitation.

"What can I tell you that would answer this riddle? I recently had a dousing in this blighted realm's enchanted river and had all my recollection of recent time cloaked in black oblivion. Fear not," Erestor held up a hand at 'Beth's startled cry, "it has been remedied and I think did me some measure of good. I awoke as myself again. When Aragorn and Mithrandir told me all I had done, it was truly sickening. Like you, I could not believe I would fall so low. 

"Even now, I remember the plotting Elrond and I so gleefully discussed yet it is as though I am seeing some other Elf with the Lord of Imladris. I cannot understand the coldness that filled my heart. I felt nothing untoward in what we hoped to do. We were not thinking of harming him; at least, I was not. That is not meant to be a means of exonerating my conduct, for what I mean is that I felt _nothing_.

"It was as if I spoke of setting out to hunt game. I was unable to see Legolas as a person. You know we had long ago decided Elrond had to be his sire? Yet, when my noble cousin stated his intent to seduce this Elf, I did not experience more than a second's worth of revulsion; I did not speak out against that option. I remember only a sense of disappointment, for I did hope to have him. To be honest I rather imagined he would be like his Naneth. She is quite free with her charms as we all…"

"No, she is not," Dambethnîn interrupted sharply. Her tone made the babe startle but she cuddled him close and he remained asleep. "Ningloriel had but three lovers her entire life: the guardsman, Elrond, and Thranduil. Far fewer than you, my Penraun."

Well, that took Erestor aback and he did not realise his mouth was hanging open until Orophin bent forward and gently shut it, a bemused smile faintly lighting his pale green eyes. Elrond's Chief Advisor blushed and shifted nervously in the cosy armchair across from 'Beth. "Right again. It would seem I have been less than observant where Wood Elves are concerned," he said.

"But that is what you thought? That he was promiscuous and low? Did you think him guilty of the charges for which he was exiled?" Orophin pressed, more compassion in his tone this time, trying to find a way toward forgiveness. He reached out and laid a hand upon Erestor's knee.

"I suppose. I reflect now and find that my thoughts were filled with bitterness and my reason inundated with cynicism. I fear I had been growing cold inside for a long time and just refused to face it," the seneschal whispered. "I…never healed, you see. The anger and grief were too painful to acknowledge, so I just tried to…pretend everything was fine."

"And the guilt," reminded Orophin gently."That was the hardest for me to release; I suspect it was the same for you."

"Aye." Erestor swallowed hard, tears coming to his eyes and a raw, tight aching gathering round his heart. "I tried, but did not know how. I am sorry, Orophin."

In a second he was enveloped in strong arms, held firmly against the warrior's lean body as Orophin knelt before him, the familiar scent of honeysuckle wafting from the golden hair where his nose was pressed against the Galadhrim's shoulder. Erestor did not attempt to hold his tears in check, spilling them into the leather travelling tunic as he slumped over in limp defeat, clutching at the soft material desperately.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," murmured Orophin. "If anything, it is I who failed you. I took from you, Erestor, so much of your strength and fortitude. Your generous and gentle spirit, wounded as sorely as mine, gave all I demanded. I used you and you healed me. I beg you will forgive me."

"That is utter nonsense, Penraug," Erestor said, sitting up again and sniffling as he fished out a handkerchief and wiped his runny nose. "If you used me, then I let you and that makes it a partnership. Besides, I used you, too, both of you. I have been hiding in the shelter of your warm hearts for a very long time and neither of you ever begrudged me the room."

"Nay, we could not deny you anything," Orophin paused, a wistful smile hovering around his pale blue eyes as he peered speculatively at his long-time lover's right hand, for there the heavy golden band was proudly displayed for all to see. "You are healed now, Penraun. This benighted Wood Elf has restored your honour." There was a hint of a question in his soft inflection.

Erestor nodded gravely, watching the light of the fire play over the soft yellow metal, lending the ring a red cast. "It is true. Just being near him has been an amazing experience; Legolas is the strongest person I know…"

"As well as beautiful?" Dambethnîn interjected with a mischievous grin.

"Aye," Erestor's smile was soft in return. "I never imagined he would come to love me and the moment I realised he held my heart you could have told me the Wraiths had come to pay a visit and it would not have spoiled my joy. I am terrified of only two things: that I will somehow bring him to harm or that he will be taken from me by violence. We had only just declared our eternal bond when this tragedy arose and he left at once. The trees awakened and set to thrashing the air; I fear he is in serious trouble. If I lose him…"

"Ai!" Orophin drew Erestor close again and held him tight. "No need to invite disaster by giving life to those thoughts," he admonished gently, stroking the seneschal's hair. "He will come back to you and we will stay until he does. We will not let you pine away for him alone."

"My thanks, I do not think I could bear to face the waiting with only Mithrandir for company. He has grown strange of late and his moods most unpredictable, especially where Legolas is concerned. I do not want to go back to our talan until Legolas is here to accompany me. Would you permit me to share rooms with you again? As friends, of course, for I cannot dishonour my pledge to Penrhovan."

"Why should we object to that?" smiled 'Beth, pleased that this moment had arrived. "It is as it should be. You have given us much joy, Penraun, and we love you. You are always welcome in our quarters, wherever they may be."

Erestor looked at her hopefully. "How can you still love me? I really believed you would despise me for finding another soul with which to bond."

"Nay," it was Orophin who answered. "Do you think we never spoke of you when we were parted? 'Beth and I understood you could not give over your feä to us. You guarded it so jealousy, but we had decided not to try and claim it. You were quite safe with us." He was smiling now as well, observing the look of disbelief overtaking the seneschal's visage.

"Then why did you keep me?" he demanded, stuck between feeling intense relief and being upset that they had chosen not to chase after his unfettered heart. Fearfaron had told him so, yet hearing it from Orophin turned speculation into truth.

The Lorien archer laughed aloud and lifted his palm, giving Erestor a teasing slap on the cheek as if to wake him from his self-induced delusions. "It was most pleasurable; do you not agree, 'Beth?"

"Indeed. I thought we all found great satisfaction in the arrangement," she snickered, eyes roving freely over Erestor's comely form. Then she turned serious, glancing down at the child in her arms as she shifted his weight to relieve her circulation. "For me there was something more," she continued quietly. "You know how much I desire elflings. Even one would grant my soul ease. I have sent countless prayers and entreaties to Eru, but all have gone unheeded. Orophin and I talked and…"

"Fought, she means to say." Orophin took over the explanation to spare her from saying the words. It had hurt him so terribly when first the couple faced their barren bond. The things they had said to one another made him shudder now. "We wondered if perhaps there was something wrong, in her or in me. She blamed me; I faulted her. Truly, Erestor, we were on the verge of parting. The pain of this was so great for 'Beth and I could not bear for her to name me the cause. Had we not found you, I believe we would not have found the means to forgiveness, to acceptance."

"You thought I would get you with child?" Erestor was astounded and realised in this instant how much his lovers had kept from him. He was not the only one shielding his heart and soul. The obvious loomed between the trio, for Dambethnîn had never conceived. One glance at her sorrowful eyes revealed her anguish, though lessened, had never completely receded. "I am so sorry, 'Beth."

She sighed, a short quick burst of doleful air, and forced a smile. "Nay, it is nothing you could have mended. I am resigned; I was not meant to bear a child of my own. Perhaps I shall just steal this little one instead." It was said in jest but only partly so and she cuddled the infant close, laying her cheek against his soft downy hair.

It was at that moment that they all became aware of another presence in the suite and looked to the doorway. There stood Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, eyes locked on the elleth cradling his son and heir.

* * *

  
"Normally, I am a pacifist. I have not the heart of a warrior and abhor the use of force, even in the defence of my own. Yet I am sorely tempted to make an exception this night. All those I love have been taken from me: my wife and our unborn daughter, my son and first-born child, Analdír, and now my adopted son is gone into the forest to face Eru alone knows what danger. I fear never to see him alive again." Fearfaron stood on the threshold of the dark, dank storeroom and stared down at the huddled form crouching at his feet and clutching at his ankles: Elrond, mighty Lord of Imladris. "The fabled High King's Herald! You do not look so imposing now, grovelling in the dirt." The debased Elf emitted a reedy, wheezing whimper that echoed in the empty room, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched tight. Fearfaron was not surprised to see him so cowed; not even Talagan could face down the Guardians of the Gates. 

"Please do not let them in," Elrond mumbled, the sound rasping through vocal chords worn raw from screaming.

"Who?" the carpenter looked over his shoulder to the empty stable yard. "No one else is here, Brannon Hecilo. Only you and I. Do you know who I am?"

Carefully, reluctantly Elrond lifted his face and opened his eyes, dreading what he might find, and almost smiled in relief to see a figure of flesh and blood, to know the solid mass his hands gripped was not a delusion. He had experienced many in recent hours, each one sufficiently horrifying to make him retch. "You are real, alive," he whispered, clumsily rising to his knees, hands travelling up to clutch at the simple leather overcoat secured about the sturdy elf, not caring that he was a total stranger.

"Of course I am real," scoffed Fearfaron. "The spirits of the vault have other business to attend now. Thranduil, too, has other matters more pressing than your Judgement, it would seem. You are my charge for the time being and I have but one agenda." He hunkered down on his haunches to look the Noldorin ruler in the eye. "Can you guess what that is?"

Elrond recoiled, shaking his head in dumb denial for there was no denying the contempt in those cool brown eyes.

"I am here to make you understand what happened to Legolas. I want you to learn how a strong, honourable Elf can be warped and twisted until he is capable of nothing but self-loathing and shame, so that he can do nothing other than accept every unutterable cruelty perpetrated against him." Fearfaron grasped Elrond at the elbow and stood, hoisting the protesting noble up to his feet. "Be still," he ordered, irritated by the ineffectual squirming. He took a step into the depths of the room and the half-hearted wriggling became a struggle to get free in earnest.

"Nay! Nay! Take me from this place, I beg you! I can see to it you are rewarded well if you but aid me now," Elrond pleaded as he tried to wrench his arm loose and dodge around the tall, lanky ellon. There, just a single pace away, he could see the cool, faint glimmer of Ithil, smell the open air, sharp, icy and dry. "No, by Elbereth! Take me from this place!" Never had he so fervently implored the Valar to heed his supplications.

Like Thranduil's guards, Fearfaron was unmoved by the interloper's entreaties and forced him deeper into the interior, silently kicking the door shut, plunging them into total darkness for a second or two. Then his eyes adjusted and he could see well enough to make his way to the center of the tiny room. There the oaken posts awaited, embedded deep in the rock floor, cast iron rings a blacker outline against the pillars' dim silhouettes.

Elrond gaped at them as his feet dragged along the cold stone surface. His toes struck something even colder on the floor, heavy and dark and spread across his path like some spectral snake, but the loud clank revealed the substantial nature of the chains and realisation dawned: he was to be fettered to these stakes. "What are you going to do? Who are you? I demand to be brought before your Council of Elders!"

"Pick up the chains," said Fearfaron, ignoring his captive's orders and queries. He released Elrond's arm and watched coolly as the deposed Lord staggered back to the door, rattling the latch and heaving at the handle in desperation. "It is already locked, Hiren Hecilo. The key is here in my pocket. Come, your lesson has yet to begin but the sooner we start the quicker it will end."

The Lord of Imladris stared at the darker form amid the lightless air, shivering as he spied the bright flash of anger in the eyes regarding him. He feared to move and kept hold of the doorknob as if doing so would prevent the inevitable. "Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

The carpenter sighed, a strident and impatient venting of breath from his body, frowning though his expression was obscured in the darkness. "I have already told you the reason for my visit; I am here for Legolas, who has no one else to stand in his stead and demand justice. As for my name, it is Fearfaron. I am Legolas' foster father."

"I know of you!" Elrond exclaimed. "Legolas keeps a letter from you and read it to me once. You are dear to him."

"As he is to me. It is interesting that you bring up letters, for I have read one composed by you, Elrond. Do you recall the missive you sent here for Thranduil's eyes?" Even in the dark Fearfaron saw the revered elder flinch and was pleased. "I have brought another letter, one that Legolas sent to me at the same time yours reached the woodland King. Obey my command: chain yourself to the posts. Then I shall read you this short note." His hand moved, a sweep of pitch through the heavy blackness, as he held forth the folded parchment. He waited for the shadow hunched by the door to move, but the only activity was a renewed and frantic yanking upon the secure barrier. He sighed again, disappointment evident and loud in the escaping air.

"Lord Elrond, this will not suffice. Surely you are no coward. Recall yourself, scion of Eärendil, and face your wrongs with true contrition. You have travelled here to do this very thing, have you not? Verily, you shall not leave Greenwood until it is accomplished. Legolas deserves no less nor will I accept other than your real and complete redemption. He does not wish for vengeance, you see, but only for healing and a means to spare the younglings pain."

Silence settled in the space between them, punctuated by harsh gasps as Elrond tried to gather his wits and recover his nerve, stunned by the quiet strength of the sylvan elf. There was anger aplenty, yes, but it was underlain with sympathy and tempered by compassionate determination, so different from the brutal ferocity of the King's brothers. The encounter with the spirits had stripped away the armour of aristocratic arrogance that for aeons had prevented exposure of his scarred and wounded soul. The spectre of the dragon and its dour handler had robbed him of his veneer of wisdom, the trio of accusing voices sounding through his head had erased his ability to rationalise, and the truth they had extracted from his unmasked mind he could no longer deny. 

For Elrond had come to Greenwood without the mightiest of the Elven Rings, fearing to bring the hallowed object so close to Dol Guldur where Sauron's undead captains would quickly detect its presence. Glorfindel had been right after all; over the long centuries, Elrond had subtly succumbed to the lure of Vilya's unmatched power, bending the present, remoulding the past, reshaping the future to suit his purpose without realising the underlying motive for his actions. What was his purpose? Here his mind had balked, unwilling to emerge from behind the thick wall of self-delusion he had created. What was his purpose here? The unhoused feär had posed the query repeatedly but Elrond would not answer. Then it had felt as though he was under the weighty scrutiny of Eru Iluvatar and perhaps in some sense that was true. Never had he known such complete and utter terror, so relentless was the interrogation, as the ugly scenes of his dealings with the Tawarwaith played out one by one.

Elrond had watched it all transpire but this time he was removed, an observer, a witness to his cruelty juxtaposed against the purity of Legolas' compassion. His abuse of the Wood Elf was but the beginning and he was forced to retreat in time through all his many centuries with Ningloriel, his ephemeral marriage to Celebrian, his long attachment to Gil-Galad. On and on his history regressed and with each event's re-enactment another layer was scraped away, another chink chipped from the façade of noble strength, until all of it was pared away and only a black, festering kernel of pain and fear remained. 

He saw himself there upon the shore of the Great Sea, so small and so alone and so unutterably angry. She had sailed away and left them behind. How could she turn away and forget them, fleeing across the waves to join her beloved Mariner, choosing his companionship over the well-being of her sons? Behind him on the beach Elros was a crumpled mass of wet clothes and sand-streaked black hair, his salty tears mixing with the saline sea, his sobbing lost amid the fretful crying of the gulls and the sonorous rush and retreat of the relentless tide. Something pierced Elrond's elfling heart, a fierce stab like a spear of ice that froze him to the core of his soul, yet he was too young to recognise the birth of grief. 

He had longed to give up his spirit and fall to the surf beside his twin, to follow their parents into the realm of Mandos, but it was not to be. Strong hands caught him up, another set fetched Elros and the children were borne away to the warmth and security of their Noldorin captors' home. In the silence of their shared rooms, Elrond turned to his brother and spoke a bitter vow: never to be parted from his twin, never to be taken from someone he loved again no matter the consequences. He waited for his brother to respond in kind but Elros was frightened by his vehemence and would not speak the words. Elrond was alone in his resolve and thus added an unspoken codicil: never to open his heart to such injury again.

_But I did love again, even after Elros deserted me, and each time I forsook my vow I was punished; the one who held my heart ripped from my life._

Such pain was too great to experience and survive and so he converted it into anger instead. It was not difficult to find ways to express this dark rage and at first he spent its malignant fury upon Sauron: that was his purpose, the calling entrusted to him by the last of Finwë's descendants to rule in Middle-earth. Yet, at the concluding battle that had cost him Gil-Galad that evil seemed to vanish. 

_My promise became my purpose._ 

Beneath that laudable cause lay another too dark to name. He had to find a means to appease the ever-present and growing fury. Casting it off was not even an option he considered for within it was bound all his memories of his parents and his brother, and now Gil-Galad as well. A more accessible target than Sauron had to be acquired and instantly, lest he break his given word to his beloved High King and perish under the weight of bereavement. Thranduil and his cursed House seemed ordained by the Valar to fill the void. It had not seemed so foul a substitution to his thinking, when his conscience managed to make itself heard, for the Sindarin prince's sire provoked the demise of Gil-Galad. 

As time passed it grew ever easier to count up the ways Thranduil's House had interfered and diverted the proper course of his life rather than face the mounting misery and despair.

Like Erestor, the Lord of Imladris had not found his reasoning quite so comfortable to maintain in the face of blunt and objective scrutiny. That Elrond's epiphany was forced by the forthright intervention of Thranduil's deceased brothers was an irony the Elven Lord appreciated full well. 

_Indeed, the very Elf to whom I would give my heart sprung from the same lineage._ 

It was not love that had moved his heart toward Legolas, however, but the first stirrings of remorse. He could acknowledge that clearly now. Without the shielding light of Vilya's presence, the truth had been impossible to refute but just as difficult to pin down. So many possibilities crowded forward to claim his attention, a thousand plausible causes for his retreat into the protection of his dark and lonely vow. Elrond found that it really didn't matter which of them was foremost or if any of them were. Defining the reasons seemed superfluous to answering that query: what was his purpose here?

"Elbereth, help me," he mumbled, half a sob rising in his chest only to be fought down.

Fearfaron waited in patient silence, aware of the turmoil in his captive's heart. For this reason he had come, for while he was not attuned to Tawar in the manner of Legolas, the carpenter was well versed in every nuance of his adopted child's character. Not for nothing was he called Hunter of Spirits and here stood his quarry before him. This Elf was not a monster, for all the harm he had wrought, any more than Legolas had been a kin-slayer, though Analdír had surely died. He had salvaged the convicted murderer of his eldest child, could he now refuse to do the same for the one who had so cruelly used the son of his heart? "It is as Legolas would wish," he said aloud and saw the dim grey figure twist abruptly toward him.

"Legolas wants me to suffer?" Elrond's voice quavered even as he recalled the way the wild elf had reached out to him. "Nay, I do not believe you."

"That is not what I said. Legolas is not concerned with you now, his thoughts are focused on those he loves. He is determined to save Lindalcon from a horrible and needless sacrifice and prevent his siblings from suffering the loss of their Naneth, even though she is the one responsible for all the horrors that have fallen upon us. Where is your intent focused, fallen Lord?"

Elrond did not answer, for he would not admit to this stranger that every emotion, image, and idea flittering through his conscious mind was centred on himself. He heard the woodland Elf sigh and watched as he bent and picked up the heavy iron shackles. The metal rang out as the links lifted from the dusty floor almost as if they were joyous to have some work to perform. The Elven Lord flattened his body against the door. "What do you want of me, Fearfaron."

"I would have you learn of injustice and I would have you regain your honour. Tell me truly, Elrond, are you innocent of the charges made against you?"

Once more the mighty Lord would not answer but even that was a sign of hope, for it could only mean his heart refused to let him speak a lie.

"Legolas believed it was just to bear the guilt for the lives lost that day in Erebor on the plains before the Lonely Mountain, yet he was never the cause for those deaths. He accepted the Judgement of his people in all its manifestations. I was always in the stable yard when it came time for him to submit to Rochendil's tortures. Did you know that Legolas went willingly into this room? Did you know those lashes were laid down by his own hands?"

In the dark by the door the Elven Lord drew a sharp breath, for he had not known. Memory restored to him the sight and feel of a small, ugly five-tailed scourge buried deep in the outcast archer's quiver. How had he failed to understand the significance of that weapon's presence? Obviously, his thoughts were directed elsewhere and Legolas had kept that titbit of truth buried much deeper than any other. _Does this surrogate father expect me to flay my own flesh to satisfy his notion of justice?_ The idea made Elrond shiver in revulsion. 

"Nay, the fear in your mind is supplied by your guilt rather than my intent," said Fearfaron, guessing the thoughts accompanying that reaction. "I have no desire to see you enact that despicable scene for me, Elrond. It is terrible enough knowing he endured it for twelve long years while I stood outside and did nothing to stop him. So you see, I understand the shame you bear, for while your sins are greater I am not without fault either. Legolas kept the whip; even I do not know why for he is not able to speak of it. Perhaps his mate can convince him to put it aside, for it is an evil object.

"I do think you would benefit from experiencing some small part of Legolas' debasement even as I have." Fearfaron nodded, imagining the shocked expression that must certainly fill Elrond's grey eyes. "I have come here several times and knelt between these odious supports, tested the weight of the chains with my hands. It is fitting that you do the same.

"Yet, this place is the end of things, for it took a very long time to bring Legolas so low. The beginning, I suspect, was in Lothlorien. That is where you penned the first letter to Thranduil, one I have not seen, complete with evidence of your affair with Ningloriel and the inescapable doubt concerning the legitimacy of the unborn heir. You stole any chance for Legolas to have a normal life with that single, vindictive deed. In fact, a case can be made that but for your interference, none of the rest would have been possible, including the death of Analdír, my eldest."

Elrond uttered a garbled denial that made the carpenter snort out a derisive grunt. 

"Fear not, Hiren Hecilo; I will not hold you accountable as a kinslayer, not yet anyway. Analdír was a fine warrior and we understood the risks of such a calling. We discussed it now and then, for my benefit mostly, for he wanted me to understand why he would choose that life over the honourable, and infinitely safer, trade I wished to pass on to him. Yet should Legolas perish now, this night, due to the aftermath of your intervention, then his blood will surely be on your hands. I suspect the Unhoused Spirits have already expounded upon this point quite vehemently."

"Yes, yes! I comprehend this charge; I accept my blame for Legolas' fall from favour…"

"Fall? Nay, if that is what you think then you understand nothing. Your words imply he had control over the events reshaping his existence and that is false. Even so, there is an important fact hidden in your assessment of his status. No matter how much he was neglected, shunned, used, or abused, Legolas refused to give up. Through it all he has tried to live a good life, to be true to those he loves, to do his duty for his people, to honour his Naneth, to protect our land and our trees. Externally he is much tarnished and roughened, like the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, and like even the oldest trees his core is still fresh and evergreen. Is this not so?"

"Aye, it is true. Legolas came back to lead us from the Wraiths, even after we had treated him abysmally," Elrond whispered, remembering his brief time in the wild elf's company. "I do regret it, Fearfaron."

"Because of the spirits' torments?"

"Nay."

"Then why?"

"Because I did not realise how amazing he is, as you have just remarked. He would have done anything to ease my sorrow and change my despair into joy. I was so stupid, so cold…"

"So selfish, even as you are now," Fearfaron sighed. "That reason does not honour Legolas' courage and fortitude. Your heart has not moved beyond your own loss yet. I was right to come and insist upon a more fundamental demonstration of humility. It would be best for you to follow his example and submit to your punishment. Legolas felt true sorrow for his comrades' deaths and sought to give up his soul to secure the peace of theirs. Likewise, your actions must henceforth spring from a contrite and penitent heart. 

"Accept responsibility for the injuries your selfish deeds have wrought and do not forfeit the mercy of Eru," exhorted the Spirit Hunter firmly. "You are here for healing, for you have many responsibilities and much yet to do; just because you have lost sight of your purpose does not mean it has vanished. The Tawarwaith would have cured your ills in a more pleasing manner but this is the path your feä has chosen. Come forward, Elrond. Take up these chains."

In the blackened gloom in the cold, bare room Elrond finally felt the lingering embers of his fiery wrath die out, extinguished as the frigid agony of abandonment afflicted his heart anew; he clutched at the door. An elfling no more, he looked bravely into this ancient wound and saw that he was not alone, not abandoned, not unloved, and never had he been. Indeed, the faces of those who had eagerly given him their hearts to the fullness of their capacity appeared before him. The list was long and not one, not even Elros, had spurned him. Even those who had been enemies were moved to compassion and had sheltered him, body and soul. 

In the same way he examined Legolas' much shorter life and shuddered, shame and remorse welling up until it seemed he would be ill. Denied love even before he was born, the Tawarwaith's tally included only betrayal and abuse for nearly all his life. _That was my doing and no other's._ A sharp breath out and in settled his reeling senses as the fullness of the burden Legolas had borne enveloped him and with it disgust for the callous manner in which he had enhanced it, stripping away the Wood Elf's thin veneer of denial and self-delusion. 

_We are much alike, he and I, yet the barriers his mind built shielded him from real rejection and condemnation. So then it is only in our grief that we are similar: his for Maltahondo, mine for Gil-Galad. Legolas recognised this common torment, yet when I wished only to give him pain he proffered me solace._ In the light of this realisation blossomed genuine admiration for the Elf he had reviled and the remnant glimmer of his misplaced longing rose. Elrond straightened his spine and took a step toward the Spirit Hunter.

"Would he have learned to love me?" he asked and found the next step easier.

"Nay, not as you imagine it. Yet there may still be a way to forgiveness; he needs to give it as much as you need to plead for it." Fearfaron smiled in grim approval as the Noldorin ruler reached the rugged posts. 

The silence that followed was not so dreadful and even the noise of the ringing links was not a sound to fear and despise. With renewed hope Elrond held out his wrists, mindful of Glorfindel's counsel given that day in Imladris at the falls: only by embracing the truth and owning his crimes could he regain the honour he had so casually flung aside. _And with it my purpose._

The Elven Lord dropped to his knees before the lowly sylvan carpenter. "Then I will beg forgiveness, if that is what he needs of me. Tutor me, Fearfaron; teach me humility; show me justice."

The snap of the clasp echoed in the hollow space and for a few seconds obscured the soft cadence of Fearfaron's voice as he related the history of Greenwood's Tawarwaith and the Noldorin Lord's part in shaping it. Long before he was finished, Elrond's chin was on his chest and his face was wet with tears.

TBC  
© 12.25.2007 Ellen Robey  


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####  **Note: **

_Well, I didn't get as far with this chapter as I'd hoped, dear readers, but I promised an update by xmas and I hate to break my word regarding updates. Heaven knows I've done that often enough and I am trying to refrain from such promises now. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though I don't know how you will feel about it. Please understand that I really had to wrestle with the problem of Elrond. It was a great temptation to have him stripped down, chained up, and flogged with a whip just as Legolas was. Yet it couldn't really be justified, at least not under Fearfaron's hands. Such brutality just is not in that kind-hearted Elf's nature. He refrained from hurting Maltahondo after he learned the depth of the guardsman's betrayal so I don't see how I could make him suddenly turn into a cold and vindictive creature here._

_And Elrond must be salvaged, after all. He does have much to do and great events to oversee. If we leave him as he is, how would he be able to call the Council of the Ring and convince everyone to attempt the impossible? How could he trust the strength of Aragorn's resolve to deny the lure of the Ring? Would the Elrond we have met here believe a lowly Hobbit fit to undertake so monumental a task? I don't think so, and I also don't believe physical torture and torments would have made him truly regret his deeds but merely reinforced his bitterness and fed his self-pity. So I let the Spirit Hunter do his work his way, and I believe Legolas would approve. Hope you do, too._

_For those waiting for Balrog and Aearlinn to be updated, my apologies. I have unexpectedly resumed contact with my father. We have not seen each other in 29 years, so I have been rather in a haze of anxiety and worry. I will get back to work on them forthwith!_

_Happy Yule, everyone!_

  
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	96. Chapter 96

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

 

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_This Feud update is dedicated to **Niccy**, who has been a die-hard fan forever, and asked me to update as an xmas gift story. Well, we all know I cannot manage a short story or a short chapter. Everything turns out to be upwards of 15000 words. I promised a lot of stories that were new and updates of stories already started and this was back in November last year. Good intentions, but completely unrealistic for me. Niccy asked for some real punishment for Elrond for all he has done to Legolas and since Feäfaron cannot do that kind of thing, someone else must be 'Iluvatar's instrument of retribution', to quote Lindalcon. There is a long passage regarding the Unhoused Spirits who are loose and having quite a bit of influence on their dear brother/captor. They will deal out justice to him, too, but saving that for the next chapter. Evil cliff-hanger at the end and I am not a bit sorry about it LOL :D I **am** very very sorry that it took so long to get this out, Niccy. Hope you enjoy it and everyone else does, also._

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### Acharn egor Caun? (Vengeance or Valour?)

It was more than the absence of sound and motion invoked by the blighting breath of Winter's transient occupation. An abyssal stillness held the forest in sepulchre silence, defeated, vanquished so utterly the souls of the trees were no more, petrified by Rhîw's relentless advance, the assault unexpected and devastating in its victory, for could Tawar hide in hibernation, remaining viable in the face of so severe, so swift a withdrawal of Anor's warmth? Nay, Greenwood was dead, root and pulpy marrow alike destroyed, frozen dry and blown hollow, burned out, boiled off, empty husks piercing a rank and foetid haze where once the trees in grandeur soared. The towering bolls loomed, mute and motionless, lost in foggy limbo, stark in varying degrees of charcoal and grey where Ithil touched upon the wood through the jagged, leafless canopy. 

The sterile, silver sheen gave no colour to the bark for Tilion could not bear to look upon so cruel a vision as this. Drifting, polluted air swirled in cloying clouds, a suffocating fume lingering in the tangled net of limbs, underscoring their unnatural stillness. No life scurried over ground devoid of soil and mould where roots stood exposed, duff and dirt reduced to indurate sub-straight. The desiccated remains of a buck lay sprawled in grotesque repose, flesh all but devoured, antlers stained dark by vaporised ichor, charred bones poking through the remnant of leathery hide stretched tight upon the once noble frame. Not so much as an insect remained alive. Twists of blue smog rose, threading toward the dun-coloured sky, borne up on remnant heat stolen from Greenwood's life, curling sinuously over charred stubs of branches and cracked, blackened trunks. No longer was this the abode of Tawar. Never again would this place bear the appellation great.

Lindalcon gasped and startled, shaking himself out of his stupor, eyes wide and staring about him, heart hammering, and breath loud and shortened, fearful of the mirage overtaking him as his mind sought rest. How many days had he been awake? He had left the stronghold only three days ago, yet before then an untallied number of sunsets had occurred and he had been fully alert for them all. He concentrated to fix the time in his consciousness and distract himself from the nightmare: the Council lasted one interminable day, Legolas and Erestor had remained in the bonding talan three days, the feast following that and its awful conclusion were another day, the Tawarwaith's unforgettable attack upon Thranduil happened on the next, Gildin's arrival was the evening of that same sunrise, and before dawn of the one succeeding it Lindalcon had relinquished the last iota of normalcy his short life possessed. 

_Ten days, an evil number to be sure._

Ten sunrises, ten sunsets and his future lay in ruin, scorched and seared, consumed as surely as the trees in his macabre dream. From beloved only child to prince to orphan and finally to this, self-appointed Nimrod for Greenwood's Council, the first and only to fill such a role. Did anyone in all Thranduil's kingdom care if he succeeded and brought Rochendil back to own his deeds and face his just punishment? Nay, the woodland folk would rather forget the horse-master just as they had forgotten Valtamar and Andamaitë. Lindalcon scowled and drew his cloak close about him. It was not for them he acted but for himself and his Adar. He had chosen this fate and there was nothing left for him to do but achieve it.

_Yet it is taking a bloody long time to see it done._

He had not considered that, had gathered for no more than a few day's provisions, provided only one change of clothing, brought one blanket and one cloak. The way bread was already gone and while water was plentiful game was not. Most of the four footed creatures were in hibernation and those that remained alert were meant to be fodder for the Greenwood's wild predators. Lindalcon discovered himself to be in competition with the dire wolves over hares and voles. A large pack roamed the region and often he spied them on the hunt. The leader was a huge grey male with intelligent blue eyes that looked upon him with vague amusement, great jaws gaping in a mocking grin, wondering what he was doing out here alone. Lindalcon had no doubt that they would make a meal of him if he ventured from the trees when they were abroad.

Sorely troubled was the son of Valtamar, for he had a task to accomplish and yet the trees would give him no aid. They slept. On their vigilant protection he had depended, assuming he would enjoy the same level of intimacy with Tawar he received when Legolas was near, mistaking the archer's gift for translation as a sort of initiation into the deeper communion necessary for survival in the deeps of the forest. He was sylvan, after all, and surely the abiding affinity Legolas felt for the forest was an innate characteristic of the Danwaith. Well, he was hearing and seeing these slumbering trees yet the message went in one direction only and he could not escape the feeling that he was trapped in a nightmare designed to cripple even so mighty an entity as Tawar. 

It was more than a nightmare, he decided, that horrendous shift from winter's stark and frozen landscape to the smouldering aftermath of a great conflagration. Whether prophesy or propaganda, the spiritual assault was meant to terrify both him and the trees, and Lindalcon clung to the latter view, that being a lesser evil than accepting the repeated scene invading his reverie as foresight.

"It is winter; there has been no searing fire here," he spoke aloud so to reinforce the idea as he gaped at the alien landscape, worried, for the austerity of Rhîw mimicked the leafless, lifeless, soulless desert of fire-ravaged woods. This marked the third time he had witnessed the death of Greenwood by fire and while it was less harrowing than watching the violent destruction of his Adar, little comfort did that comparison lend his heart. 

"I have never had any gift for skrying," he insisted to the voiceless ranks of dormant trees. Yet he could not deny that the images of his father's last moments were true ones. 

Lindalcon inhaled a shaky breath, shivering as the icy pain assailed his throat and lungs, hugging his fur cloak closer as he peered into the murky depths betwixt the branches to the path below. No winter in all his life had reduced the trees to voiceless timber devoid of consciousness. _This must be how Men view trees all the year round._ Yet Tawar would never abandon its separate citizens during the frozen months and flee, seeking a more inviting population of hardwoods to grace with the dignity and might with which Yavanna had imbued the region. Would it? This emptiness, this vacant and soulless atmosphere was infinitely more troubling than the lurid vision of fiery death. The place was a dark graveyard of dead trees, gaunt and ugly and eery.

"May as well burn it," he mourned morosely and no sooner were the words spoken than his heart fairly stopped, terror blazing through his soul to have called this doom upon the Greenwood. "Nay! I did not mean it!" he cried out, standing and raising his face to the starless night. 

Frightened and desperate, he bound the cape tight about him and set off through the stiff, brittle branches. He had not gone far when his weight generated a fulsome crack and a frozen limb gave way. A swift leap to the next tree saved him and Lindalcon clung to its trunk, heaving great clouds of mist into the air around him, reason abandoned as the untrained avenger shut his eyes, recalling Legolas' tales of turned trees that sought to destroy elves.

He shook his head wildly to drive out the image and willed himself not to think on it. Immediately new torments filled the void as he wondered how his naneth fared. Was she in the cells or had Thranduil quashed his account of her treachery, as she predicted? How were the children enduring this? With a furious shout he forced such thoughts from his heart and mind. 

"I gave it all up the moment I spoke that vow." His voice rose strong and clear above his fears. "I understand this now; they are no longer mine to worry over. I am a child no more. I am Iluvatar's instrument of retribution, nothing more nor less, and because that is true, I will find my father's last enemy and bring him back to face his crimes alongside Meril."

"My, what bold proclamations from so young an elf. Then again, perhaps only one so young would dare to speak them."

"Ai!" Lindalcon nearly fell from the tree in his surprise to hear this sarcastic rejoinder. He was scanning the limbs about him when laughter, deep and throaty and almost like a hound's, arose from far below. He turned his sight downward and gaped in confusion; there was the leader of the wolves gazing up at him with that same smirking grin, showing his sharp, pearly fangs. Lindalcon frowned; there were tales of gaurhoth, but surely those were only that, stories to amuse and frighten children. Just to convince himself, he kept his eyes upon the wolf as he called out. "If you are a friend, show yourself!"

The beast cocked its head to the side. "How do you mean? In Man-form? That I cannot do until Ithil waxes full and round. Still, I am a friend. I am not surprised at your fear; even Legolas mistook us for his foes, long ago."

"It is another dream, then," muttered Lindalcon, passing his hand over his eyes in exasperation, for he had seen its jaws and tongue working to make speech. What manner of spirit was abroad to so disrupt his normal paths of rest? Yet that did not suffice, for his rest had been anything but normal for many long years. "Perhaps it wears on me and I am going mad."

"Dreams of madness, more like," chuckled the wolf. "I am here to warn you, for Legolas would have it so and my people owe him much. By his command the humans ceased hunting us and now we are allies against our common foes. Heed me: this is not a good time to wander in the woods. The Orcs are coming in great numbers; the Wraiths drive them. I can smell their stink even now and soon you will, too. Go back, little elf, before you are engulfed and slaughtered for their sport. Or worse." So saying the creature loped away amid the trees and disappeared into the darkness.

Lindalcon stared at the barren ground stuck between disbelief and dread, seesawing between the two, unable to act. If what he had just experienced was real and not a hallucination born of sleep deprivation, then he was in trouble of an entirely different calibre. It occurred to him that he had never even seen an Orc much less faced one in combat. His bow and quiver were with him but suddenly the idea of using them in defence of his life was utterly terrifying. Illusion or fact, Lindalcon decided it would be prudent to assume the latter and get to a safer location. No sooner had he concluded this than the long, mournful cry of the wolf rose amid the darkness and was answered by a chorus of keening canine voices. The desolate forest echoed with their battle song.

No further convincing was required. Shelter was needed and somewhere there had to be a talan high overhead, too well-concealed for the demons to spot. So Legolas had assured him often whenever Lindalcon asked where he lived, how he escaped from Shadow's minions, what place served as a haven when reverie was needed. 

How to find such a place was the problem. Cautiously he climbed higher, hoping the increase in altitude would afford a better perspective. The tactic worked; from this height he could make out a path amid the branches, easily discernible now that the leaves were gone and Ithil could reach the limbs. With no small relief Lindalcon set out upon this track, confident he would soon discover one of his adopted brother's hide-aways.

It was not to be. Valtamar's son had crossed the Forest Road hours ago and was out in the region where evil held sway among the trees, where even the elf-paths had been corrupted. The way he so eagerly chose led inexorably to the Central Mountains where the Orcs dominated, where goblin reinforcements from Hithaeglir were sure to muster, where traps were laid and ambuscades ready. Even in hibernation the branches remained frozen in this deceitful pattern, drawing any unsuspecting among the First-born to certain death, and Lindalcon fairly raced toward it.

  
  


### Dûr Estel (Sombre Hope)

  


With a great, deep, collective breath of thanksgiving, the conscience of a nation was at last assuaged. The sombre, unquiet mood in the City of the Underground Fortress lifted, tension dropped to a lesser degree; it was finally over. News of Meril's imprisonment spread to every talan and flet throughout the realm, the Royal Consort's black heart confirmed, and even those most proud to see a sylvan in the seat of power suddenly recalled anecdotes which revealed her unclean nature, rank with the taint of the Shadow. 

The result of the King's Tribunal was by no means pleasant nor would anyone be eager to have these recent events detailed in the stonework of the Chamber of Starlight, yet everyone, down to lowliest servant, felt delivered, absolved of guilt, their obscene fascination, horror mingled with delight, expunged. The Erebor Affair was settled. Tirno was exonerated fully, Malthondo condemned to go forth and take his place in shame and ignominy, the author of the whole devious undertaking safely locked away in the dank dark cells until her final doom could be determined. No one expected to ever see the horse-master again and the people were content that justice had been served. At long last, life could return to normal in Greenwood. 

Now the Wood Elves could focus their anxious attention on the inexcusable conduct of the Noldorin Lord from Imladris, indignant and outraged and secretly glad to have an external source on which to pin their sense of disgust, their righteous fury over the scandalous treatment of their beloved champion. So much preferable was that to the constant soul-searching and the resultant conjuring of remorse and regret for their own debasement of Greenwood's chosen protector. Let Elrond of Imladris accept the burden of such sins and then would the peoples' transgressions not be expiated? 

Never mind that twelve years of torture and torment had been dealt out to Legolas here within sight and sound of every talan ringing the compound. Suppress the memory of those long, violent nights, endured with nary a complaint, bereft of any contesting voice to mitigate his deepening shame and self-hatred. The folk of the woods had a ready excuse; the Judgement had been pronounced and the Laws invoked. No one was permitted to interfere or, indeed, even speak of the punishment exacted. Perhaps in all the populace, only Feärfaron was willing to admit the truth: it had simply been easier to accept Legolas' guilt, attested by warriors with whom he served, than to seek out the real culprit.

If a further diversion was required to channel the overwhelming emotions engendered by the high drama of the Council and its conclusion, then the frightening proximity of Orcish troops combing the fringes of the borders, massing along the southern side of the Forest Road, was ample cause for heightened nerves and uneasy hearts. The vile demons were seeking a means to drive through Talagan's doughty forces and inundate the very heart of the Woodland Realm. The Tawarwaith must be the target of this unprecedented assault, for such a concentrated attack of the foul beasts had never been attempted, and all of Greenwood prayed for his deliverance. 

He was out there, somewhere, in the thick of it, wounded and weakened, braving death and its unthinkable alternative, capture and imprisonment in Dol Guldur, all to find his adopted brother and bring him safely home. With both pride and irritation the people considered his decision to go after Lindalcon. The youth was doomed; another death to lay at Meril's feet. Everyone could sense it. What hope could there be that he would find Ailinyero and serve justice to the coward for his craven deeds? The horse-master must be far from the Woodland Realm by now, probably headed for the Havens of Mithlond where none would know of his blackened record of betrayal and abuse. Lindalcon was more likely the first casualty of the Orc's attempts at invasion and Legolas would find only his bloody remains, dismembered and debased. This was not a cause worthy of risking their Tawarwaith.

Such were not the thoughts of Celeborn, too wise to waste energy in useless fretting over what could not be changed. What aid he could render Legolas had already gone forth, every Galadhrim warrior in his contingent allied with Greenwood's archers to rout the Orcs and gain victory for the Tawarwaith. Legolas would either survive or perish, his fate no different than any warrior's in this blighted land of meagre light and dense shadow. The august Lord had more immediate concerns as he followed Thranduil out of the throne room, hoping his influence would temper whatever punishment he might be envisioning for the convicted kin-slayer in the dungeons below the vaults. Even more, he wished to learn of the strange possession, for he could think of no other word applicable, which had overtaken the King just before pronouncing Meril's doom. Despite everything, Celeborn would salvage Thranduil.

It was not that he discounted the mass appeal of the newly arisen hero of the woods. Legolas' elevated status was truly a gift from the Valar. The Tawarwaith granted much needed hope and courage to a people in dire distress enduring a constant siege, forced back into this one last corner of green grace to which they held with such fragile tenacity. To his voice the Wood Elves listened, Sindarin and sylvan alike, and his words uplifted hearts, inspired noble thoughts. His sacrifices spawned a fervent yearning to be more like that, to reclaim that purity of purpose underlying his every work, to engage in like endeavours founded on the cause of justice and the desire for freedom. Nor did Celeborn disregard Thranduil's many failings, his dark deeds carrying him into the shadowed borderland betwixt evil and good where expedience determined which path to take. 

Yet the defence of the Woodland Realm required more than a true heart and firm resolve, traits undeniably residing in Legolas' core. Nay, to hold back the power of the Wraiths and withstand the unending flood of malice and hatred spewing from Dol Guldur demanded something else. A leader wily and cunning, hardened by loss, defined by it, driven by it, willing to skirt the edges of decency to achieve an end none would deem anything but right, such a leader Greenwood's survival demanded. Such a leader was Thranduil. Whatever his flaws, whatever his sins, he was loyal to his father's memory and for Oropher's sake he would never let Greenwood fall.

Both were needed, valiant heart and bloody fist, but Legolas was beyond Celeborn's reach. Should the Tawarwaith fall this night, who would stand between life and genocide? Who would defy defeat, turn back the Wraiths, and deny victory to the hordes of Orcs? Above all, Celeborn must salvage the Wood Elves' King.

They jogged up the long, winding stair, Thranduil ignoring his queries and disregarding his existence. This proved a misconception for as they crossed the threshold of the royal chambers the agitated father demanded an explanation for the intrusion and in the next breath an introduction from his kinsman. Before that could be done, Erestor's presence registered and every nerve in the King's body bristled; he seemed to gain in height and mass, the regal robes more spectral and menacing than ever, the magnificent crown glittering at the pinnacle of his expanded aura.

"Out," he pointed at the Noldorin Lord and growled the command. "Should I find you near my son again you will join your kinsman's fate."

Elrond's seneschal, seeing the door blocked by this unexpected manifestation of awful presence, wisely chose to leave via the balcony and its stairway down to the gardens, bitterly cold though the night air was. He declined to remind the King that he was now bound to the monarch's first-born son and could not help but defy that command. Prudence allowed only a swift, silent, worried glance of parting to his Lorien lovers as he dodged through the arch.

Thranduil snorted a deriding sneer at Erestor's speedy disappearance, eyes marking the swish of midnight hair attesting to the rapidity of the seneschal's descent. His sight returned to the Galadhrim couple and the elleth cradling his infant prince. "Celeborn, these two belong to you, I believe?" he queried. "Give me the names of these trespassers and vouch for their intent if you want them pardoned." 

"Fear not, Aranen." Before Celeborn could reply Dambethnîn stood and placed the slumbering babe in his sire's arms, instantly defusing the Sindarin Lord's wrath, and then proceeded to explain. "Never would I harm a child. I but wished to quiet the poor wee lamb's distraught and weary soul. He will sleep now many hours and awaken hungry, so be prepared for a fussy son."

"You were the one to quiet him. How is this possible? Have you used some herb or potion to force his unconscious state?" demanded the frantic father, adjusting the limp bundle carefully so to free a hand with which to poke and prod the babe, as if that could tell him what manner of medicine this unknown elleth had used. He gave her a searching scrutiny. "You are of sylvan descent?"

"We both are," Orophin interceded for his beloved, tone bold and stern, imparting his devotion and determination that Dambethnîn was not to be trifled with. "We would never use such means to induce a child to sleep."

"Allow me, cousin." Celeborn stepped into the room between the monarch and his unexpected visitors for Orophin's avowal had precipitated that stiffening along his kinsman's spine that generally heralded a sharp rebuke, often accompanied by forcible removal from his presence. "These are two of my most trusted guards, Orophin and Dambethnîn. They are here because of Erestor, who has for long centuries been part of their family."

"Ah! So you two are the ones!" Thranduil eyed them with keen interest but surprised himself by finding he had no desire to say anything unkind or demeaning to the couple, for they were quite obviously devoted to one another and must be equally true to Erestor to have come to Greenwood to aid him. 

Beyond that, there was something in the elleth's eyes as she stared at him, something she wanted so badly she feared to name it, and this intrigued him. Her sight fell at last upon Taurant and within her visage a softness grew, filled with warmth the like of which he remembered trained upon him from his naneth's loving gaze, so long ago it was more an impression than a memory. He drew a quick breath and glanced back to the sleeping child. 

"Tell me, how did you quiet him?"

"He is no different from other babes for all his lofty titles, Aranen," shrugged Dambethnîn, smiling gently. "He wants only to feel safe and loved."

"'Beth has a way with young ones," beamed Orophin, settling loving hands upon her shoulders.

"That she does," murmured Thranduil, nodding thoughtfully as he walked further into the room so to lay the child within his cradle. Taurant never stirred beyond a long, deep sigh and curled up under the blanket contentedly. 

The King trailed gentle fingers over the head of downy golden locks, heart rejoicing for here was the very answer he had been seeking. How wonderfully fitting that the elleth's name should reinforce the notion. Surely this was an indication that his judgement was just and right, for the only obstacle to carrying it out was herewith removed, if he could secure consent from Celeborn. 

"I would ask of you a great favour and it is good your Lord is here to sanction my proposal," said the King suddenly, turning and fixing the couple with his sharp, bright sight.

"What favour, Thranduil?" asked Celeborn, cautious but curious and hopeful, for he could almost see the idea collecting in the King's thoughts.

"I have need of a nurse for Taurant, a substitute naneth. I would ask Dambethnîn to serve in that role until the child is two years of age and ready to be weaned. What say you?" Thranduil spoke his answer to Celeborn but his eyes held to the Galadhrim couple.

"So then you will send Meril over sea?" asked Celeborn, hopeful and relieved.

"You ask much," Orophin said softly, uneasy about the implications of such a request.

"Yes!" Dambethnîn exhaled right after, avoiding her husband's eyes and smiling in joy toward the cradle.

"'Beth! We would not be able to go home; we would forfeit our seniority in the guard. I would not see my brothers or you your cousins. All this for a child that will never be our own and in the end we would have to give up," Orophin warned, squeezing hard to make her turn from her longing gaze and hear him. 

She did so, smiling into his worried eyes and cupping his face, bringing his lips to hers in a soft kiss. "Be at peace, I know whose child this is, but he is just a babe after all and needs someone to nurture and tend him. Let it be us, Pen Raug. Who could be better suited?" she whispered.

"There is no need to fear you would be forced to abandon the prince," Thranduil went on eagerly, spinning out the fantasy in his mind as he spoke. "He will have need of tutors in warcraft and who, indeed, would be better to teach him archery than two of Lord Celeborn's most trusted guards? There would be no restriction against travelling back to Lothlorien to visit, if you should so wish, nor on any family coming here, either. You could stay as long as you wish, until his majority if you like, with my cousin's permission, of course."

"I would not object to an exchange of warriors. Let two of your fine archers return with me to Lorien that the loss of my guards be lessened, and I am content," smiled Celeborn, watching the hope and happiness bloom in both Dambethnîn and Thranduil's eyes.

"Agreed. Choose anyone you wish," the King offered.

Celeborn refrained from naming Legolas and Lindalcon, however much he might deem it wise. The Tawarwaith would never abandon his Greenwood and Lindalcon would not forsake his siblings.

"Ai, 'Beth! Consider carefully. Our ways are not the ways of the woodland folk and these trees are not our Mellyrn." Orophin alone remained sceptical and wary of the contract, concerned over the volatile nature of the Lord they would serve. Yet to see his beloved so near to her heart's desire, after so many centuries of painful longing, was impossible to disregard. He sighed. "Ai, 'Beth."

"Orophin? Serve here with me and be the prince's mentor," she coaxed, her need so raw and filled with unbearable emptiness that there could be no way to love her and refuse. Orophin loved her more than anything else in all of Arda.

"So be it," he nodded, smiling as he kissed her back, hands falling to her waist. "This is an honourable task, to tutor the son of Greenwood's King in warcraft and wood lore." His wife threw hers arms about him, laughing, crying, thanking him, kissing him all at once. It was enough to make even Thranduil smile and Orophin met the monarch's gaze over his wife's shoulder. "I would be proud to accept a commission in your guard, Aranen, as long as it is understood such a position is ancillary and secondary to the loyalty and obedience tendered to Lord Celeborn. Should need arise, I would expect to be released from duty to defend my homeland."

"Then it is settled," Thranduil concluded. "I will remove to my former suite and you two may move in here. Echuir'oss has chambers just there," he pointed to an adjoining door within an arched alcove. "I will introduce you and explain everything to her when she wakes. Send bearers to Lorien to retrieve whatever personal items you may need. Now, excuse me for there is much to which I must attend." He bent and pressed a kiss to the sleeping babe's head and left the nursery, calling commands for the reordering of his affects, striding off to the great stairs again, Celeborn hastening to catch up.

"I am pleased, Thranduil. Letting the Valar decide the fate of the mother is best. I know she holds your heart and you would spare her, yet this is necessary. You will be reunited in the future and then the love you bear her will at last find true fruition," he murmured this encouragement as they descended, but Thranduil ignored his consoling words.

"Celeborn, I have need of yet another favour," he halted suddenly and turned to ask.

"Anything," Celeborn gripped his arm warmly.

"I beg you will retrieve from Aewendil the foul dagger of Caranthir, for I intend to dismantle the gates and melt them down, freeing my brothers' spirits at last and forever. That vile blade must also be reduced to liquid and the twisted soul bound within it transferred to a less dangerous tomb." 

The Lord of Lorien could hardly refuse such a request and, while uneasy in his heart, he thought perhaps this desire to undo the binding of spirits was a positive development. Yet he failed in this simple task, for neither Aewendil nor Mithrandir were anywhere in the fortress and none of the councillors knew whither they had gone. He returned without the dagger to find Thranduil already removed to the vaults. There, too, he descended, curious in spite of himself, eyes darting beyond his kinsman's form to glance upon bright gems and shining metal, a hoard more vast and more precious than anything he had beheld since his youth in Doriath.

Celeborn remained just over the threshold of the vestibule of the Three Doors, one foot still comfortably poised upon the lowest step in case a hasty retreat was in order, caught by the image before him, speechless and frozen in both dread and wonder. Thranduil worked to remove the heavy wrought iron barriers from their hinges, the ringing echo of his mallet on the iron chisel resounding rhythmically through the cavern.

Stripped to the waste and barefoot, broad back straining as muscles flexed to wrestle the metal free, he strived against the barrier with diligent perseverance for the welds were made to be permanent. There lay his formal finery discarded on the floor and with it was cast aside Malgalad, forgotten as quickly as any paltry bit of fob and fancy. There lay his noble and mighty mien with them. No kingly power exuded from this toiling ellon, skin bright with the sheer sheen of labour. No kingly power but power of a more visceral sort, anger and fury poured into every action, lending their heated energy to the task, internal weapons channelled, directed, controlled as only a seasoned veteran of innumerable wars and strife could wield them. Thranduil attacked the gates, bent upon their utter destruction.

As compelling as this sight was, it was not his kinsman's efforts that so engaged the elder lord's attention. To the King's right and behind him a pair of spectral overseers monitored his progress. Celeborn had spied shades before but none so fully formed as these and he had no difficulty recognising the brothers. Indeed, he had been pleased to treat them as younger brothers long ago when he and Doriath were both young, enjoying the privilege to the full, and they had returned that friendship until Oropher left, taking his clan with him. Tramborlong (Heavy Fist), the eldest of the brothers, favoured the comrade of his youth with a smile.

"It is good that you are here." 

The spirit's lips moved but the voice belonged to Thranduil and this gave Celeborn a severe jolt as his sight fled to the King. He inhaled deeply to steady his racing pulse, unsure at first to whom he should reply, but Thranduil remained committed to his task, no indications apparent that he realised he had company of any sort in the place.

"Trambor," Celeborn began and faltered, finding the usual greetings and pleasantries just did not apply. "I am saddened and shocked. What is happening here? Is your younger brother bewitched, possessed?"

"He does as we demand." Oropher's middle son replied, his words issuing also from the monarch's mouth.

"Was it you in the throne room; was it your doom pronounced or his?" Celeborn could not say why this seemed so vital to make them admit, only that instinct warned the spirits before him were not as they had been in life. The long centuries of imprisonment had twisted and distorted their once honourable natures and he sensed only the desire for vengeance and revenge.

"His doom, our will," answered Tramborlong calmly. "This must be redressed." His vapourous hand gestured toward the elaborate gates and still the cryptic words fell from Thranduil's lips.

"What will you do?" Celeborn found his skin crawling with aversion, imagining the freed feär crowded inside Thranduil's body, forcing the King's soul out. Destroying the gates suddenly seemed like a bad idea.

"Thranduil will do it and thus shall his transgressions be remitted and our unjust captivity avenged. He will suffer as he has caused others to suffer. All that he loves will be lost to him and yet remain near at hand lest he forget."

"Tell me what you mean to do," urged Celeborn. "Would you steal his body and banish him to Wandering? Mayhap he deserves such a fate, yet there are innocents to consider."

"Aye. Though you cannot see it, what we demand will be better for them. They should not grow up here in the tutelage of our brother's demented pride, reared by a murderess who has now driven her first-born to certain death as well."

It was too much, the children's doom uttered so calmly in their father's haughty tones. Were Tramborlong and Thruin'naur as they had been in life, then Celeborn might agree the prince and princess of Greenwood would benefit from their insight and wisdom, their courage and compassion. These corrupted phantoms of Neldoreth's princes were not fit influences for impressionable minds. Alarmed, Celeborn stepped forward and laid his hand upon Thranduil's shoulder, shaking him roughly. 

"Kinsman! Thranduil, hear me and answer!" he commanded. 

"Celeborn?" Thranduil stopped his work and turned, an expression of irritated indulgence settling over his features, for the Lord of Lothlorien was one of the few elves to whom he would defer. "Forgive me, I was so fully absorbed in my task that I failed to hear your step. What is amiss?" An instant of dread overtook him as he worried after his little babe, but the fortress was still and peaceful. He smiled, recalling his bargain with the Galadhrim elleth and her over-protective mate. "You look as if you've seen the Spirits of the Gates," he joked.

"So I have," nodded Celeborn, observing him closely. "They are here now." Yet when he glanced aside he found them gone and new fear arose. He took a step back from his cousin. "Thranduil, do you recall the hearing just concluded?"

"Of course." The King peered at Celeborn intently, seeing his kinsman's elevated state of alert, and then let his eyes traverse the vestibule. "I will never forget this horrendous night and its vile conclusion. Yet the Guardians are not here; I would surely know it for they despise me. They want nothing less than to destroy me." Thranduil patted his kinsman's shoulder in consolation, lightly amused to see the effect his captive brothers' had upon the noble and fearless Lord. "They would not try to do you harm, even were they here."

"Nay!" Celeborn slapped the hand away. "You spoke of possession before; you feared these spirits would use Legolas' body as their vessel. You must acknowledge that there are others here who share their blood, whose hroa would as easily, even more fittingly, to their thoughts, serve."

"Nay, there is only me and the children. Little can the babes do to effect my brother's vengeful plots," he chuckled darkly and propped his fists atop his hips. "Surely you do not imagine I would permit them to inhabit me, do you?" He shook his head, a fond smile upending his lips and a bright twinkle in his emerald eyes. Long had it been since anyone worried so for his welfare.

Celeborn did not find anything amusing in the situation, for he was sure he caught a darker glint in Thranduil's eyes, a darkening of the irises far from normal. Surely this indicated the foreign presence still had hold of him. How to treat with them? Could he still reach Thranduil or was all of this a mockery, the brothers manipulating their tormentor for their own amusement and his befuddlement. The King laughed abruptly and again settled a heavy hand on his elder's shoulder, and involuntarily Celeborn shrank from it.

"It is you and not he, then, with which I speak. I would have Thranduil come forth; I would address the King of Greenwood," he ordered, voice feigning fortitude he did not feel in his heart.

"What? Celeborn, it is I, Thranduil. What has come over you?" the King peered at him warily, for he had not considered the dilute and distant link to this Elven Lord sufficient for his brothers to employ. Yet he did not sense the spirits' presence in his kinsman's aura and frowned. "You truly believe me possessed."

"I watched as it happened, not knowing or expecting such, in the throne room. The wizards did not react and did nothing to intervene," Celeborn answered, licking dry lips, eyes darting between Thranduil's, which had momentarily cleared of the unwholesome gleam. "Perhaps there is some ward or spell Mithrandir knows that may preserve you from a recurrence. Come quickly!" He seized Thranduil's forearm and yanked him toward the stairs.

"Ai! Far! (Enough!)" Thranduil balked and freed himself, scowling at Celeborn. "You are mistaken. It is contrary to the nature of the spell for them to gain power over me. Go and leave me to my work." He turned and resumed his battering at the stubborn hinges, the ringing clamour invading the place and rendering speech impossible.

Deeply disturbed, Celeborn thought the wizards might be better equipped to manage the situation, for Thranduil had no inkling he was enthralled, yet the Istari were not inclined to interfere. That puzzled him, though he could not deny there was a kind of justice in the macabre situation. Aewendil especially might be disposed to permit the Woodland King to endure the fate he had imposed upon countless others. Yet given what he understood of such spells, the enchantment should be impossible, the reality before him unattainable. Had not Thranduil admitted a form of consent was required from the victim? 

_Aye, and Thranduil would never grant them access willingly._

Perhaps the brothers' hold was not as sure as they wanted it to appear. He watched his kinsman in silence a moment and considered the decision to begin the gates' dismantlement at this particular time. Surely if they were melted fully then the spirits would be utterly unbound and would try to make their hold on their brother's hroa permanent. Celeborn understood that the one elf who could stop them was the one they had successfully possessed. He needed to reach Thranduil and centred his hopes around the one point he believed might get through to him. He reached for the swinging arm and halted the next battering stroke.

"Cousin, surely someone else is better fitted to this arduous demolition process. Assign the chore to one of your trusted warriors and go to your little prince. Surely he has suffered today and your loving presence would ease his sleep and comfort his heart. What say you?" asked Celeborn in cordial tones.

"Nay, but I thank you for such concern." Thranduil acknowledged his kinsman, that strange, eery glint in his darkened eyes. "There is no other Elf here who possesses this skill. In Imladris, perhaps, there are Noldorin smiths who comprehend this art, but even they know nothing of casting souls. It was my will that imprisoned my brothers in the metal and only my will can free them absolutely."

"Yet you feared Legolas had become possessed with their essence," reminded Celeborn, crestfallen to see the prince's well-being made no impression. "How could that be if they are bound here?" 

"Enough. It was amusing for a time but we will not play at this game. Too serious is our need, Celeborn," Tramborlong answered with Thranduil's tongue. "The spell that binds us permits invasion of a living host, for so we kept the robbers from our muindor dithen's keep. Even so, once a living host passes beyond the bounds of the stronghold, we are compelled to relinquish our claim and condemned to resume our posts, literally.

"Yet one of our bloodline, that hroa we can fully inhabit; the only body deserving of such intrusion is this one, though we did reside alongside our nephew's soul briefly. Once before when Legolas was but a child we tried to take him over yet even so young he resisted with greater success than any other has before or since. Full, true possession requires consent and he was not willing."

"While Thranduil is? What madness do you try to make me accept? He would never agree to this."

"You understand so little," Thurin'naur resumed the lecture, the King's condescending tone fitting to his brother's cold words. "He is no longer our keeper. In taking the key from Thranduil, Legolas became Master of the Gates. Whatsoever the Master commands, the Spirits of the Gates must obey, yet before that a blood offering is demanded to secure the right to rule. Not just any blood, but blood of the same lineage, our lineage, the heritage of Oropher. He was bleeding unto death, by all accounts. More than enough to satisfy the enchantment."

Celeborn found this a blatant misdirection and said so. "That has nothing to do with Thranduil granting consent to this embodiment. As to being your Master, from all I have heard and seen, neither would the Tawarwaith order such a thing. His concern is only for his innocent siblings and he would spare Thranduil for their sake."

"Aye, he would," Thurin'naur's voice mellowed and he smiled. "Yet he cannot see how detrimental Thranduil's influence will be on those elflings. There is darkness in our youngest brother that cannot be burned out. Legolas cannot see it anymore than you can."

"Consider what you see before you," Tramborlong continued, his spectral arm raising his brother's to point toward the ghastly gates. "He devised this punishment specifically to mock us for all time, for we denounced his lust for wealth and reminded him always of Thingol's Doom. He made us his Gatekeepers to spite us."

"As we make him the instrument of his own destruction. It is just and fitting. He knows, of course, and writhes in misery here in the hidden recesses of his child-heart, but can do nothing to hinder us now."

"Nay, I do not accept this," Celeborn shook his head. "Tramborlong and Thurin'naur would not do this. The Elves I knew were not vicious and cruel. Release Thranduil. Leave his fate to the Valar. Turn from this evil vengeance and go in peace to Mandos." he exhorted, mindful that as yet they had not revealed the fullness of their design.

"Ah, we cannot go to Námo now, kinsman," sighed Thurin'naur. "We seek immersion within Tawar but that cannot happen as long as the Gates and the Lock and the Key remain. They must be melted down and Thranduil will see it done."

"What of Oropher?" Celeborn reminded, hoping desperately to awaken dismayed repentance in the ravaged spirits' consciousness. "Will he be pleased or heart-broken to see what has become of his offspring, all three turned to Shadow?" His question provoked a horrific reaction, for Thranduil gnashed his teeth and howled, turning to yank at the open-work of the wrought iron prison as though to pull it down with the might of his rage. Yet the spirits' fury was impotent and their brother sagged against the cold, black whorls in defeat before turning on Celeborn.

"Our friend of old would not torment us this way, seeing what we have suffered," accused Tramborlong. "We do what must be done and know well enough what Adar would think of this. Yet we will never see him again, nor our mates, unless Yavanna frees us from Tawar in the Last Days. We consider that sufficient to atone for whatever precepts of the Valar we must defy to bring about this reversion of Thranduil's evil."

"Evil does not beget good, Trambor. You know this," Celeborn reminded. "Do not fall prey to your brother's demented rationalisations while dwelling in his flesh. Think! There is much more to be decided here than personal grievances, serious though yours are. The fate of two realms is tied up in this mess. Is it right for you two to oversee the trial and determine the punishment of Lord Elrond of Imladris? No wrongs has he done to either of you."

"No wrongs?" Thranduil's voice was hard and sharp with Thurin'naur's words. "Legolas was wronged and he is our nephew. He will be avenged."

"He would not want that," argued Celeborn, watching in dismay as a new sense of purpose overtook Thranduil's features and he cast away the tools he held.

"Yet it must be done. The Peredhel Lord is more than he seems, as is Legolas. Both must be healed." 

Thranduil hurried to the stairs and was bounding up them as the brothers' spoke, Celeborn following, dread and guilt gripping his heart. His speech had put Elrond in the spirits' awareness and what befell him now must lie to some degree at his feet. The wizards were needed and at the kitchen door the Lord of Lothlorien turned away to find them.

  
  


### Baul Gellui (Triumphant Torment)

  


The cold assaulted him with winter's passive violence, stealing his breath and forcing him to hasten, arms circling his chest with protective insulation, hands burrowing into the underarms, eyes squinting against the voracious and frigid air. Erestor meant to circle around through the garden to the side entrance into the Chamber of Starlight but just before he ducked in a figure rounded the curve of the mountain and he paused, recognising Feärfaron, and waited, eager to learn if he had word of Legolas. The grim ellon was shaking his head even before Erestor could pose his questions, for his hope was in his eyes.

"We will likely hear nothing more tonight or even on the morrow, for the trees are deep in sleep as the freeze worsens. Even Tawar cannot raise them in such conditions and the one alert already rendered is all we can expect." Feärfaron sighed and reached out to settle an encouraging grip on the Noldo's biceps, much as he would do for Legolas. Realising that, he offered a bemused smile to the seneschal, for somehow he had adopted this one as well.

"I must try, then, and escape the wizards' ban and go forth to find him," said Erestor. "Do not oppose me, Feärfaron, for I know you want him back as much as I."

"Aye, but I have known him longer than have you," reminded the kindly carpenter. "He would never forgive me if I permitted you to leave the safety of the city. I can do nothing less than add my edict to Mithrandir's: you are to remain in the fortress until the fate of your kinsman is decided."

Erestor's brows rose up; he had all but forgotten Elrond's arrival. "Where is he?"

"The storage room."

The seneschal could not prevent the gasp of shock this answer initiated. Though he had been in the fortress many days, he had not had courage enough to enter that vile place. Well he knew its part in Legolas' history but Erestor felt no desire to visit the setting where his beloved Pen-Rhovan had been so cruelly defamed and debased, shame and self-hatred incised into his flesh. Now he would go, eager to confront his cousin and make certain Elrond was duly impressed with the harsh reality of Legolas' life in Greenwood. He moved to step past Feärfaron and at once the carpenter's hold tightened and snatched him to a halt.

"He is to be redeemed; that is Legolas' will."

"Legolas is generous to a fault and mayhap there is nothing of my cousin's former nobility to save, yet I mean only to speak with Elrond."

Feärfaron studied his law-son's eyes for truth and found it. With a brisk nod he released Erestor and went on his way, heading for the comfort of Annaldír's bedroom where both his sons had found rest and refuge. He could do nothing now but wait and pray.

It was but a short walk to the humble oak barrier behind which Legolas' darkest torments had been staged. Nearing it, Erestor tried to put himself in his heart-mate's place, attempted to feel what it must have been like to go willingly to such torture. Though he had brought Pen-Rhovan to peace over it, Erestor could not suppress the nausea and rage that filled him when he imagined the wild elf taking up that whip and flaying his flesh with it. He reached the door and threw it wide, expecting it to be locked, and the heavy boards slammed against the stony wall with a loud report. In the dim light, he saw a kneeling figure startle and cower in the reverberating noise.

"Who is there?" Elrond's voice was high and laced with fear, the smell of his terror strong, the sound of his respiration audible.

"It is I." Erestor entered and left the door open, making his way in the faint illumination to a shelf upon the far wall. There he found a lamp and flint and lit a flame to light the place. He raised the candle high and surveyed his cousin, marking the chains that held his wrists bound to the posts, arms outstretched, face downcast in mortification. "Look at me, Elrond." He waited but the defamed Lord refused, giving a half-hearted shake of his head. Erestor uttered an impatient noise and set down the lamp in order to close the door. He turned the latch and noted with satisfaction how Elrond's spine twitched in response.

"What…what are you going to do?" asked Elrond, daring a swift glance at his old friend. He caught the light of the new bond at once and his mouth dropped open in amazement.

"I just need to hear you admit your errors," Erestor answered, drawing near. "I am pleased to see you confined as Legolas was. To whom must I express that appreciation?"

"The carpenter. He is some kind of Spirit Master," mumbled Elrond. "He said Legolas would have me returned to Imladris restored to my former status, yet I find that impossible to imagine."

"Why say such insulting things to me? Do you not know he is my mate now? You try me to the limit and beyond! Ai! But for Legolas' strong conviction would I not use this opportunity to inflict a penance such that you would never forget it? Truly do you deserve it!" spat Erestor, furious to hear this odious Lord malign Pen-Rhovan's compassionate spirit. 

"Aye, yet I meant no insult; my words were poorly chosen. I only meant it is difficult to envision that I will ever be the same again. Listen to me, Erestor; I have seen the depth of my descent into dishonour and regret every iniquitous act. The Wardens of the Gates so instructed me; be thankful your chastisement has been less gruelling."

"Is it so?" Erestor surveyed him keenly and suddenly stooped low to meet his kinsman's eyes. "What can you know of the castigation tendered to me? Spirits have visited you while the Valar have shaken me in their teeth like a hound with a hare."

"And yet rewarded you." A quick flash of jealousy ignited in Elrond's heart and he gave it voice. "The bond is plain to see; how did you manage that with two others already linked to your soul?" Erestor's reaction was swift and painful and Elrond's cheek stung with the force of the slap that landed there.

"Do not speak to me thus," hissed Erestor, rising. "I was never bound to them and well you know it. It seems the Spirits did not excise all the spiteful rancour from your heart. I know what prompts such words; you desire him. In the covetous contours of your twisted soul you want to punish me for receiving the grace of his love."

"Preposterous," scoffed Elrond but his eyes could not bear his cousin's stare.

"Nay, I know all about it." Erestor's voice took on the perilous timbre of a predator's growl. "I have heard the lies you spread throughout Imladris regarding my reasons for being here. Treason! You dared speak the loathsome word in conjunction with my name and not in private, old friend, but to the council, to Glorfindel! No one has served Imladris as whole-heartedly; no one has been as loyal to you as I. Who was it that cared for your grieving heart after Gil-galad's death? Who else has been beside you to share the deepest secrets of your soul and still named you friend?"

Elrond said nothing, his face averted in belligerent defiance, fingers rigidly wrapped around the chains at his wrists.

"Speak!" shouted Erestor and struck again, knuckles boring into a soft, unguarded eye. "When have I wronged you? What was my crime?"

"Never! Nothing!" The skin at the corner of the lid split as Elrond howled his answer, head snapping back with a jarring explosion of scintillating stars. "Saes, Erestor, I was not in my right mind when I made those accusations. Rest assured, every one of them will be retracted and your honour restored. Saes, say that you will forgive me and call me friend still." Elrond pleaded, real remorse in his voice. He dared a glimpse into Erestor's face, wincing beneath the furious glare focused upon him.

"Forgiveness. I am so angry right now I dare not say yea or nay to that," Erestor shook his head in disgust, aggrieved to have succumbed to such strong emotion, and stepped aside for a moment to collect himself. "We share the same blood and yet you turned against me while I alone stood before the King, his council, and all the populace of Greenwood attempting to answer for our misdeeds. The expressions on their faces, Elrond! Never have I been regarded with such contempt. Never have I been so deserving of it."

"I am truly sorry, mellonen; I should have been the one to absorb their just anger," Elrond consoled, struggling to focus through the uninjured eye as the other quickly swelled shut.

"Aye." Erestor faced him once more, not entirely displeased to observe the battered countenance Elrond presented. "Yet I am glad I was there instead of you for the trial was horrible for Legolas and he could not have borne it had you been present to witness his abasement. Thranduil told them all, Elrond. Before everyone he revealed what sport we made of the Tawarwaith, how he fell victim to our seductions. I still cannot comprehend how you conjured the venom penned into that vicious note. What made you do it? Had you not hurt him enough?"

"Nay! The letter was used as evidence?" Elrond had forgotten that missive in his encompassing self-pity. Now he ground his teeth in futile repudiation of his vindictive action.

"Worse than that. Aragorn destroyed the document and so Thranduil forced Legolas to admit it himself. Standing there, watching this, I could not deny any of it; indeed, by my ineffectual attempt to cast doubt on Thranduil's words I ended up confirming them. Nor could I be at Legolas' side and help him through it because of my own part in these black deeds. The betrayal I perpetrated on Legolas is so terrible it makes me ill to recall it."

"Aragorn has seen that? Ai! What he must think!" Elrond moaned, head low upon his breast.

"Valar! Can you not get past your own circumstances for even an instant? You should be asking if Legolas has knowledge of it. Can you still refuse to feel the depth of humiliation your actions inflicted upon him? By the stars, I will not have it!" Erestor roared, quite beyond reason as the scenes of the hearing replayed and he witness again his beloved wild elf's mortification. Enraged, he inflicted another blow, the dull thud of his fist against Elrond's cheek bone echoing in the confined space, the cry of pain and surprise following just as loud. Breathing hard, fingers curled into ready weapons, Erestor leaned close, wild-eyed and fey. "Tell me, what do you most fear will happen here, mellon?"

"What? Erestor, please, I am prepared to answer for my crime but this abuse is uncalled for," Elrond protested, heart rate increasing as the menace in the seneschal's tone escalated. "I want to make amends."

"Bah! Empty is that proclamation, spawned as it is by fear instead of contrition." Erestor lashed out again and bloodied his cousin's nose. "Nor are words sufficient to reveal the real horrors Legolas endured, particularly those performed in this room," Erestor scolded. He folded his arms before him and gazed in speculative appraisal upon his long time friend, pleased by the unstemmed flow draining from the exalted ruler's nostrils, the gaping mouth noisily gulping air. "And I know you well; you are always ready to ply pretty words to convince others of your sincerity. Such does not serve Legolas' purpose." He strolled around Elrond completely and then smiled a dark and vengeful grin as he slowly unsheathed his dagger and held it up, suddenly wishing it was the one that had so long teased Legolas with the solace of death.

"Wait!" Elrond gasped and thrashed in his chains, the noisy clanking harsh and mocking. "You would not pierce the flesh of your cousin and Lord!"

Erestor did not reply, darting forward and taking firm hold of Elrond's tunic. Faster than the eye could follow, he passed the blade through the elegant fabric from neck to hem, quickly doing the same down the length of each arm. The ruined garment fell away to the floor and the seneschal treated shirt and undershirt to the same destruction, ignoring Elrond's panting breath and panicked eyes. When the famed Lord of Imladris was bared to the skin, Erestor stepped back and nodded in satisfaction as the cold worked goose-pimples upon the exposed flesh. Yet it was not enough, for Legolas had been forced to strip down completely whenever he entered this room. Erestor crouched on his heels and sliced the leggings from waistband to crotch, front and back, relishing Elrond's alarmed cry and roughly snatching the destroyed garment from each leg. Then he stood and glared down at the Elven Lord naked and vulnerable before him.

"Aye, that is better," he said, nodding with satisfaction at Elrond's unsuccessful attempts to shield his genitals from view and recover some semblance of dignity. "That vile Ailinyero made him undress under his lecherous leer. At least you are spared so grotesque an encounter."

"Erestor, please…"

"Nay! Beg no boon from me, Elrond! If I had that disgusting whip I would put it in your hands and demand you endure what Legolas inflicted upon himself." Erestor fought the urge to land a forceful kick in the Lord's groin, turning and pacing into the depths of the chamber and back. Yet his efforts failed and he planted his booted foot solidly against the exposed balls, watching with malicious glee as Elrond screamed a shrill shriek and tried to curl over the abused glands. 

The chains held him upright and he groaned, gagging on the blood draining from his nose. The agony took some little time before the throbbing ebbed and he was sufficiently recovered to speak. "But why? I am not the one who called down the Judgement of Erebor upon Legolas."

"Can you still be so resistant to owning your sins?" Erestor was beyond disgusted and felt the need to throttle the throat that had uttered such a self-serving sentence. 

Instead he struck a wringing slap against his cousin's tender ear that was completely unsatisfying and stomped away in frustrated rage. He paced about at the back of the room, became aware of the small table stuffed into the corner, moved toward it. Resting on its surface was a neat, dark coil and he reached for it, fingers encountering the cold contours of steel loops linked into a chain no greater than a finger's width in dimension. The sound as it lifted into the air was almost lyrical, like the tones of temple bells tolling or wind chimes singing. At its terminus was a smooth wooden handle that fit his hand with perfection and Erestor nodded, accepting his role as the Tawarwaith's avenger, a role brought into being during his confrontation with Malthen. He returned slowly to his cousin and showed him the instrument of his chastisement, pleased as Elrond's eyes grew large and filled with horror. 

"Erestor," Elrond swallowed down more blood and panted out two noisy breaths. "I am not recalcitrant. I swear to you my remorse is real. This level of brutality is not required to make me feel it."

"So true, yet Legolas had not the option to plead as you are doing now for there was no one in all this great forest who cared enough to heed him, and that lies at your feet, also." So saying Erestor lifted the whip and laid down the first lash upon Elrond's shoulders. In its wake a long red wound appeared and the Lord of Imladris gasped aloud, jerking in his bonds as the burning flash of agony burst upon him. 

"Nae! Far, Erestor!" He lifted disbelieving eyes to his kinsman, unable to encompass that he must endure this savagery.

"Still thinking about your own woes?" sneered Erestor and added another stripe to the pale white back, gratified to raise a cry of pain this time. "Without your interference in Legolas' life, he would have become Thranduil's beloved heir. I have no doubt the King would have recognised the similarity between his first-born and his deceased father. Even I can see it, now that Feärfaron has pointed it out, and I did not know Oropher well. That would have endeared the elfling to his sire despite the uncanny physical resemblance to Ningloriel. Indeed, his birth would likely have healed the rift between them, so grateful would Thranduil have been for such a gift. It was you who prevented that, Elrond. I know about the talisman you sent the King just prior to Legolas' birth."

Two more tearing strikes fell.

Elrond struggled to breathe, his echoing scream having deprived him of every ounce of air in his lungs, the pain excruciating, driving all else from awareness. An indeterminate amount of time passed as the fire gradually cooled and the trickling blood clotted leaving dark tears trailing from the open gashes. When his brain could produce something other than the demand to flee, Elrond wondered in confusion over his kinsman's claim. Slowly he raised his bowed head to gape at his worthy advisor, chest heaving for oxygen, body trembling in agony.

"You know? How? The only reference to it is a note in my personal diary. Did you…?"

"Nay, your guess is incorrect." Until this Erestor had remained still and silent, watching for the realisation to collect in Elrond's face. Now the words revealed another charge of betrayal and his lip curled in sneering disgust. "I have never invaded your privacy thus. Thranduil was pleased to share with me the very items he will bring to your trial. These will establish your malicious intent to disrupt the royal family and destroy the House of the Beeches; testimony written in your own hand. What your punishment will be he refuses to discuss, even with Celeborn."

"Celeborn." Elrond's wan cheeks paled even more and he felt a powerful surge of bile rise up, envisioning his law-father's reaction to this evidence. The response likely from his sons made him wail in sorrow. "Elrohir will never forgive me. You know he always wanted to find Legolas and bring him to Imladris, certain Ningloriel's child was his brother."

"Your sons are honourable, as you were once. They love you and in time they will grant you pardon, but only when you have fully exerted every ounce of your ability to repair the damage you have wrought upon Legolas and this beleaguered realm. Let this be the beginning for you. You are counted wise among elf-kind and your sense of justice has ever been sought when conflict arises between people or even between nations. Tell me what your verdict would be in such a case as this."

"What do you mean?" Elrond knew very well what he meant but hoped to forestall so terrible a fate.

"Let us imagine the situation in reverse," Erestor persisted calmly, crouching low on his haunches and smiling as he slowly drew the gory chain across his palm, its sound less melodious now. "Thranduil and Talagan have crossed the borders of Imladris. Their design to locate Arwen and seduce her then blame this debauchery on their victim, accusing her of absent morals, licentiousness, and promiscuity, dissolving the natural dignity and grace bestowed by Eru and reducing her to despair." He paused, studying the one good eye as it filled with horror, observing Elrond's struggle to master the urge to retch. 

"Is this truly the first time you have viewed your crimes in these terms?" He gave a soft snort of derision. "Well, then, consider it thoroughly before rendering your decision. I would hear it from your own lips, Elrond. How many lashes does such evil deserve? But nay, do not answer hastily. Remember that the scene described is but one small incident in a long chain of events Thranduil has inspired, all designed to ruin the life of an innocent."

Seconds sped away into eternity as the two stared each other down. At last Elrond grimaced and gave a faint shake of his head.

"I would not demand corporal punishment," he said and knew it for the lie it was. The falsehood earned him another lash as Erestor leaped up and snapped the chain against his buttocks.

"Try again."

Breathing hard, Elrond nodded in dejected defeat, for there was no escaping his culpability, no denying he would rip to pieces anyone who so much as threatened the reputation of his beloved youngest child, much less anything worse. 

"Aye. 'Tis the truth," he struggled to speak through the pain, aware of the hot streaks of blood dripping down his thighs. "I would demand a stiff penalty. So be it, Erestor; I will speak my doom even as I would impose it on anyone who acted as I have done. A lashing is a paltry punishment indeed, for the wounds will heal while the damage such dealings as mine inflicted is permanent. I cannot go back in time and unwrite that letter which condemned Legolas to his father's cold hatred."

"No, you cannot."

"Nor can I stop Malthen from taking advantage of his lowly estate, abusing his heart and his body, teaching him to long for pain and believe that is all he deserves. It has already happened to him and cannot be undone."

"Aye, you begin to see."

"I can never return to him that dream of a distant father, noble and good, who might someday send for him and welcome him proudly," Elrond whispered, suddenly finding his voice choked more with tears than the fire of his wounds. "I think that was the worst betrayal, for it was the very last dream of his elfling heart, the very last hope snatched away and used to bludgeon his innocent soul."

"Yes, that is what we did to him. Tell me, what should such vile people endure to compensate for these evils?" Erestor asked, shoulders slumped and head hung low in bitter shame.

"There is no means to expiate such sins," Elrond mumbled, shaking his head.

"Even so, you must pass judgement."

"Then beat me until the floor runs red and my senses leave me. Cast me out and banish me from Imladris, disown me and name me traitor." Elrond groaned, ready to endure this penance, finding it insufficient and trifling in comparison to the wrongs weighing down his soul.

"No, that is too much and Legolas would not forgive me. How many lashes?" demanded Erestor, giving the whip a short jerk so the chain rattled its high-toned taunt.

Elrond raised his head and gazed at his old friend and kinsman, seeing that he must choose the number and finding this fitting. He smiled a wan smile and offered a soft, self-deriding laugh. "What was his sentence? Twenty-four years banishment for each warrior lost? Give me the same in blows."

"Seventy-two lashes." Erestor spoke the sentence to confirm it.

"Aye, seventy-two. No need to deduct those already applied, consider them payment for the unjust charges I levelled to besmirch your good character, mellonen."

"So be it," agreed Erestor, "and when I am done you will give the same number to me." He moved a step away and readied his stance.

"No, that would not be fair," argued Elrond, straining to look over his shoulder and meet his cousin's gaze. "You were not the instrument of this scheme and you were not involved in destroying Thranduil's regard for his son. Twenty-four is more than enough for you to bear."

"Twenty-four it shall be," Erestor nodded, a serene smile overwhelming his features, and he raised his arm for the first blow. "One," he said quietly and the whip descended with a sickening wet sound as it burst the skin and ripped it away, Elrond's cry of anguish still echoing as the next lash fell and then the next and sixty-nine more after that until the floor was painted crimson and the seneschal spattered with the dark, vermilion spray.

  
  


### Farad Heria (The Hunt Begins)

  


Legolas paused for the third time, resting in weary and impatient disgust against the trunk of the silent tree, lungs heaving and a fine film of sweat adhering to his skin for all the bitterness of the deepening freeze. Now when speed was so essential he found his body unable to obey, the loss of blood and his ensuing pleasures with Berenaur more sapping of his energy than he had calculated. The wound ached with a hollowing, gouging pain, surging and ebbing with his elevated pulse, protesting the exertion of climbing and running through the limbs, and he gingerly slipped a hand beneath the woollen tunic and silk shirt, touching the bandage, fearful of finding the linen damp and warm. With relief he felt no indications that Gladhadithen's meticulous work had been undone and shivered, pulling the panther-skin cloak closer to his body. 

Touching the fur made him smile in spite of the dire situation. Never had he been so well dressed as this, for Berenaur, understanding that he must go forth, had taken pains to cover him in many layers, the actions ritualistic and solemn as though calling down the protection of the Valar with every garment added, his touch gentle, reverent, and lingering as though it might be the last time his fingers ever caressed the marred skin and Legolas was moved beyond speech. Never had he felt so loved and he spent long minutes simply leaning against the Noldo's broad chest, secure in Berenaur's arms, the hold enveloping, possessive, filled with fear the older elf would not voice. 

To feel his mate's breath ghosting through his hair, the faint pressure of lips gracing the golden strands with tender endearment, the warmth of the virile body supporting him was an experience so unique and new he could hardly accept it as reality. To hear the quietly spoken avowal of love, to see the proof of it in dark eyes bright with the sheen of unshed tears, raised up his soul to heights unimagined even in his fairest dreams, and Legolas reached for a long tendril of the seneschal's ebony tresses, slicing it free and weaving into a thin plait. Smiling, both proud and shy, he knelt and wrapped this token around his ankle, covering forever the white reminder of that which had been there for so long a time.

It had been too much for Berenaur, this traditional sylvan gift of parting between lovers, and he had dropped to the floor, fingers running over the criss-crossed braid, silver tears wetting it, yet he did not speak, made no demands that Legolas give up this quest, knowing full well such words could only add to his Pen-Rhovan's burdens. Much as he longed to do it, Erestor could not accompany Legolas, for his skill in the trees was negligible and his presence would only force the sylvan archer to become his living shield, preventing any harm befalling his beloved. 

They had not even discussed it, a long look passing between them when the carpenter brought Lindalcon's note to his heart-brother. All objections, regrets, trepidations, and hopes flowed from one soul to the next and back, the boundaries dividing their spirits all but vanished. Fearfaron left them to manage the parting as best they could and finally the moment arrived. Erestor stood again and settled Oropher's cape over the Tawarwaith's shoulders, fastening it with the great ruby Hûn-en-Ûr as he claimed a long and pleading kiss, begging not for him to stay but to return, promising to be there waiting when he did.

The quiver was last of all and because the great King had been an archer, too, the cloak was made to accept the strapping without obstructing movement or lessening the insulating properties of the fur. Spontaneously each clasped the other's hand, raising it to venerate the symbolic circles of their eternal bond with reverent lips. Only then did the carpenter return, having waited at the talan's base all this time, bearing a new pair of low leather boots for his adopted son and a small pouch of provisions. Father to a warrior an Age before Legolas was conceived, Fearfaron made no fuss about his leave taking, simply commanding his Ion Edwen to return whole and hale and with Lindalcon in the same condition. There had been nothing left but for the Tawarwaith to go from his family and he did so, leaping to the ground and racing from the clearing that had been his haven since childhood.

High in the denuded canopy, Legolas sighed in contentment. Quite different was this departure from his last for now he had a home to return to, a mated spouse who loved him and a doting father waiting there. Before, only Fearfaron had cared to make certain he had what he would need in the wilds. Then, it had been the carpenter fixing the rough wolf skin cloak around him, fussing about the crude manufacture and insubstantial bulk of the pelt. The comparison brought forth an unexpected sensation of nostalgia as the memory of an earlier winter in Greenwood came to mind; the winter of his fourth year in exile. Then, he did not have even that rugged cloak of wolf fur to shield him from the relentless cold. 

As is the way of remembrance, one image spawns another and he recalled the day he had acquired the thick salt and pepper pelt. That had been a winter's night much like this, but Ithil was bright and round then, the trees and the ground beneath them dusted with glistening snow. 

_Crouched in close to the trunk of a massive oak, the Tawarwaith hunkered down in miserable discontent as an icy blast of wind got inside his meagre defence against the cold. Wearing little more than tattered leggings and the hide of a buck complete with head and antlers resting atop his scalp, he cursed the weather, demanding of Yavanna the reason for such a harsh distinction between seasons. He tugged the buckskin lower round his ears. The strange costume was useful as much for camouflage as for warmth, for the rich chestnut colour of the deer's coat helped him blend in against the leafless branches where his pale skin and golden hair were easy to spot. _

_He needed superior vigilance during winter for the Orcs knew their advantage and pressed hard, hunting him relentlessly. Every stream and pool of clean water was watched; each place where game might be had guarded. Yet for all they viewed him as one, Legolas was not an animal and, in any case, every wild thing had sense enough to plan and provision for the long cold months. He was not less wise than the voiceless creatures of Greenwood. It was while en route to one of these hidden caches that he found his way blocked and by the most unexpected gathering._

_The place where his provisions were stored was in one of the ancient rings of oaks, formerly a sacred site and still a safe haven amid the expanding pockets of turned trees dotting the central region of the forest. At the far end of the circle and just behind its largest member stood an immense hollowed oak, its innards carved out by an animal or some blight of evil perhaps, the gaping hole patched over by Legolas using bark and branches gleaned from deceased hardwoods. The carefully concealed opening permitted him to hide the foodstuffs he had worked so hard to collect during summer. Now he had need of the supplies and thus had come to his secluded refuge only to find the clearing filling with dire wolves._

_They loped in from the opposite side of the glade, arriving in pairs or threes almost at the same time he reached the perimeter. Frustrated and hungry, he was about to fire an arrow to scare them off when the beasts formed a circle within the space and sat down nearly in unison. Lifting their lupine muzzles skyward the wolves began baying at the moon, their song both mournful and majestic, the tones rising and falling in that eery and mysterious cadence specific to the breed. They seemed to be calling for something or someone, the reverberating chant replete with longing anticipation, or perhaps it was a kind of enchantment, a ritual of magic to mark the first full moon of winter._

_Legolas was mesmerised, listening to their voices, learning their song, and just when its meaning began to reach his awareness the first of the transformations occurred. Before his very eyes, two of the wolves changed shape, becoming human in form, male and female, and to one another they turned in both joy and sorrow. Naked under the light of Ithil, they embraced and kissed, speaking now the silent language of love, and coupled there amid the moonlight._

_The others changed also yet not all had mates and those lacking partners took upon themselves the duties of the pack, gathering wood and lighting a ring of fires just inside the bounding trees to provide light and warmth. The red and orange flames danced and crackled, lending the writhing bodies atop the snow their colour, and Legolas, knowing he should not be watching, could not tear his eyes away. They were beautiful to see and their passion ignited a hunger of an entirely different nature in his loins. So long had he been alone and he found that he envied them, for though they must wait for this reunion of flesh until the summit of Tilion's monthly journey, yet it was far better than the encounters he endured among his people in the same interval. _

_"A deer up a tree, now here is a sight to recount to the young pups next summer."_

_Legolas startled and turned to locate the source of the voice, finding a pair of amused amber eyes regarding him from the base of the oak, their owner a tall, sinewy male sporting shoulder length black and silver hair and nothing else. He was well formed and knew it, standing with his arms crossed over his chest beneath which dark hair peeked, legs planted wide, a proud erection rising between muscular thighs that were equally hairy. Legolas swallowed, not entirely in lustful anticipation, for this was not an elf and he was not so sure what kind of manners these creatures possessed. If this gaur (Wolf-man) tried to force him he would have no choice but to kill it, and that would be a great shame. _

_"Standing there with mouth agape serves none, wild elf; come down and join us," coaxed the werewolf, his eyes freely wandering over Legolas lean figure beneath the deer-skin cloak. "And do cast off that ridiculous outfit. Does not fool anyone, save Orcs perhaps."_

_"That is who it is supposed to fool," retorted Legolas. "Why should I come down, gaur? I have no wish to become the main course in your wolvish feast."_

_The gaur laughed. "A feast of flesh you are, indeed, but not for satisfying the belly. There are other hungers to feed as I suspect you may be aware. Come down; join me."_

_"Nay, you come up here," Legolas challenged, believing that old yarn regarding dogs being unable to climb trees and feeling quite safe. It was with shock he perceived the triumphant gleam in the gaur's eyes as the beast easily clambered up the trunk. Instinctively, Legolas reached for his dagger and held it out, edging away as the werewolf settled beside him on the branch. "Stay back!" he warned._

_"I am unarmed," reminded the wolf-man, extending his hands wide to emphasise the point. "You did invite me, wild elf, and I intend you no harm, though you have hunted my kind on more than one occasion."_

_"I have not done so with purpose," objected Legolas, horrified to think the wolves he had once tracked and trapped were gaurwaith (were-wolves) instead. Hastily he stowed the knife back in its proper place. "I did not know."_

_"That is why we assign no blame to you. It was our choice to remain hidden and but for your discovery this night we would have remained so."_

_"Why? I do not understand you; are you seeking death?"_

_"Better death on the hunt than the yolk of evil to which the Wraiths would bind us as wargs. There is honour in the hunt. What of you? Are you not seeking death out here alone in these wastes of evil trees and Nazgûl?"_

_"I am here to undo a great wrong," Legolas said, looking away. He sighed heavily and rose to his feet. "Better that I leave you folk to your time of reunion. My presence here is likely to draw only trouble."_

_"So noble, so heroic, so self-sacrificing," the gaur intoned and chuckled darkly. "We can take care of ourselves, wild elf. Go if you must, but if you do be honest about it; admit your fear of me."_

_"I do not fear you," Legolas denied, angry over the mockery and rather unsettled as the creature's eyes again took his measure from crown to feet, even as his own gaze ran the length of the werewolf, pausing at the groin. The gaur rose and he retreated until his back met the bark._

_"Perhaps I misspoke. It is not me, as an individual, that you fear. It is what you feel, seeing me, being this close to me, that causes you so much distress. Why is that?" He reached out and gently caressed the wild elf's cheek, smiling as Legolas at first tried to duck the contact and then leaned into it. He bent low to nuzzle against the elf's throat, just there where the jugular was so rapidly pulsing, and dabbed his tongue over the vital vein, inhaling his quarry's fear and arousal. It excited him and he pressed closer, hot erection meeting the coarse hide of the wild elf's leggings. _

_"There is no need for such dread over what would surely be pleasurable to us both, hmmmm?" he whispered, one hand groping the hardness beneath the elf's simple garment. With the other the gaur dislodged the deer head hood. As it fell back, its weight dragged the rest of the cover away and revealed the smooth, naked chest with its twin points of ruby flesh. The werewolf touched them, pressing against the hard nipples, grinning when this raised a low moan. "What is your name, wild elf?"_

_"Legolas. What is yours, gaur?" He spoke with difficulty, finding he needed to concentrate on breathing rather than speaking, and cautiously settled his hand around the thick column of rigid flesh so insistently poking his hip._

_"Ah! Your touch is like fire!" the werewolf gasped, pivoting into the grip around his shaft and pulling Legolas close to taste his lips. With a triumphant growl he sampled the mouth that opened for him. "I am Celebanc." (Silver Tooth) He retreated only so far as needed to clearly view the elf's blue eyes, so conflicted and yet so eager. Celebanc sighed. "I would not harm you, Legolas. My mate is lost to me, as is yours."_

_"You know?" Legolas' mind had difficulty encompassing the idea for Celebanc's hand was now inside his leggings, gliding over his penis, cupping his balls. "Nay, I cannot," he groaned and spread his legs wider even as he said this._

_"Why? Because of that oath you were made to swear? Look at me. I am not elf-kind; your Law says nothing of my kind and thus nothing is forbidden. Get these deplorable pants off, Legolas." Celebanc was smiling as he nibbled his way up the long pale throat, lapped at the small earlobe, and then, unable to rein in his curiosity, nipped at the scarlet tip protruding from the golden hair. The response was unexpected but entirely gratifying as Legolas cried out aloud and his whole body was shaken, the spasm ending as the slender cock twitched, straining against his hold._

_"I do fear this," Legolas admitted, "though I want it and your need excites me. Proud and honourable you may be, but I have no wish to join your kind."_

_At this the gaur threw back his head and laughed long and loud, the sound taking on more of the wolf's gruff bark than he might wish. "Ai! It does not work like that," he declaimed once he reined in his hilarity. "Not with the First-born in any case. We can turn a mortal, a human, but not an elf. Be at peace, what we would share will not change you." _

_With that his hand slid down to cup Legolas' jaw, lifting his mouth to claim it, no longer soft in the contact but dominant and insistent. He did not spend long at it, just time enough to establish mastery and then retreat. Now his hands loosened the knotted leather tie securing the leggings and quickly tugged them down. Through all this he kept his eye locked with the immortal's, smiling reassurance and welcoming the elegant fingers that reached out to stroke the hair on his chest._

_"Like it?" he asked, the words a low growl of contentment as the digits continued exploring, testing the response of his nipples._

_"I have never felt anything similar," whispered Legolas, for the hair was soft and silky. He was pleased to find the dark red flesh nestled within it as responsive as his and ducked his head to lick the nipples, finding the sensation of the short strands against his tongue strange but not offensive. _

_Celebanc did the same to him, opening the clasps securing the quiver and easing it off, deftly setting the weapon in the crook of a tree limb, laughing and lightly passing his hands down Legolas' spine to settle on the elf''s tight round arse. "Verily are you naked but for the hair on your head and this small thatch of curls." He fingered the mass of golden pubic hair as he spoke and moved on to grip the hard penis again, pumping vigourously. "The wind must be a torment to you."_

_"The wind has not your skill," panted Legolas, imitating Celebanc's stimulation, eagerly fisting the rigid cock between the gaur's legs. "Valar, you are hard! Has it been long?"_

_"Aye." The werewolf thrust into his hold forcefully and the motion nearly sent them both toppling backwards into space. Legolas' quick snatch of a jutting limb prevented it and Celebanc found himself crushed tight against the sylvan body. "By Yavanna, how do you folk manage this in the trees? No wonder there are so few elflings."_

_Legolas laughed, rubbing sinuously against the hairy chest. "I imagine it is done the same way as any other people do."_

_"Well, I know nothing about the culture of the Wood Elves, but I know what we both need. Turn about and let me take you." Celebanc did not wait for Legolas' reply, taking him at the arms and helping him move, the sensation as his cock dragged against bare buttocks too much to endure without action. Quickly he gripped the slender hips and positioned himself, boring in with a harsh grunt as he breached the taut ring of muscles. _

_Legolas gasped as the familiar jolt of pain was overprinted by a bright flare of exquisite delight as Celebanc claimed him, the loud slap as their bodies collided exhilarating. He pressed back as the organ retreated, hanging on to the branch bearing his weight, awaiting the return thrust impatiently, calling out as soon as the long cock once more stroked his inner core. "So good," he moaned. "Harder, Celebanc." _

_The werewolf did not respond verbally, increasing his pace and the pressure of every invasive shove, fucking the wild elf with a frantic, frenzied urgency. It did not take him long to near his peak and as his loins gathered for the climax he reached beneath Legolas and grabbed at his cock, pumping it in time to his motion. Celebanc came with a victorious roar, seed spurting hot and thick deep inside his conquest. He continued to rock against the resilient body as he stroked Legolas to completion, relishing the long cry of ecstasy the wild elf emitted._

_He let go and pulled out suddenly, his weight vanishing from Legolas' frame, and the Tawarwaith blinked in confusion, gasping for breath, one hand locked around the tree branch and the other around his cock. It was not yet dawn, moonlight streaming down upon the clearing beneath the oak and Legolas found his eyes focused on the intelligent gaze of a great silver wolf. Maw gaping in a toothy grin, tongue lolling, the beast regarded him with what could only be amusement. Legolas groaned in misery and dropped his forehead to his supporting arm, realising he was alone in the tree. It had only been a dream. Carefully he sat back, finding his position draped over the branch rather unstable, nose wrinkling in disgust at the scent of his semen and the sticky mess coating his fingers. He shook them and wiped the excess against his leggings, which gaped wide. _

_Silently berating himself for succumbing to so bizarre a fantasy, he tied the leggings shut again and shivered, searching the tree for the deerskin cover, glad he still had his weapons securely about his person. The antlered buck hide was no where to be found and he cursed, realising it must have fallen to the ground, and then startled when the wolf gave forth a long, mournful cry. Legolas leaned cautiously out and peered down at the inspiration for his erotic dream, relieved to find the leering grin gone, replaced by a serious, almost speculative expression._

_"What do you want, draug (wolf) ?" he asked._

_The animal gave no answer, standing and trotting into the centre of the clearing where it sat again and lifted its muzzle to Ithil. Again the silence was shattered with its lonely call, but this time another voice answered. The rapid barks of the pack calling back to its leader grew ever closer until ten or twelve more wolves loped into the clearing. Legolas held his breath, wondering if his dream was about to prove true, but the beasts were agitated and just as swiftly departed, entering the woods as another sound caught his notice. Right on the wolves tails came the distorted snarling and gnashing of wargs, their mutated cousins, and it was clear a hunt was in progress. The opposing forces clashed and a horrible battle of tearing teeth commenced, the howls and barks and yaps of pain terrible to hear. _

_All at once, the creatures tumbled in a roiling mass back into the glade, the leaders of the enemy packs locked in vicious combat, biting and ripping at one another, each trying to get at the other's throat as the remainder of the animals circled around them. The warg was bowled over by a fierce pounce and the silver wolf's fang's sank into the foul neck, sawing down to the jugular. A high yelp and a bright spurt of red announced victory but not before the warg's claws managed to rip open the wolf's belly. In minutes both expired and the rest of the beasts set to howling._

_Overwhelmed with fury he had no need to define, Legolas rose and began firing on the wargs. One and all he killed them, following after those that fled, and when he was done found tears upon his cheek. He made his way back to the glade and there the wolves remained gathered about their fallen leader, all of them baying a lament into the night. They fell silent as Legolas neared and as one fixed him with their bright canine eyes. He sensed no danger from them and dropped to the ground, joining them beside the silver male. He knelt and gently caressed the thick fur, sighing. Somehow he felt responsible, as though he should have sensed the presence of the wargs and alerted the wolves. His dream had prevented this and attracted the curiosity of the pack leader._

_"I am sorry," he said quietly, running his hand over the noble head, settling the tongue back inside, closing the blood stained jaws._

_"You did not kill him," spoke a voice at his ear and Legolas cried out, leaping to his feet, arrow nocked instinctively, but the wolves disregarded his threatening stance, merely staring at him patiently._

_"Did you…you can speak," he stuttered, addressing the closest, another male with clear blue eyes and a coat of black and grey. Realisation dawned and he hastily put away his weapons, reddening in embarrassment. "Forgive me, I was surprised."_

_A throaty, growling laugh came from the wolf's grinning jaws. "That is evident, but there is nothing to forgive. We would ask a favour of you, wild elf."_

_"Speak; if it is within my power it shall be done," Legolas replied, understanding that in some strange way the dream and reality had meshed. He must have spoken with Celebanc before surrendering to exhaustion, lapsing into deep reverie and its typically mortifying result._

_"It is not right for him to rot, providing fodder for scavengers. We would see him buried," the wolf said. "He was our leader; he was my father."_

_"I grieve for your loss." Legolas bowed, hand over his heart, distressed to hear this and eager to do what he could to ease such a burden. "I will make him a fitting grave." He moved to find a branch to aid in the digging but the wolf called him back using a word seldom applied to the sylvan elves any more._

_"Wait, Tawarwaith, there is more to say. We are not droeg, as you have already guessed, but gaurwaith. We were Men before we were changed and I would have my father restored to his human shape ere he goes beneath the ground."_

_"I know not how I can answer your plea," said Legolas, troubled. "I am no wizard."_

_"A wizard could do not better than you," replied the werewolf. "It is easily done; take his skin."_

_"What?" Legolas was horrified and stepped back, glancing at the ring of canine faces in dismay. "I would not wish to dishonour Celebanc by mutilating him; the warg has done enough!"_

_"You know his name?" Now it was the gaur's turn to be amazed. "Then it is even more fitting and he chose you for the task, for we do not give our names easily. You must remove the skin and he will revert to his true form again. Please, if you honour him, do as I say." _

_Legolas relented and watched in grim fascination as the denuded creature changed into the comely man he had seen in his dream. Dolorous and mystified by his strange connection to Celebanc, he wrapped the body in his deer hide cloak, murmuring what prayers he knew for peace of the spirit. As he dug the grave there in the middle of the glade, he sang a song of mourning and loss and all the wolves joined him, using an eery mix of Sindarin and wolvish to make their dirge. When the funeral was complete and Celebanc's remains covered over, they all stood in silence around the mound for a time. Then the werewolves departed, trotting away in twos and threes, until only the black and silver male remained._

_"You will keep the skin and remember Celebanc. You will remember us and hunt us no more," he said and turned to go._

_"I will hunt you no more," Legolas answered, "neither shall the woodsmen or any of my people. Your enemies are mine and my friends shall become yours."_

_"Well said, Tawarwaith," the gaur paused to peer over his shoulder, grinning again, "though our enemies are many and your friends so few." Then he loped away, calling for the pack, and their voices answered their new leader._

Legolas was returned to the present by the cries of the wolves for the sound was not confined to memory. Since that meeting there had been others, but never had he encountered the gaurwaith in their human shapes. It all seemed so long ago, almost part of another life-time. Yet he had come to understand the language of the gaurwaith and tonight they sang not of love and reunion but of Orcs moving, converging on the paths to the Central Mountains. The soulful howls described a chase as a trio of First-born, trying to escape to the River Running and the safety of Laketown, was being driven into ambush. 

_Two of Talagan's warriors must have found Lindalcon, perhaps Talagan himself, and now all three are in danger._

So thinking, Legolas could spare no more time for rest and remembrance. He moved out into the branches once more, setting his course to intercept the elves. 

TBC

####  **Note: **

_There it is, a Feud update finally completed! Please don't even ask how long it has been; it is more than a year. I don't know how well this meets anyone's expectations. Mean and hateful as Elrond has been in this story, I found it very difficult to deal out such a harsh sentence. Initially, Thranduil was to be the one, under the direction of the Spirits, but you can see I changed my mind after writing it all out. Thranduil has been shown to have an abhorrence for spilling elven blood and must be severely provoked to do so, as when Legolas leaped at him with dagger drawn. Yes, he administered a harsh caning to his rejected son once long ago but again the provocation was extreme in Legolas' theft of Oropher's bow. So in the end it just did not seem likely and since Erestor was going to have a bitter confrontation with his cousin anyway, I decided he was the only one who cared enough about Legolas to do it. And, he has already exhibited his ability to deliver a violent reprisal in his impromptu bludgeoning of Malthen during the Council hearing._

_I gave Dambethnîn the child she has so long desired and in doing so presented hope for the children's survival, or at least the babe's. That will be an interesting dynamic, no? Pen-Bara, Pen-Raug, and Pen-Rhovan together in Greenwood while the little prince grows up. Erestor will eventually have to return to Imladris and be forced to split his time between the two realms, leaving his new mate with plenty of time to get to know the Galadhrim couple. That should make an interesting little vignette. (Someday)_

_Now to explain the werewolves. Long ago, when chapter five first posted (Wild Life on the Forest River), a reader remarked over the fact that Legolas had at first tried to hunt down the dire wolves, so to prevent more wargs from being created. This reviewer expressed regret that the wolves were once again represented as dangerous and fit only to be destroyed, as humans have done throughout the USA in order to usurp the natural habitat for the use of grazing cattle and other livestock. That comment made a deep impression on me and I have never forgotten. I decided to explain how Legolas actually received the wolf's pelt and this scene arose, allowing him to come to a new understanding of the wolves in his woods. _

_The reversal of 'traditional' werewolf transformations is intentional, by the way, as I thought it made more sense. Werewolves would surely be viewed as evil by the simple human woodsmen and would be executed once their nature was known. Difficult to hide that sort of thing in a small, close-knit community clinging to survival in the midst of darkness. By living the majority of the time as wolves, the gaurwaith can more easily find refuge within the confines of Tawar's protection. So in my universe, only when the moon is full can they resume human shape._

_And it should be clear we are now in the final scenes of this long long story. We are following Legolas and Lindalcon and we all know the encounter will be violent and Legolas will suffer. Lindalcon's fate seems inescapable. I am of a mind to just go ahead and finish this, though I know people are eager to return to Aearlinn, as am I. It is interesting; there are many who never want the tale to end, myself included, and yet it must. I just ask that you all bear with me and let me finish it now. I have a whole week off and while I may not do much more writing today, tomorrow I think I need to catch up with Lindalcon and the elves who finally found him, and officially reveal Meril's sentence and its impact upon the children, especially Echui'ross who is old enough to understand. Thanks to one and all for still reading!_

  
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	97. Erin Fen-en-Gûr (On the Threshold of Death)

  


#####  _italics indicate thoughts_ (elvish translations in parentheses) This chapter un-Beta'd

 

### Erin Fen-en-Gûr (On the Threshold of Death)

The sounds of the skirmish reached him easily through the frail and frosted air. None could mistake the brutal growls and shouts of Black Speech, the crack and snap of breaking branches, the howls of agony and rage, the persistent, high-pitched zing of an elvish bow. Legolas paused a heartbeat or two and listened more intently, confirming his instinctive conclusion: there was only one bow singing. 

Frantic, he burst into motion, racing through the trees to reach this lone combatant, for it could only be Lindalcon. Drawn by a stentorian rumble like distant thunder, he had turned in this direction, glad for a sign of the misguided elf at last, frightening though that signal was. Loud and clear he let loose a stream of notes particular to the song of the nightingale, modified to meet the demands of the King's troops. Lindalcon knew them all, could mimic each one perfectly, had probably learned them almost as quickly as he had learned to speak. He would know help was coming. He would climb higher, shift beyond range of the Orcs' weapons, escape back behind the borders of the Woodland Realm.

No answering call flew back to him and Legolas cursed under his breath, angry that he could not move faster, already panting with the effort this burst of speed cost. 

_Why does he not reply?_ 

Of course, the youth was caught up in his first real battle; how likely was he to do anything better than remain alive? Yet, the strife was centred near the pits; if Lindalcon was in one of the flets above then there was no cause for worry. The Orcs would never reach him there, for the flets were high above where the branches could not bear their weight.

_Unless he is not in the trees at all._ 

Panic broke free and gave Legolas an extra boost of adrenalin, certain now that Lindalcon had become a victim of the turned hardwoods, the vile traitors among Greenwood's population. Again he sent forth his call, adding a demand for an answer, any answer.

It came and Legolas' heart froze. 

"No, ai no…" the whispered plea escaped his soul and his wild flight came to an abrupt halt. 

Into the half-light he stared, a half shake of his head given in denial even as the elvish bow fell silent, replaced by the gruesome sound of sabres rending flesh and the Orcs' cries of malicious glee.

  
This day, warm with the filtered light of the morning sun, the hour still too near dawn to permit the steamy haze which blanketed the forest during summer, this day hearkened back more than three Ages to a time when Greenwood was truly great. Before the coming of Anor, before Ithil first brightened the night, its roots sank deep into the bosom of the earth, its branches stretched out to encompass all the eastern bank of Anduin from the craggy feet of the Grey Mountains to the desolate shores of the Sea of Rhun. Under the fair luminance of the Lamps of the Valar the forest grew and flourished, but in hatred Melkor destroyed those beacons and with the light extinguished the trees fell dormant. The Long Night began for Greenwood while in Aman the Two Trees gave to the Valar their Days of Bliss.

In slumber the forest dreamed beneath the stars, dreamed of the people who had come among the bolls and branches and found there solace and safety. The dream was filled with the song and speech of the Wood Elves, but Greenwood could but scarcely feel the presence of these ethereal beings who were destined to sing for them, to hear and translate the Music of green life, and strangely it was not the coming of the elves that unveiled the glory of the Great Wood, but the coming of Men and with them their Heralds: the Sun and the Moon. 

Then was Tawar revealed to the silvans and they marvelled at the masterwork of Yavanna's hands, for now the trees awakened and joined their songs, though the voice of the forest was unlike any the elves had heard before. Tawar sang of a world the elves had not seen, of the First Verse of Iluvatar's Song, of light that once bathed Arda with colour and brilliance enough to make the stars unnecessary. Wonderful and strange was this to the silvans and impressed upon them the venerable estate of the forest which housed and protected them, and, because of the delight they felt in kinship with Tawar, they did not grieve for the lessening of the starlight.

Ancient, knowing, wise, and perilous was Greenwood then and still remained, diminished though it might be, but on this day, this golden summer's morn, the trees would fain sing of their beauty and majesty, their accord with the silvans, their sheltering protection and peaceful endurance. The quiet chorus of woodland life filled the air: leaves rustling with quiet authority, the strident bickering of black squirrels, the subdued warbling of birdsong, the subtle riffle and flap of feathers winging into flight. It would be a lazy, languid day, one to enjoy in carefree, leisurely pursuits. Yet life in Greenwood was never far removed from the unfortunate reality of the ever darkening world just beyond the borders of the fiercely guarded realm, and overprinting all these commonplace sounds arose another just as typical: the distinctive twang of a bowstring. A dull, resonating thwock invariably followed as the loosed arrow found its target.

"Too near the outer rim on that one," a voice admonished. "Adjust your stance and do not permit drawing the bow to alter your position."

"I put it in the outer rim on purpose," objected a second voice, "just to see if you were paying attention. You are not even watching."

"Oh, indeed? Such insolence will not be tolerated, Hîr neth (young Lord). A speed drill, if you please, twenty arrows in the centre before I cross the glade. Begin!" 

The first speaker could not prevent the mirth from invading the tone in which he couched these stern words, nor did he intend to do so. A broad grin spread across his face as he strode through the meadow, marking the rapid pull, release, and resounding thud as the test progressed. His pupil did not fail; he never did and Maltahondo stood observing the clean, neat, tight arrangement of arrows spearing the heart of the target. He gave a brisk, satisfied nod. 

"Well done, Hîr neth." (young Lord)

"Why must you call me that here? None can overhear us and you know I despise it. Why do you never call me Laiquassë anymore, Malthen?" Legolas followed and soon stood at his mentor's side. He waited expectantly for an answer, though the down-turned mouth indicated he held little hope it would satisfy his complaint.

"You must become accustomed to that title. Now that you are getting older, it is not proper for me to be so familiar. A nickname is fine for a little elfling, but not for a warrior in training. You are my charge, true enough, but I am more so your servant. You know this is so, Hîren." Maltahondo bowed low before his young student, smiling without being able to suppress the acrimony his station inspired.

"But I do not want you to be my servant," averred Legolas, dismayed to see the hard glint of rancour in his beloved guardsman's eyes. "There must be a way to change this. When I reach majority, I will have the Council of Elders release you from this unearned sentence. I will not have you obligated to me forever."

Maltahondo peered at the determined face before him calmly, for it was not the first time this promise had been spoken, and noted the firm resolve of the stubborn chin juxtaposed against the soft pleading of the bright blue eyes. Within them shone the light of empathy and indignant affront to have someone he so revered cast so low; within them shone the pure light of love. Legolas' mouth was set in a grim line that marred the perfection of supple ruby lips and the guardsman could not fail to observe how much his charge favoured Ningloriel. Every day Legolas grew more like her in appearance and yet held none of his mother's dubious qualities within his heart. 

For that matter, he was nothing like Thranduil in that regard, either. A fact for which everyone in Greenwood could be thankful, the guardsman thought wryly.

At the volatile age of thirty-six, Legolas was an enigma. On the one hand he was innocent and trusting, ready to believe there was only good in those he loved, while at the same time he was cynical beyond his years, often making keenly observant remarks that exposed a knowledge of peoples' hypocrisy and hubris. He was caught between childhood and maturity as puberty began its relentless transformations, unable to hide the open adoration with which he favoured Maltahondo. 

True, he had always worshipped his guardian and even now this devotion still presented the absolute confidence and awe with which a child beheld his father, but tinged by a new appreciation of a more visceral, carnal nature. That this was both confusing and frightening for him was equally obvious to Maltahondo. Legolas was completely incapable of speaking about it and the guardsman was not sure how to address the issue. He was not the henellon's adar, after all.

Even before the onset of adolescence, Legolas was conflicted, strong-willed and yet so uncertain, so needy for approval and acceptance, so desperate for love. He would set aside his opinions, discard his decisions, and capitulate at once if holding out seemed to threaten the accord between them. Maltahondo sighed and frowned; it was unnerving and not a small bit irritating to be in this position. Instilling the most basic anchors of identity and self-confidence, this was not part of his responsibilities and resentment against Ningloriel clouded his mind with blackness. Instantly the countenance before his responded, filling with apprehension. He settled his hand heavily upon the youth's shoulder and offered a tight, sardonic smile.

"Ah, Legolas, that is a noble thought and I do appreciate the sentiment behind it," he said mechanically. "You must know there is no recourse. A blood debt cannot be lifted save by a blood sacrifice. Would you prefer I slit my wrists in your honour?"

"What? Nay!" A harsh gasp and an expression of utter horror reordered the suddenly pale visage as Legolas shook his head, clasping the hand upon his shoulder as though he feared Maltahondo might really do this. "Please, Malthen, do not ever speak of such again!"

"Be at peace; I have no intention of leaving your service, Hîr neth," Malthen said, squeezing the fingers wrapped around his before releasing them. He moved away and began pulling the arrows free of the target. "Yet I need you to understand the futility of your desire. I am your servant and always shall be. I have accepted it and so must you."

"No, for we are more than lord and servant, are we not?" asked Legolas, voice quavering as he gave this query life with his breath. His heart fairly stopped when Malthen turned a cool, calculating gaze upon him but made no answer. Sudden heat suffused his cheeks as he blushed in embarrassed confusion. "We…we are friends, Malthen, are we not?" he reworded his question, panic blooming as his pulse began pounding wildly.

For several moments more Maltahondo considered Legolas, wondering whether to squelch this growing infatuation or leave it for Ningloriel to handle. It was imperative to establish some degree of separation between them without also seeming to reject the youth, and the guardsman had no idea how to achieve both goals. Ningloriel had been clear that Legolas was not to know of their relationship for fear that he would speak out and give away her secret. 'Selfish inu! She should trust her son or carry him along to Lorien. Then there would be no question in his mind of where my interest lies,' he thought in silent disgust.

"Malthen?" 

Legolas was peering at him with abject dread and Maltahondo realised his bitter thoughts must be etched upon his features. Again he appraised the discredited prince, an ache stabbing at his heart to see in those blue eyes the expression he longed to find reflecting back at him from the mother's. So much the same, the two sets of azure orbs, yet hers were so unfeeling while her son's held nothing but the wish to please. Suddenly Maltahondo hadn't the heart to push him away and spontaneously reached out, gathering his ward close for a comforting embrace. Lean arms wrapped around him in turn and the golden head settled against his chest.

"Yes, we are more than friends, Laiquassë. I have known you since your birth and you will always be dear to me." Maltahondo smiled as all the tension drained from the frame leaning into him and a soft exhale of audible relief replied. Unconsciously he ran a hand through the silken mane and lifted a few strands to his nose, appreciating the scent and the texture, absorbing the love so freely offered. It should be like this when he held Ningloriel.

"I am glad to hear it," murmured Legolas, a soft shiver running through him. "You are dear to me, also."

He meant so much more, though, and Maltahondo feared Legolas might suddenly find the courage to announce his avowed love. Hastily the guardsman clapped the novice warrior on the back and stepped away, smiling in what he hoped was a fatherly manner. 

"Then let us not be concerned over the basis for that accord."  


Maltahondo's smile slipped and his heart gave an uncomfortable lurch, the sensation yanking him from the recollection before the scene's conclusion, something he much preferred, no matter the extreme nature of his current circumstances. Memory was a vicious companion and a more difficult one to handle than the unpleasant company in which he presently found himself. He nocked an arrow and marked his target, releasing the bolt with effortless precision and reaching back for another all in the same fluid motion. A low grunt of pain sounded as the Orc collapsed and died. Fortunately, this skill was ingrained to the point of instinct, honed by a lifetime of practice until he could aim and fire almost without conscious thought, much as his lungs drew air without needing to be told. Fortunate, for his mind was beset with memories of the past and it was all he could do to attend the task at hand. 

A succession of images of the Tawarwaith invaded his thoughts and played through his dreams, sometimes creeping in subtly so that he found himself considering Legolas without ever realising he had changed focus; other times the phantasm materialised until the vision was so vivid he believed it was real. The impressions enveloped him whenever his sense of isolation and abandonment pressed hardest against his penitent heart, and that had become a constant. The memories were sequential beginning with the early years when Legolas idolised him and proceeding so that the current scenes approached the end of the elfling's troubled childhood. While those were excruciating to relive, the events following were filled with Maltahondo's dark, disturbed sadism and Legolas' tormented delight. 

It was good to have something else to occupy his attention.

He paused and shot another arrow into the lumbering throng trailing him over the frozen ground below, purposely wounding an Orc, a cruel thing to do for now it would die slowly. The rest of the pack trampled right over their fallen comrade without pause. Maltahondo laughed and then the sound choked off; Tirn-en-Tawar would not approve. Determined not to mimic the brutality of the foes he hunted, refusing to waste his energy or his arrows, all Legolas' shots were aimed to kill as quickly as possible. The bow was a noble weapon requiring precision, finesse, and dedication to master. It should not, in the hands of the First-born, be reduced to an instrument of torture. The guardsman nodded to himself, chastened, resolving never to yield to his baser desires in future. A barrage of black missiles sped toward his position and he shifted quickly into the higher branches.

"Elo! You missed me again. Shall I come down closer and give you better odds?" he sang out in mocking tones, pleased at the uproar of swearing and cursing this elicited. "Follow me!" he jeered and came fully to the ground for three long strides, each one punctuated by the whine of ruffled air and the muffled thump of arrows streaking past his legs to plough into the earth. Before the Orcs could adjust their haphazard aim, he scrambled back up the trunk of another frigid beech. He did not need to look behind to know his order was obeyed and hastened his pace a bit for night fell fast in Rhîw. (Winter)

Legolas had done this, too, running the traps. How many times? Almost twenty years of it, enough to render the appalling practice into an art. It was dangerous and Malthen's first attempt had nearly cost him his life, for while an Orc's aim was generally poor, the number of arrows flying in his direction increased the chance of being struck down. In the last ten days, he had expanded the concept of a near miss and had now defined at least a dozen varieties of the fortuitous event, all delineated by the various sounds the arrows made in passing. Legolas' courage was fully appreciated after that run, not that he'd ever had any doubt regarding the outcast's fortitude.

Maltahondo of the Woodland Realm had seen and slain his share of Orcs over the course of his five-thousand and eleven years of life. Not so many, perhaps, as Talagan or Thranduil but enough to appreciate the traps designed by his former charge. That no one else in all of Greenwood's history had thought to try this method was not surprising for being the designated bait would not be a duty anyone was likely to choose voluntarily. This was a fact Maltahondo fully realised as he pondered how to extricate himself from his present dilemma. Bait was one thing, becoming fodder for their bloodlust was something else. He chewed at his lower lip and checked the number of arrows left: twenty. There were more waiting for him in the flet above the traps if he could get there intact.

It was Maltahondo's intent to impersonate the Tawarwaith and confuse the Orcs, drawing them away from the near regions of the borderlands back out into the wilds proper. If they believed him to be Legolas they would send word of it to their masters and all focus would shift to pursuit of the solitary elf. There was little else he could do to aid Legolas, for stripped of rank, authority, and citizenship, Maltahondo had nothing and no one to reply upon besides himself. Yet, unlike Legolas, he had secretly returned to the stronghold after his Judgement to procure weapons, foodstuffs, and warm clothing. 

His shorn head hidden beneath a thick woollen cloak, he had his own bow in hand and not a hastily constructed substitute. His own knives were belted at his waist, voiding need to steal one from the dead Orcs, and his sturdiest boots protected his feet. His clothing consisted of the drab grey and brown tunic and leggings of thick, warm wool, the standard winter garb of Greenwood's warriors. Dried, cured meat and way-bread filled his pack as well as ample medicinal supplies in case of injury. Malthen was as well provisioned and prepared as he would be for any extended patrol and felt confident he could survive long enough to win not only Release for Valtamar and Andamaitë but expiation for his wrongs against Legolas. 

If not, he could at least find the clean death he had exhorted Legolas to seek. The memory of that day haunted him and threatened to surface; he hastily suppressed it, considering instead for the fiftieth time at least where Lindalcon was likely to run for in that direction would Legolas head. The attempt to divert his thoughts failed when a quick, cutting gust of wind caught his hood and cast it back, raking through his close-cropped auburn hair. His fingers brushed the short, ragged strands as he snatched the hood back in place and he could not ban the scene this contact inspired: Ningloriel's final confrontation with her only son. 

There he stood gaping at her, murmuring things that made no clear sense. Half naked, all the gruesome injuries laid down by Rochendil exposed, both of body and spirit, Legolas' condition was terrible to behold, but it was not that which had struck Malthen so forcefully. Slowly the distraught elf trailed after his mother, apologising, pleading as they drew near the caravan and it was then his eyes found the guardsman. They filled with confusion and betrayal, with denial and desperation and Malthen could not hold them. Hastily he looked down and found his sight focused on Legolas' feet, bare for what reason he could not fathom, and around the left ankle wound the braided copper-coloured strand of remembrance he'd left for Mithrandir to give the fallen archer. 

That Legolas had not only kept it but worn it in this way, as a lover would, had burrowed deep into the guardsman's psyche, a hard kernel of truth he could not, or would not, confront and there remained until their next reunion. In front of Thranduil, the full Council, and what seemed half the populace, the Tawarwaith dug that little knot of guilty shame out and unfurled it. Not to condemn him with it, to accuse or punish, but to understand, to comprehend what made him so impossible to love. The answer was not something Malthen could reveal to himself, not then, but there was no suppressing it now. The truth was ugly, a deformed and mutated abomination of what had once been pure and good, much like an Orc's nature was a perverse reflection of the First-born. The truth was it had both pleased him to have Legolas and galled him for Ningloriel to condone it.

She held his heart and new it, delighted in it, teased and mocked him for it. How many times had he threatened to seek a true mate and marry her only to be laughed at and encouraged to do so? Ningloriel loved to remind him that no matter what he chose to do, he was bound to her and must obey. Should she require his services, he must comply. More than that, his sole purpose in life was to please her. Had he imagined taking her son as his lover would ignite jealousy in her cold heart? Perhaps, but nothing so concrete crystallised in his thoughts, then or now; whatever truth was in that notion was a faint, secondary one. His stricken soul supplied the primary motive: Maltahondo turned the festering animosity of his rejected heart against the impressionable henellon entrusted to his care. To punish her, he would ruin him. 

This he did, utterly, and then compounded that sin many times over. 

After the first time, it became ever easier for where once his heart had held only tenderness, now it was mired in bitter spite. He would deny Legolas the love he so desperately needed even as he had been denied. He would debase him and teach him that his only purpose in life was to serve his guardian's needs, no matter how depraved or excruciating. Not only did he refuse to give Legolas the kind of love expected of a suitor, he retracted the paternal regard with which he had formerly favoured the fatherless prince. When his conscience chanced to consider the devastation into which this must have plunged the youth, he countered such thoughts by reminding himself that he had been given leave to take Legolas by Ningloriel. Thus responsibility passed from his shoulders and Maltahondo delighted in fostering the belief that what was lacking in their relationship was Legolas' fault.

  
"Ai! Malthen!" Harsh gasps followed and a reedy wail ended in an abrupt cry of anguish. "Saes! Nin úgwedhi!" (Please! Unbind me!)

Maltahondo watched in salacious fascination and pulled the rope tighter, heart skipping as Legolas strained against the tension and braced against the headbord, shifting to get his feet under him, lifting his hips up and forward in a futile effort to relieve the pressure upon his genitals, for the end of the cord was knotted snugly around root and balls. He could go no further, being tied to the posts of the bed at the wrists and dared not thrash for fear of tearing the tender skin of the rigid organ. His whole body trembled, buttocks raised as far as he could manage, head lolling between his outstretched arms, lungs struggling for breath, nipples dark and distended on the heaving chest. Malthen secured the rope and scuttled forward, laving each maroon bud with tender sucking kisses that had Legolas moaning in wanton need.

"Not yet. Have I not told you before about this?" Maltahondo complained, eyeing the glistening red skin as he spoke. He blew across it and thrilled to see the shudder that ran through the lithe body in his thrall. "You are not to come in here to my rooms and masturbate. I will see to you as is necessary and while I indulge your decadent craving, yet I refuse to encourage it." 

"Saes, saes! I won't do it again."

Malthen snorted his disbelief and tweaked the inflamed tip of the slender cock, smiling when Legolas squealed in both protest and delight. "For such a bald lie, further punishment is required."

"Nay!" Legolas cried, franticly shifting in his awkward position, lifting his head to seek his guardsman's eyes. "I will speak truth."

"Go on."

"I came here hoping you would find me thus," the words spilled out quickly. "I knew you had returned for I overheard the messenger. Truly, I do not come in your rooms otherwise."

"Oh? I do believe you, Laiquassë, and yet I wonder; where then do you come?" Malthen chuckled at his crude joke and reached out to trail a finger down the engorged organ, raising a gasping cry and a potent thrust of the youth's hips.

"The meadow," Legolas said breathlessly. "Saes, si úgwedhi nin." (Please, now unbind me.)

"Nay, for you have not answered for either the indiscretion or the lie. Punishment, Legolas, is all you have earned by this blatant seduction."

"What…what will you do to me?" The words were breathless and stinted, choked with fear and excitement.

"What is the worst I could do?" demanded Maltahondo cruelly and smirked as Legolas' features contorted in dread.

"No, please, I will obey from now on only do not deny me! It has been months! My only solace is to come here and pretend you…" The excuses ceased, cut short by an agonised shout as one hand took his balls in a crushing grip and the other did the same to a tender nipple. 

"Silence!" hissed Malthen. "Now have you spoken truth. You do come in here and spend upon my sheets, wallowing in your deviant desires. I do not care to hear of your perverted fantasies. Do you want this grotesque obsession of yours to be found out? Likely, one of the servants has already overheard your groaning and discovered your secret. What were you thinking, writhing on my bed, pleasuring yourself thus? Anyone might come through the door and see you this way. Is that what you want? Are you trying to invite public humiliation?"

"Nay!"

"Do you know what will happen to me if this is revealed? I assure you, it would ruin me. Do you want that?"

"No, never! Saes, free me; I suffer," croaked the stricken elf but instead of loosening the ropes Malthen bent low and licked across the glans of his cock. 

Unable to control himself, Legolas bucked hard toward the sensation and the cord jerked his penis roughly. He tried to bite back the shout of pain but a low warbling whimper escaped his throat. Before he could recover, a hot, wet tongue traced his length and then the head of the shaft was enveloped in sucking heat. No sooner had the guardsman started this exquisite torture than a finger pushed persistently against his anus and he was breached. Lost to all reason, he could only howl, suspended by the ropes, thighs burning with the effort to keep his position stable. The finger became two and jabbed at him repeatedly and all he could feel was gathering anticipation that soon it would be replaced with his guardsman's thick organ. As quickly as it all began, both the intrusion and the oral stimulation ended. He exhaled a plaintive groan.

"Please."

"I have duties to attend; it is only an hour since I crossed the borders," said Malthen, his tone dismissive. "My report must be delivered to Talagan else he will come to seek me out. Do you want him to find you here, like this?" He flicked the ruddy cock.

"Do not leave me now," pleaded Legolas, panting. With effort he lifted his head again. "What of your duties to me?"

"Insolent henellon! Dare you speak so?" snarled Malthen and struck a stinging blow against the engorged penis. "So you feel ready to command me?" Again he favoured the tender testes with vicious compression, pulling as he let go. There was blood staining the rope now. Legolas outcry was underlain with dark desire and he shivered in his bonds, begging forgiveness even as he denied the charge, even as he tried to lift his abused organ up for more. "I will leave you to contemplate the risk you have taken; a risk that threatens me and places my reputation, my very freedom, in jeopardy. Small love have you for me to incriminate me in your vile lust."

"Nay, I meant not that, never that," wept Legolas, for tears wetted his cheeks as he shook his head in denial. "I just want you; I need you. How can that be vile?"

"You are male, as am I. Is this the pairing Eru designed? Look about you; there are no couples like us in Greenwood, or if so they are concealed for the same reason. Even the animals do not indulge such base passions. Do not be mistaken, no hunger have I for hard male flesh. Soft, round breasts and a warm, wet slit are my delight. For love of you, I accept your corrupt nature and even grant the release you crave. All I demand in return is discretion, Legolas, and yet how often have I come home to find you here, blatantly petting and caressing yourself?"

"How else can I bear it when you go?" sobbed Legolas. "Why must you go? Others can accompany her; I need you here with me. I need you Malthen," the fretting tone gave way to prurient yearning. "Fuck me, then, and see to your duties," he challenged, eyes alight with hope and hunger.

Malthen smiled and fisted the swollen shaft, stroking vigourously as Legolas bucked and trembled and moaned in his hand. "I will see to my duties and then perhaps fuck you later after the evening meal. You will have to do your penance first and then confer restitution by sucking me dry. Agreed?" Of course, the rejected prince could do nothing else, bound as he was, yet Malthen knew that even without the ropes Legolas would do as ordered.

They both knew it. Legolas licked his lips and nodded, unable to speak while he was being so deliciously mauled. When granted, his orgasm would be phenomenal. He exhaled a long sigh when Malthen stopped and rose form the bed, turning away to gather toiletries for a bath.

"Good. I will bring your food when I return, but do not look for me soon nor hope to share the whole of the night here. I am expected by Ningloriel at Ithil Lant (Moon Fall) for her reading time." He paused and glanced back at the demeaning position in which he'd placed Legolas, feeling pity for the youth even as he relished the debasement to which he was thus reduced. Would that he could do this very thing to Ningloriel. 

The thought made him hard and his eyes blazed as they met Legolas'. On impulse, he dropped everything and returned to the bed, undoing his leggings and exposing his cock as he approached, roughly grabbing the leg closest and using it to twist the prince over on his side, ignoring the grunt of misery this evoked. Without a word he bored into the tight, dry hole and sheathed himself, barely acknowledging Legolas' gasp of discomfort and exaltation, barely pausing before heaving into powerful lunges, the pleasure found in his captive's tormented cries of ecstatic misery too enthralling. He spilled quickly and once done spared but a moment to regain his breath before pulling out. He settled a resounding slap on the firm arse as he turned Legolas over and planted a chaste kiss on the flushed face.

"That will have to hold you for a time," he said. "I shall presume some demonstration of gratitude." This demand voiced in spite of the fact that he had tendered no comfort in kind. Legolas' eyes were closed tight and his mouth set hard, but he gave a swift nod in ascent. Malthen smiled and gathered the pillows from the floor where they'd long ago fallen, stuffing them under the lifted arse and quivering thighs. With that minute gesture of compassion, he left for the bathing room.

Maltahondo dodged right with only seconds to spare as a loud whoosh followed the passage of a black arrow so close to his face he felt the brush of the fletching as it shot behind him. With no small surprise he halted; the arrow had come from somewhere ahead. Lost in his memories, he had failed to notice the advancing horde and found that he was hurtling toward a large knot of Orcish soldiers tramping inward from the eastern eaves of the forest. His purposely noisy race through the trees, meant to beckon his pursuing prey, had caught their attention and now they joined the hunt, as yet unaware of their fellows tracking the elf from behind. 

The guardsman breathed out a low curse and adjusted his direction, desperate to escape what had all the makings of a nasty ambush while still achieving his goal. Up into the fragile, frozen, twiggy limbs of the canopy he climbed, needing the height to evade the arrows suddenly assailing him. There he paused, heart racing from the nearness of his escape and the complete oblivion to his surroundings the mirage had caused, and promptly fell to considering the past anew. 

It was all so wrong and he wondered at his ability to twist it into right. He had enjoyed that post-coital bath, limp in leisurely and languid relaxation, knowing Legolas was in agony on the bed, his anus burning and perhaps bleeding, his stiff organ throbbing relentlessly. The quick satisfaction of his carnal hungers left him sated and triumphant, pleased to know there would be more later, an easy way to drive out the frustration of dealing with Talagan's haughty disdain and Ningloriel's dismissive, mocking possession. Legolas was a ready vessel for all his anger and jealousy, willing to be debased so to promote Malthen's ego. 

It was as he had promised; they were much more than servant and master, or rather, their roles had reversed and Maltahondo possessed the fair young elf completely. Legolas had willingly made it so, yet nothing in his innocent heart could have imagined such wholesale perversion of his love. He had been taught, skilfully and brutally, that his desire was a decadent abomination and never was any pupil more adept, more eager to please, to earn at last the love he so needed.

_I did love him once, properly and proudly._

Legolas was the nearest Maltahondo had come to a child of his own and he had squandered that gift, one that in the elfling's early years had given him great joy. Trading the respect and responsibility engendered by the child's trusting love for the resentful, lustful, cruel delights of the flesh had not been planned, yet it had happened all the same and Malthen never once looked back, came to consider it his just due. Not until Fearfaron's blistering rebuke had he faced the magnitude of his offence; by then it was too late to rectify the damage. Alone with nothing but these memories and his conscience, Maltahondo could not escape realisation of what he had forfeited and the loss left him emptier than he had felt upon watching Ningloriel's ship slip beyond the horizon. 

_I still love him and he has never ceased to love me. Valar willing, I will be made worthy of that devotion and reclaim the role of mentor and elder brother._ 

Well he knew, the only way to atone was to fulfil the blood debt at last. Maltahondo fully expected to perish before the change of the seasons.

The guardsman heaved a heavy sigh and watched his pursuers catching up to him. This was not how he intended to end things. He meant to provide aid to Legolas, to prevent him from falling into danger while chasing after the foolish son of Valtamar. He could see it was not to be. He would end here, unable to do more than ensure the demise of this mere handful of enemies, failing again in his duty, failing the trust and love and confidence bestowed upon him by that strange and fragile enigma that was Legolas. He suddenly found himself wishing he had the lock of golden hair he'd taken on the day of Judgement, sorrowful and ashamed that he could not even recall when he had lost it or what circumstances surrounded the loss.

_If I had it now, I would bind it about my ankle, Laiquassë, as I should have done then, as I should have done the day I broke your tender body and forever warped your trusting heart._

His spirit quailed even as the thought blazed through his mind. That was not the answer; that was not the path of right and good. He should have put a stop to it; he should have explained to the boy what he was feeling and why, reassured him that love was not to a commodity to purchase with his body, guided him through the overwhelming changes as he matured, introduced him to someone trustworthy and honourable to teach him the ways of sex between males. He should have promised to love him always; he should have accepted the role of surrogate father and treasured it, exalted in it. No longer did he curse Ningloriel for her selfishness, for now he could so clearly recognise his own.

_So be it. If there is nothing left to give him than my life's blood, I will do it well. May Námo release me whole and clean again some day._

Thus resolved, the guardsman slipped silently through the upper reaches of the elven pathways and drew apart from his enemies. He paused to reconsider his strategy, working his way close enough to the new band to make an accurate count of their numbers. It was not encouraging. There were at least fifty reinforcements of that breed of demon particular to the maze of caves riddling the heart of Hithaeglir. Born in darkness, these beasts would easily spot him in the fading winter light if he was not careful. Most daunting of all was the chilling truth that there were far too many to be disposed of within the traps. Killing them all would not be possible, not with every arrow in his quiver, not with every arrow stored on the high platforms. Yet he did not lose hope but merely considered how to retain his advantage. Carefully he worked his way higher and stilled, hoping the two groups would clash and remedy the situation without his intervention.

The best course was to run the traps, replenish his arrows, and race for the borders where he knew Talagan's forces were massing. There the enraged remainder of the combined troops would find themselves outnumbered and would either retreat or be utterly destroyed. The guardsman smiled; it was an excellent plan and sure to fulfil his objectives if he could but signal Talagan of his true intent.

At that moment the two armies spotted one another, but instead of the usual outburst of confusion and infighting, the reinforcements from Hithaeglir deferred to the Orcs from Dol Guldur. In mere minutes they were in accord; something Malthen had never seen happen in all his long years on Arda. They began to fan out and scan the limbs above them, searching for their quarry, certain he must be near. A chill ran through Maltahondo and he moved with all the stealth he could muster into the next tree, desperate to slip between the encroaching arms of the ambuscade, sick with the sense of being the prey instead of the predator. Cold, creeping dread oozed into his heart and the image of two black-cloaked shadows of evil and death filled his mind. There could be no doubt the Wraiths were behind this consolidated effort. It seemed his subterfuge had worked too well; the Orcs were convinced they had the true quarry and had sent word back to their masters.

Before he could recover from that surprise, he was spotted and a raucous cry went up as a hail of arrows streamed ineffectually through the lower branches, bouncing and snapping, blocked and broken by the tangle of frozen limbs. Even in the silent slumber of hibernation, Greenwood protected her own. Maltahondo grinned as their frustration made itself known; they could do little but follow along beneath him.

"Is there a problem?" he sneered. "Let me settle it: all of you are doomed to die." He set off at once amid their strident shouts and bellows, moving with greater speed but remaining just on the edge of their visual range. Blithely, agilely he leaped from tree to tree, ran along the interwoven branches, following the pathway every warrior in Greenwood knew. The trap field was within sight and he rejoiced, glancing back to make sure they were still with him, though he could not help but hear their land-ravaging stampede. It was thus with complete shock that he jumped to the next branch and felt the wood give way beneath the pressure of his landing. 

He recovered easily, snatching another limb and using it to vault through the open space created and secure a perch in an adjacent tree. He paused, finding his heart pounding, terrified that this was one of the poisoned trees of which Legolas had warned. Still, he doubted this for he had not heard of traitors so near to the pits. It could only be coincidence; a rotted branch indistinguishable from healthy ones with summer's leaves gone and his attention focused elsewhere. Satisfied, he calmed his nerves and inhaled a deep breath, scorching his lungs with the stinging cold. Now he must wait for them to come closer but not too close or he would lose the advantage of the pits. Cautiously he edged lower in the limbs and peered at the advancing glamhoth.

The creatures chased right after him just as they always did, unable to resist the lure. Really, Malthen could not comprehend how they never seemed to recall that the traps were near. Perhaps they simply forgot all in their desire to kill an elf, but in any case there was no better way for a lone warrior to snuff out so many at one time. Malthen was pleased to count at least ten pierced and dying in the bottom of the pits and about that same number expiring on the frozen ground all around. The remainder, however, hung back, growling and grumbling and impatient, yet they stayed.

Maltahondo frowned, disliking this change in behaviour greatly. They should all have come barrelling through the clearing; he should be picking them off with ease just now. Instead, they stalled there just beyond the riddled ground and waited.

_For what?_

He would not waste time considering it, climbing lower in hopes of luring them in. A few fell for it, bellowing and arming their bows as they lunged forward. Yet they dodged the open pits and this success inspired the rest. Soon the entire remaining company was storming the trap fields, leaping the openings and firing haphazardly into the trees even as a small number went around, hoping to catch the elf from behind. 

Just barely did Maltahondo elude that attempt and found himself running in earnest now, slipping from tree to tree high above their heads, moving steadily toward the borders. He never expected what happened next, for he was nearly at the verge of the Forest Road. He made a tremendous leap across a break in the trees, noting as he sailed over that the loss was new, the tree had been destroyed by Orcish axes. Instinct sent alarms blaring through his thoughts too late; he landed in the next tree only to feel the mighty trunk sway, an unearthly creaking and groaning running through the bark and limbs under his feet. The slumbering oak was going down. Desperately he made to jump from the falling giant's arms and found the next tree just as unstable. It was younger and thinner and it fell more quickly; in mere seconds Maltahondo found himself trapped between the two, a leg wedged painfully beneath the smaller tree's trunk and one of the elder's heavy limbs.

The leg was broken, crushed in fact, of that there could be no doubt. As best he could, Maltahondo ignored the pain of it and assessed his situation, expecting the horde of Orcs to swarm over him any moment. He still had his bow and quiver, but the number of arrows was now a paltry seven. While he had indeed grabbed another bundle from the flet above the pits, that he had not held to. The precious bolts were scattered somewhere beneath the wreckage of the fallen trees.

Silence followed the crashing crescendo of the rending wood and then a new sound invaded the dwindling day. Laughter, cruel and mocking and triumphant, rang out amid numerous curses and taunts in Black Speech. A rain of arrows pelted him and he was pierced in the shoulder, a bad wound for an archer to bear. Hastily he yanked it out, fearing poison, and then took out two of the foul beasts, unable to stifle the strident groan the effort to draw the weapon extracted. He paused, panting and grim, but no fire was returned. Bewildered, he wondered what was holding them back. Soon enough he knew, for the crawling dread and a wreaking, foul odour assaulted him, making him retch and tremble. More laughter came from the Orcs surrounding him.

"Who doomed? Who die?" a guttural attempt at Sindarin drifted through the air but the speaker remained beyond his diminished range. "Masters come, break Tree Lord now."

The Orcs began an unholy noise, clashing their swords together in triumph, dancing a horrible gambol of war, shouting insults and crying out aloud. Even so they held their ground, refusing to draw nearer, and Malthen did not imagine it was from fear of him. 

He vomited again, understanding all too well as Lindalcon's chilling words came back to him. The beasts believed he was Legolas and the Wraiths were coming to take him to Dol Guldur, just as the child had foretold. This would not be, though he take his own life. Such, however, was not honourable, would not fulfil the blood debt. His life must be spent in sacrifice for another's, not wasted to save himself from torment. Desperate, he did the only thing he could, taking his dagger and hacking at the ruined leg, the shaft of an arrow clenched in his jaws to muffle the screams. 

It was hopeless. The first blow raised a horrific cry and he knew in the centre of the swirling agony that he could not achieve this thing. He would not escape them. There was neither time until the Wraiths arrived nor strength within his arm to saw the limb from his body, not with a meagre dirk, not compressed between the fallen trees as he was. Shivering and sweating, he grappled with the entwining limbs, trying to snap the smaller ones and give his arm greater room to swing the blade. He was bleeding profusely now and a new terror presented itself. 

The Orcs smelled the flow and raised a furious protest, for should they fail to deliver the prize, their lives were forfeit. Then arose the familiar sound of discord as the troops fought one another so to determine which group should take the blame for the debacle. Which ever band was victorious might yet escape the wrath of their masters by claiming to have punished the failure of the others. 

Malthen almost smiled, or believed he did, mind wandering in shadowy places warmed by rich red hues, content now to die here with the expiring trees. He gave thought to them, for they were used in this cruel game against their better nature and like him would pay for the loss of life with their own. Cut to the quick, the two had been dying for days while the Wraiths worked their plot. He pressed a hand and his forehead to the ancient one and silently a prayer went out for the loss of such an elder, forgiveness for the hurt done him.

The tree felt him. Cut off from its kind it connected with him, seared him with its sorrow and its last spark of spirit and Maltahondo was shocked to recognise thought within it. A tumbled morass of pain and horror, he wondered if this was one of Thranduil's captive ghosts. Whether wholly tree or partly elf, it possessed him, insinuated itself within his heart and there pummelled his psyche again and again in warning. He could see in the way the spirit of the oak had seen; he knew what was happening and his soul grew dense and frigid just like the sap in the slumbering hardwoods. The Wraiths were converging upon his location from the south and from the east another moved just as surely toward him.

_Legolas._

Then Malthen comprehended the truth; he was indeed the bait and not the prize, never the predator. The Wraiths had used him to lure in the Tawarwaith, who would not stand by while one of his own was thus beset. Most likely, Legolas would think it was Lindalcon under attack. He would come with all speed and little caution to save his heart-brother. He would be captured and taken to the Black Tower, there to endure the torments of the Nazgûl until death claimed him.

"Nay!" Maltahondo cried aloud, his voice reinforced by equal fervour from the spirit within him. Yet he was helpless to avert this, his lifeblood draining slowly over the frozen ground, the heat of it thawing the rich earth so that the scent of the vital fluid and the loamy soil filled his nostrils with a heady, sweet and sickly scent. Ineffectually he pawed at the branches hugging him and pressed on the pulsing gush welling form the stab wound in his thigh. 

_Useless, I am doomed._ Yet he must not permit Legolas to be captured. With clumsy hands he armed his bow and fired into the Orcs, missing and never realising it as he reached for another arrow. He must kill them before Legolas arrived. The clear call of a nightingale reached him through the strange roaring noise that was quickly drowning out his other senses. He tried to reply and found his slack and gaping lips would not obey.

"Always I am leaving you," Maltahondo mumbled, grief overwhelming him. 

He fumbled with the bow, loosing another wild shot that by chance struck one of the advancing Orcs, for they were coming. He fired again and never felt the black arrow that pierced his chest in turn. Again the call whistled down to him and just as the horde reached him, he sent out his answer, shouting into the lowering twilight.

"A trap, Laiquassë, run! Forgive…"

And that was all, for the Orcs were upon him.

Long Legolas waited there amid the trees. Night came and passed away, brittle, cold, and sharp, as memories assailed him, daggers in his soul and heart. A day passed and yet he stayed unmoving, clinging to the unfeeling oak high above the forest floor. Tears froze upon his lashes and he longed for the old knife, the one Malthen had given him as a gift so long ago. He did not want to go on and face what he knew was there, so near he could smell the acrid tang of black demon serum, the clean, sweet scent of burst bark and freshly rent wood, and over all the cloying perfume of spent elvish blood.

The Wraiths never bothered to draw near, realising their ambush was unmasked, and the surviving Orcs skulked away in haste, grateful to have escaped their masters' rage for once, but not before they unleashed their outrage on the elf who had so cleverly foiled their hopes. They severed head from neck and then beat the proud face into mush with their clubs, bone and matter pulverised amid the matted auburn strands. They ripped out the arms and cut off the hands that drew the killing bow. They gutted the torso and yanked out entrails and organs, some to feed on and some to throw in maddened blasphemy into the limbs of the fallen trees. The heart they pinned to the shattered trunk with the elf's own dagger.

Sometime in the second night, snow began to fall. Huge, white flakes whirled circling down through the silent canopy. The storm was heavy, blotting out the trees in the thick, coursing blizzard, yet brief and finished before dawn. Even so, the flurry laid down a pure and spotless shroud atop the felled trees and the faithless guardian. It was fitting and right, for who would any deny that his last actions at least rendered his blighted soul redeemable? Thus, when Legolas at last drew courage and came there, nothing was there to see save the hallowed mantle of Nienna's tears turned crystalline and bright by Manwë's holy breath.

He climbed high in the trees, piercing the canopy, snow clotted limbs and endless sky his only audience, and there sang a dirge of sorrow and loss, rejoicing even through the pain for his beloved guardsman was released from the ancient blood debt at last. When he was done, he was loathe to leave and at the same time sickened to stay and so for a time he could not move. Dearly did he regret casting aside that woven copper strand of remembrance, but even greater was his horror to try and claim another. Finally, he drew deeply of the icy air and rubbed at his face and looked a last time upon the blanketed ground, committing the location to memory and vowing in silence to return and make it a place or serenity and peace. Then, recalling his quest to find Lindalcon, he made his farewells and left.

"Namarië, Malthen, mellonen, gwadoren, melethronen. Aderthannem; aderthannem. Alnad dartha díhena."

(Farewell, Malthen, my friend, my brother, my beloved. We will be reunited; we will be reunited. Nothing remains to forgive.)

TBC

****_NOTES: There is not much I can say about this except that it was twice the length and contained many more remembrances of Legolas and Malthen through the years. I decided it was too much. Perhaps some other time those early days will be revealed. At any rate, Maltahondo has paid his debt, or at least earned the right to beg the long pergatory of Mandos. I hope it satisfies those who needed to see him suffer for what he did to Legolas, and simultaneously I hope everyone can see that his sins are immense and it may be Ages before he is permitted freedom from Námo's Halls. Who can say what penance the Vala may exact? In some ways, I just do not feel he should even have had this opportunity, but I know Legolas would want him salvaged. He would want Malthen back, renewed to his former honour as he was in Warrior Child._****

****_Beyond that the chapter is mostly a comparison of how the two handled Judgement, and how the Judgement dealt with each of them._****

********

  
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	98. Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)

 

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd

 

 

### **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
* Introduction - Unexpected Aid ***

********  
Legolas stared down at the bloody refuse of Rochendil in the clearing, the dead traitor's face contorted in the expression of agony wrought by the violence that had destroyed him, mouth wide in mid-scream, teeth bared, lips curled back, eyes bugged and bloodshot. A ring of burned out torches surrounded the scene, the staves which they topped scorched, extinguished at least six hours ago. It was an evaluation he would not register until much later. Thoughts would not come; words refused to form; breath lapsed into shocked suspension. He had never in all his days of fighting the Shadow observed anything so gruesome. The horrors he'd seen at the Battle of Erebor could not match the repulsive evidence here. Dismembered and half-eaten, the corpse verily carpeted the bare space, all the snow melted, the ground warmed by the sun and damp with the warrior's life-blood. 

The stench was sickeningly sweet and rancid. Legolas was reminded of the woodsmen's village he'd come across once, all the inhabitants held captive so to provide a gluttonous feast for the Orcs: mounds of mismatched legs and arms, a pile of maggot-riddled heads, blood everywhere. At least then there had been someone left alive to save. Looking upon the ruin, it seemed impossible that this smear of offal could be all that was left of Rochendil. But for the untouched facial features, Legolas would never have known the lump of raw, red flesh to be the horse-master. Often he had longed to repay his tormentor for the debasing things he'd done in that musty storeroom, but never envisioned such a fate for the cruel renegade. 

"Valar! Not this! I never wanted this!" he cried, turning his face away, angry and disgusted. It did not help; his eyes alit upon a tree festooned with ragged strips of skin. He groaned and shook his head. "Whatever he did to me or to Lindalcon's father, this is not meet. His Judgement should have come from his own kind or from Eru Iluvatar. Orcs are not the doom-sayers of elf-kind."

It was the perverse obscenity of the situation that most struck him, once the shock wore off. How had life in Greenwood come to encompass such a death as this? He shivered, thinking on the profound depths of hatred and evil in which Sauron and his minions swam. To revile another species so vehemently, to be consumed by nothing but the desire to maim and kill, these were sensations he could not comprehend. Even for Orcs he could not summon such complete abhorrence, such total antipathy. Aye, he had built traps and had killed scores of the demons, but never like this. Torture was not in him. 

A sudden realisation shot through him, the insight so startling he caught his breath. Rochendil had enjoyed giving pain and humiliation; his lust for it had grown with every passing year. The distance between him and the very creatures who had done this was not so great as Legolas had been inclined to imagine. At once he denied the thought.

_Even he would never do such as this. No Elf could._

He was unwilling to think more deeply on the horse-master's deteriorating character. There was enough to worry over right in front of him and the implications could not be ignored. This was the fate in store for him should the Wraiths capture him at last. This may have been the end Lindalcon endured. The images assailed him in vivid detail that made him suddenly sick and he doubled over, vomiting bile and acids. Hoarse and callous laughter sounded from somewhere nearby. Legolas assumed a defensive crouch in an instant, bow armed and drawn on the spot where the laughter arose. 

All was silent. No hail of arrows or charging foes attacked. He scanned the still trees, the ring of tall trunks dark and diseased, the bark emitting malice and menace and hunger. A chill ran through him; they were consuming the dead Elf's spent blood and would have more. Never had he so longed to run from trees in all his life. He could detect nothing other than their ravenous desire to watch him die, to feed on what would be left of him. He quelled the instinct to bolt, experience warning there must be an Orc sentry, left to document his reaction to the atrocity in the clearing. Hurriedly he moved behind the threatening trunks for cover, not daring to climb to the heights here, where all the trees were poisoned against him. 

_Now, speak again, Orc, and I will send you to a quick death, though such you do not deserve._

As if in answer, a sharp crack resounded through the frigid air above and a heavy limb came crashing down beside him, missing his head only because he threw himself out away from the boll. A black arrow sailed for him and again he was spared by quick reflexes and a shift back behind the tree. Legolas lifted his eyes into the trembling limbs; he could not hide behind these trunks forever. Sooner or later he must make a decision, take action of some sort. If Lindalcon had been killed, in this or any other manner, he had to know it; he must have proof. If the youth still lived, then he wanted proof of that, too. He gathered his courage and inhaled a deep breath. Carefully he checked the overhanging branches, armed his bow, and held it drawn taut, aimed at the locus of the laughter.

"Tell your masters I am here," he called out. "I would know the fate of the young one. I've a bargain for your masters; send them forth from your putrid lair that they might hear it. Tell them the Tawarwaith has come in trade for Lindalcon, the young one at large here in these woods. I know he is prisoner here. Send your masters forth to me."

More laughter greeted his demands, still only the single voice, its owner well hidden among the trees. He sighed, frustrated, for how to alter circumstances and regain the advantage eluded him. If the Wraiths had Lindalcon deep beneath the Central Mountains, their was little chance of getting him out alive, or of getting out alive himself. A fleeting flutter of light flickered near his face and he turned to see, but even as he did the gruff Orcish voice called out. A single word echoed across the subverted glade, clear and distinct, and brought his heart to a standstill:

"Hecilo."

****  
* Four Days Prior *

Knobbed and bony fingers clothed in paper thin ivory skin drew the fox fur pelisse close about her narrow shoulders as sombre brown eyes peered out into the stillness of the desolate forest. Poised on the walk of the high stockade, the Elder stood straight and tall, neither stooped nor hunched by her advanced years. Cannily she scanned the emptiness of the restive lands, wondering what trial she must prepare her folk to weather now. It was a bad omen, this early and unexpected cold, these heavy snows. Usually the coming of winter was a mixed blessing, good for her small colony but terrible for their allies to the north. 

The Orcs tended to leave the humans alone and concentrated on Thranduil's realm during Rhîw. Many were the dark lines of foul demons that marched through the woods from the Tower, bent on war and the capture of fresh stock for the breeding pits. She shuddered in dread sympathy; always females were taken, only females. Yet now she was more worried about matters closer to home and the fate of her little village seemed ominous.

Folk had gone missing lately and no remains were found. That was not the norm. Orcs preyed on them constantly, but as a food source not for slaves or breeding. There were always remains, horrible though they were to find. At least they had always been able to account for every soul lost. Lately, though, some hunters had simply vanished. It was right after that perilous troop of Elves from the Golden Wood came galloping down the valley. The Galadhrim easily turned aside the Orcs who intercepted them and the next day they'd gone on, never setting foot in the village. 

The Elder frowned and tightened her grip on the cloak, fingering the rich, ruddy fur. That was rude of the mighty Lord Celeborn; too much like Thranduil his kinsman. She leaned over the spikes and spat; so much she thought of these Sindarin princes. Legolas always showed her respect and his help in training the menfolk was invaluable. They were not just better archers now but skilled bowyers and keen on maintaining the traps. Where they had been weighed down with fear and despair, he had seen their tenacity and the strength of their doughty hearts, and then he'd simply treated them like the hardy race they were, assumed they would join his campaign against their mutual enemy, thanked her humbly for their allegiance.

A smile transformed her wrinkled brown face; he was the best of his people. It was Legolas who'd urged her to construct the barrier higher and keep guards on watch there night and day. Their atheling never failed to respond when they called for his aid, and in kind she had never turned him away when he dragged his weary body to her village seeking shelter and rest. Because he was here, so the Brown Wizard lingered and spread the grace of the Valar among them. Aye, they were blessed to have the Tawarwaith here in the southern reaches of the Great Wood.

He had gone back to his people, though, and deeply she felt his absence. They all did. There was a tension in the air, a strained mood among the people, and with the unexpected arrival of the Galadhrim worry for what might be happening in the underground stronghold. The Wraiths had come out of the Tower after that skirmish with Celeborn's warriors, seeking, seeking but for what she could not guess; Legolas had already gone and the vile things must have known it. Never had they bothered with the humans much before, yet now their terrifying presence had been felt just beyond the stockade. So close! They'd been seen, the Lesser Evils stalking through the trees on their vitiated steeds. And now Judoc, Gwenneg, and Yann were missing.

She knew why, deep in her heart of hearts, and therein her soul wept bitter tears so her people would not see them and lose hope. They knew it, too, but none could speak the words. The Wraiths had wanted information; why Legolas was visited by High Elves from across Hithaeglir; why Lord Celeborn rode forth with his troops to his kinsman in the north; why two men from the village had gone with them. They wanted to know why Radagast had gone to the Wood Elves' city, too, with the Noldorin Lord in tow. 

In truth, these were all strange happenings in the desolate woods where none of the First-born had come to pay a call on their sylvan kin since the end of the last Age, long centuries before the woodsmen arrived. The Elder was not surprised the Wraiths' interest was roused. Likewise she didn't doubt they'd got the intelligence they'd sought or who had given it to them. It was obvious her three hunters had told all; it could not be helped. Even Elves could not withstand the tortures of Dol Guldur.

_Please, Yavanna, it could not be helped. We would not bring him hurt or harm, this you know beyond all other truths in our hearts. Protect him now, for we cannot._

The people were frightened and rightly so. All activities were carried out in subdued solemnity. A heavy, portentous silence suffocated them and even the babes only whimpered, too scared to mewl or cry. The folk longed for their atheling to return and looked to her for guidance, reassurance. She had none to give. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. It was a bad omen, this early and unexpected cold, these heavy snows, that numberless throng of Orcs marching north through the empty, restive land.

"Eldest Elder, have you reached a decision?"

The voice spoke in quiet respect behind her and she turned, finding there the heads of the Nine Clans of her people. The women stood in solemn silence, watching her closely, mouths set in iron grimness, eyes bright with fiery determination. Really,seeing them, there was but one answer she could give. She sighed in resignation; too long had they pretended this was not their war. She met each matriarch's gaze and nodded.

"Send forth the men; have them journey as Tirno ever entreated: to the Central Mountains. We will join our atheling in this conflict and mayhap our arms will make possible the victory he, and we, so long desired."

There was no cheering approval, only the soft swish of gowns as the women turned and filed back down to the Counsel House where the men awaited them. Well they knew it: few of their hunters would return to them, but even better they understood their good-hearted husbands. Better to die trying to free them of the blight of the Wraiths than to endure another season as the prey of the Orcs. Better to die valiantly beside Tirno than to be eaten alive by the vile servants of Shadow. The women repeated their leader's orders and in answer a sombre song arose in the chill of the dawn: a hymn of war to the Valar Oromë and Tulkus. The woodsmen gathered their bows and left to join their atheling in battle.  


  
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	99. Chapter 99

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd

 

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
* Part One - Lindalcon Renders Judgement ***

** **** **   


****

 

While the Tawarwaith paused in the highest reaches of the canopy to sing his dirge for Malthen, a pair of Elves made halting headway through the upper reaches of the frost-bound woods. Ranging to the south and east of the Mirkwood Mountains by not so very many leagues, the two encroached obliquely upon the scene of the corpsman's destruction. Too far to hear Legolas' song of sorrow, too remote from the mountains yet to discern the rounded peaks of the low, eroded hills, they were merely grateful not to have encountered any Orcs thus far. They passed within a league of Maltahondo's frozen tumulus with never a notion of anything amiss below the lumpy drifts of clean, white snow. Legolas had already left there.

Progress was difficult enough in the unexpectedly frigid climate and the early fall of thick snow. The weather slowed the travellers and forced caution into every step, yet urgent were those steps for the freezing air bit their skin and had them shivering under their woollen capes. They dared not stop and light a fire, though it was tempting indeed when an abandoned guard post was passed earlier before dark. Since the Galadhrim's battle near the Gladden Fields, they had been making their way northward without encumbrance, but now their advance slowed considerably. It would be good to get free of the woods to trot along the course beside the River Running. They came to a point where the path amid the trees converged with two others at unfamiliar angles and they stared, non-plussed, for this was territory they should know.

"We have not come up the right way," groaned one weary ellon. "We must get off this track or we'll be in the thick of the Orcs' outpost soon enough. Lucky we slipped past that great host heading for Thranduil's lands; best not tempt Vairë."

"Nay, this is the one," argued Rochendil. "We will hit the Forest Road soon, a league perhaps, and that we may follow straight out of Greenwood to the River Running and thence to Erebor."

"I tell you, this used to be my patrol," his comrade stressed. "The path is corrupt; we've gone too far to the north. We're too near the Central Mountains."

"Impossible; we'd have seen the Road first."

"We've crossed it."

"No, we've not even seen it."

"Wrong. Recall where we went to ground through that great swath of felled trees? There it was beneath them. Anyway, the Road is not so easy to find in this region, for few use it now where it winds near the Central Mountains. We are in Orc country," the warrior lamented, shuddering as much from terror as the biting cold. "They have worked to obscure the Road so to fool the hapless traveller, such as we have become."

Rochendil said nothing, staring out over the frozen byway in consternation and confusion. He had not been regularly assigned to this particular region and he knew it less well than the area skirting Anduin. Even within Talagan's elite troop he had never paid much attention to the specific routes of choice, trusting to his captain to choose best. He'd never been given cause to worry about the Elf-made trails. Now his resolve wavered; were they indeed bound for the Central Mountains? He raised his head and peered through the network of limbs tangled above, seeking for a guiding star to point the way, but he was not skilled in celestial navigation and could not be sure of his reckoning. He was correct, as it turned out, and the Road was still before them to the north, but this fact proved no comfort to him once it was realised.

"Rhach en Námo an le, Rochendil," (The Curse of Námo on you) hissed the second warrior darkly. "I've followed you to my death and I hold you to account for it."

"Hold yourself to account for it," sneered Rochendil, "for you chose to follow. You would be in the dungeons of the King now had you stayed with Lord Celeborn's folk. Is that better than the chance of escape?"

"Aye, 'tis better than this, for there will be no escape from our doom," he glowered. "Now do I wish I had never heard that wretched Hecilo's mournful cries from behind the storeroom door. A bitter fate he had, but mine is no less grim. If we're fortunate we'll be killed, if not, then it's in the torture chambers of Dol Guldur that we'll languish ere we perish."

"Daro!" barked Rochendil. "Will you slay yourself, then? While we live and have wits, we may yet devise a means to survive."

They fell silent then and crouched low against the bark of the tree supporting them, for away in the night they heard a stealthy shuffling along the limbs approaching their position. So great was their fear by now that at first their hearts grew cold in dread, thinking it was spiders come to bind them up, but it was winter and the arachnids were in hibernation. Soon enough, they relaxed for keen sight showed them their antagonist was a lone Elf making slow progress along another branch-way. It intersected theirs a little ahead and the two renegades moved forward to meet this unknown person. 

Rochendil whistled out a greeting, including his old troop and rank within it, but not his name. The Elf stopped and a pale, featureless face turned toward him, only dark spots of eyes and a round black 'O' of a mouth discernible from this distance. Then the Elf hastened, a cry of relief arising as he moved, and in minutes they were near enough for identities to be clear. Now they all halted, all mouths agape, all eyes wide in astonishment, for Rochendil recognised the son of Valtamar and never could Lindalcon forget the face of his father's murderer.

"Noss-Dagnir!" (Kin-Slayer!) shouted Lindalcon. His features contorted in rage and he drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking it with trembling hands upon the bowstring. "Vile betrayer! You will answer now for your fell deeds, Ailinyero! Surrender your weapons and come back to the stronghold or choose death here!"

Silence held for a few seconds, tense and brittle, then shattered in the mocking and raucous laughter of the Horse-master.

"Ai! It is the child of Meril, her gateway to glory and Valtamar's anchor to Arda, both!" he cried, struggling to rein in his mirth. "You call me murderer whilst aiming at my heart? What kind of meeting is this between allies against the Darkness? Open your eyes, henellon; we are not Orcs."

"Well do I know it," said Lindalcon. "I know what you are and who you are. All that you have done is open to me; your conspiracy of cruelty and avarice. I know you are Meril's accomplice."

"Your Naneth? You accuse her? What madness has claimed you, Lindalcon?" asked the second renegade, for he knew nothing of the hidden history behind Legolas' fall from grace.

"No madness save that induced by the unbearable weight of truth," answered the distraught youth. "I am here to take Rochendil back to Greenwood to face his crimes before the Council. For you, I have no cause to apprehend you, yet if you are this ellon's friend then maybe you must come along, too. No doubt you had a hand in the Tawarwaith's tortures."

"Oh, this is too much," spat Rochendil. "I am no conspirator, Lindalcon, but your adar's comrade in arms and friend in life. I lost my beloved on that dreadful day; have you forgotten that? Regain you reason and lower that bow."

"I will not and you are doubly guilty, then, for the death of your hervess. Have you no conscience? How can you walk about, so like an Elf in face and form, while inside your soul has shrunk away to blackness? You are an Orc, Rochendil, and so I will give you an orcish name in Black-speech to christen you. Bagronk (Cesspool) shall you be called henceforth."

Rochendil gave an indignant grunt while his companion sputtered out a laugh, but both were silenced when an arrow embedded in the trunk between their heads.

"Here now!" shouted the renegade warrior, pointing in anger and reaching for his bow. "You mustn't engage me in combat, pen neth, for you'll be lost and I've never drawn elvish blood. Calm yourself and be at peace; I meant no disrespect nor have I any gripe with you."

"Daro!" shouted Lindalcon, reaching for another arrow, but he was not as quick as the older warrior and found himself facing the sharp obsidian barb of an ash-wood shaft. Shaking, he nocked his bolt anyway and swallowed; it could not end here like this. He must force Rochendil back and convince this ellon to aid him. "I mean you no disrespect, either," he said urgently, "but I am called to avenge Adaren and secure for him the Way Straight so that he may journey on to Mandos now. Too long he has languished here adrift amid the trees, haunting my dreams and begging my aid. Assist me to bring his murderer to justice and any complicity of which you are guilty will be forgotten."

"Far," (Enough) growled Rochendil. "Pierce his shoulder and disarm him that we may go on. The longer we remain here the more likely will our capture be. I, for one, have no wish to learn if the rumours of Dol Guldur are true."

His companion hesitated, seeing the light of truth in Lindalcon's harried eyes. He had no desire to live among the Men of Dale, as Rochendil's plan decreed, and if he could regain his place among his people by turning traitor to the horse-master, then it was not an idea he found repugnant. He sent a narrow, sidelong look Rochendil's way and suddenly shifted his aim, the weapon verily inches from the kin-slayer's heart. He ignored his comrade's shocked exclamation and addressed Lindalcon.

"Nasan. Im Fael'ur. (So be it. I am Fair-heart) Do you know how to defeat this crooked pathway, pen neth?" he asked hopefully.

"Crooked?" queried Lindalcon, and both their hearts sank. "I did not know."

"Aye, we're headed for the Central Mountains," cackled Rochendil. "So mayhap we should just slay one another now and deny the Wraiths the pleasure."

"Na dîn!" (Be Quiet!) hissed Fael'ur.

"Nay, someone must speak with sense," countered Rochendil. "I will forget your desertion if you join with me anew. And you, Lindalcon, will have need of allies when we face our foes. Combined we may yet escape, riven in dissension we must all three perish. What then of your father's feä?"

"Na dîn, Bagronk," groaned Lindalcon. "I am not so easily duped. You would hand us to the Wraiths to spare yourself."

"Nay, he has a valid point," warned Fael'ur. "If it comes to battle, three armed may have a chance, but as it stands we'll both be watching him instead of our foes."

"That is the truth," intoned Lindalcon, nodding. "You see? He cannot be trusted not to betray us and already you know it. We must bind and gag him or he will be the death of us both."

"I will not abide it!" shouted Rochendil and the other two shushed him harshly.

"You'll bring them onto us," admonished Fael'ur.

"What difference is that to me?" scoffed Rochendil. "You mean to abet this child in his madness and see me imprisoned in Thranduil's dungeons. How is that better than death in the field?"

"Bind him," said Lindalcon, "while I hold him under threat."

"You would never shoot another Elf," argued Rochendil.

"Orc," hissed Lindalcon and his bow creaked as he drew it its full extent.

"Enough, now, pen neth; I'll bind his hands," Fael'ur assured and put away his weapon to do so. 

No sooner was the bow unstrung than Rochendil kicked out and caught him hard on the ankle. With a low cry the warrior staggered back and had to shift onto a different limb to keep from falling. Lindalcon fired, startled, again hitting the wood instead of the horse-master. A horrible cracking ensued as the branch gave way under Fael'ur and though he tried to leap to another tree, it was too far and he could not quite make the distance. He plummeted to the earth far below and landed with a terribly heavy thud. He lay motionless and mute upon the snow.

"See what you caused?" growled Rochendil. "He is probably dead."

"Me?" Lindalcon was incensed. "You are at fault and if he dies then you've another soul for which to account. Get down and see how badly he's injured; I am sure he cannot have died." The young ellon aimed his bow with care at the Horse-master's right thigh. From below, a faint moan arose and they could see Fael'ur stirring as consciousness returned.

"I will not go down," said Rochendil. "Shoot if you will."

"That is not what I want," said Lindalcon. His arm ached under the strain of holding the bow at maximum draw and he was forced to relax it a bit. "I want you to come back to the stronghold, alive and well, to admit your crimes before everyone. I want to see you cast out and disgraced just as Legolas was."

"In life, we are seldom granted our heart's desire," mused Rochendil.

Before Lindalcon could decide what to do, a new sound became manifest in the sharp, still air; a noise no Elf of Greenwood could ever mistake, filled as it was with foul obscenities and curses overprinting the snow-muffled, careless tread of coarse, steel-shod feet abusing the earth. A band of Orcs was making swift progress through the woods, honed in on their location with an uncanny accuracy none of the warriors had time to analyse. Lindalcon and Rochendil looked down upon their fallen comrade.

The stunned archer groaned again and shook his head, rolling sideways to make gathering his legs beneath him easier. No sooner had he moved than he exhaled a sharp cry of agony and fell back. The sound raised a pleased shout of glee from the approaching Orcs. The speed of their advance increased and they gave forth with vile threats and promises of torture to their helpless foe. Yet, Fael'ur was not alone and Lindalcon readied himself, shifting to a more suitable branch, and as the Orcs poured beneath his tree he fired upon them. Not so swift or skilled as more experienced warriors, he was nonetheless close enough to kill one and wound another before the Orcs dove for cover. 

"Fael'ur!" Breathless, the youth scrambled higher and darted into a neighbouring tree, calling down to the fallen warrior as he repositioned. "Can you shoot? Can you, Fael'ur, answer!"

"Aye," huffed the penitent renegade, seeing how he could gain the grace needed to walk the Straight Way as Valtamar's equal, already propped awkwardly on his side, bow armed. "Go, Lindalcon; there is no escape for me here and you cannot kill them all. Hear them? Already they call for their vile Masters. The Wraiths will come." 

Indeed, the Orcs were engaged in a curious stamping and groaning, the noise painful to hear, ringing through the still air in a constant, dull drone. The ground reverberated with it, thrumming like a huge drum. It was the vile fiends' equivalent of battle-talk and the Elves believed the Wraiths could pick up the vibrations through the earth itself, no matter how distant they might be. As it happened, they were not so far at all, being engaged in the battle for the Central Mountains.

"Between us we can pick off these foul demons before they arrive," urged Lindalcon, unable to consider leaving this warrior to die so horrible a death. "We'll get back up in the canopy and seek Legolas. He will know what to do."

"Nay, there isn't time; reinforcements will come. We cannot kill them all."

"Then, Rochendil and I will come down. Together we can get you back to the heights. Do not despair!"

"I am not going down," said Rochendil. "He is right; we must go now if we are to have any hope of fleeing the Wraiths. Come, Lindalcon."

"So I would expect you to counsel!" shouted Lindalcon, momentarily aiming his bow at the horse-master again. 

A black bolt flashed close by his arm and he jerked aside, turning to fire on his assailant. He had not marked his target well and the shot went wild. The Orcs laughed and a volley of arrows sailed toward him. Desperate, he managed to evade them by again shifting trees, but now he was farther from Fael'ur and the warrior was under attack. Before Lindalcon could improve his position, Fael'ur was pierced in the side by one of the black arrows. He cried in rage and armed his bow without seeming to feel the wound, felling two Orcs as they broke cover, sabres drawn and mouths grinning, racing for their prey.

"Fael'ur!" shouted Lindalcon, frantic and frightened. He could not just stand by and watch this happen. In seconds he was on the ground, running to put himself between the fallen Elf and the charging Orcs. With a calm and steady hand he fired four times in swift succession and caught again two. They crumbled to their demise as their fellows ducked for cover.

"Foolish child!" hissed Rochendil from the branches. "Like your father, you surrender your life for nothing!" He began slipping away from the conflict, cautious to keep the thick tangle of the branches between him and the Orcs as he moved higher. A few arrows came his way but none could reach that far.

"Pen Gostadron!" (Coward!) yelled Lindalcon, heart racing as he tried to reason out what to do.

"Ai, maethor thalion, Ai, nîth alvaen," (Oh, dauntless warrior, Oh, foolish youth) mourned Fael'ur. "You should not have come down. My death is foretold and now so is yours. Get back up, if you can, and free me from carrying the stain of your blood into Mandos."

"Nay, I can die but once, as you, and neither of us shall die alone," answered Lindalcon, his voice breaking as the words made real what he had done. His arms shook as he aimed again and fired at a leering face peaking out from the bolls. A raucous laugh mocked his miss-timed shot and a cruel voice taunted him.

"Edhel dithen gwanna and a naegbant." (Little Elf die slow and painful) The rest hooted and crowed their laughter to see their quarry shudder and cringe. 

Lindalcon edged closer to Fael'ur dragging the corpse of one of the Orcs with him. He crouched behind it to shield himself somewhat. He glanced at his comrade and was dismayed to see how dark was his cloak, saturated with blood. Their eyes met and the truth shared between them was inescapable. 

The former renegade smiled and held forth his arm. "We will guide your Adar home together."

Lindalcon gripped him firmly but could not trust his voice, fearing tears should he speak at all, and then they readied their bows. 

Strangely, the Orcs did not charge. A lot of cursing and muttering in Black-speech ensued and a few poorly pronounced threats in Sindarin were issued, but the beasts held their place. The two warriors shared confused expressions, silently more concerned about this unexpected turn than they would have been over a direct assault. A brief glimmer of determined hope sprang up in their hearts. They were of one mind: they must get to the trees if they could or at least to better cover if not. Lindalcon hastily tore at Fael'ur's clothes to bind the wound, breaking off the protruding end of the bolt. He unstrung his bow and stowed it, encircling his comrade round the chest so to heave him upright.

Their activity spurred a flurry of arrows from the Orcs and a lone soldier charged out of his protected spot, bellowing at them. Fael'ur, still holding tight to his bow, managed to fell him with barely a metre to spare between them and death. The effort exhausted him, though, and he fell back gasping and clutched at his side.

"Arm yourself," he ordered and no more could he say. Already he felt it, poison spreading through his veins, seeking his heart. He would not have an easy death no matter whether they could get into the trees or not. He groaned, gnashing his teeth in fury for Lindalcon's death would be in vain. "Curse Rochendil, or Bagronk as you rightly named him," he hissed.

It was at this time that a new sensation reached them and raised all the fine hairs along their spines. A pair of spirits entirely evil and emanating hatred made swiftly toward them: the Wraiths. The impression of rank malevolence increased even as the sound of stealthy and subtle steps rippled through the trees: elvish feet rapidly tripping along the branches. Rochendil had obviously experienced the same creeping horror and his cowardly heart made him turn tail, Orcs being less terrible to face than Nazgûl. Soon enough they saw him, eyes wide and wild, the smell of his fear strong and acrid. The Orcs below hooted and scoffed when they spotted him and loosed a thick volley that fell uselessly into the snow banked about the trunks of the trees.

"Rochendil," wheezed Fael'ur. "Come down and retrieve him."

"Nay!" argued Lindalcon. "Come help me get him up, horse-master."

"Oh, I am no longer Bagronk the kin-slayer?" snapped the agitated ellon. "He cannot be saved; the arrows are poison-tipped. Yes, Fael'ur?"

"Aye," sighed the warrior, smiling apologetically to Lindalcon. "I would rather a quick death than this, but mayhap I have earned some pain at that. It will not go on long past the dawn and that is far less time than twelve years."

"Nae!" Lindalcon cried in misery. He had seen the effects of orcish poisons.

"Go up now while Rochendil covers for you," urged Fael'ur, grimacing as the first of the strong jarring contractions shot through his body. He gave a garbled cry when his legs convulsed, a low moan as he fell limp, sweating and salivating so that a foam began to form at his lips when he breathed. All the while the Orcs were laughing and jeering, describing the vicious punishment their Masters would enact upon the Elves.

Lindalcon could not tear his eyes from the grisly sight of Fael'ur's agony. He reached for the ellon's hand and gripped it, shocked by the crushing strength of it as the next fit came upon him. Not until the Wraiths' voices sounded through the trees could he be distracted. The screeching howl made him cringe low and in spite of himself he whimpered faintly, hiding his eyes against Fael'ur's chest. A palsied hand stroked his hair.

"G…Go, child," croaked Fael'ur. No more could he speak as the rigours of the poison shot through him and set his body to quaking violently.

"Lindalcon, come up," called Rochendil desperately and fired in the direction of the waiting Orcs.

Surprised to find the horse-master still there, Lindalcon gaped at him dumbly, unable to make his legs work as the Nazgûl drew ever closer. Seeing this, Rochendil blasphemed and hurriedly climbed down, trembling in his bones, heart in his throat, fury in his heart. This action roused the Orcs and they bellowed out warnings to their Masters and commenced firing, moving now to surround their quarry before they could climb back amid the branches. Rochendil was motivated by a level of terror even Orcs did not comprehend and verily dragged Lindalcon with him, snatching him round the waist and hoisting him up in the air, cursing the youth the while to come to his senses and act.

Lindalcon did, dodging arrows and ascending with a speed that amazed him, unexpectedly comforted by Rochendil's close presence behind him. Miraculously, or by design, neither was hit and they made it beyond the Orcs' range safely. There they paused to catch their wind and stared at one another.

"So, comrades now?" smiled Rochendil, the expression crafty and sly rather than gracious, or so it seemed to Lindalcon's rattled nerves.

"For now," he agreed, scowling. "Is there nothing we can do for him?" Below, Fael'ur lay twitching in the ruddy snow.

"Aye, we could kill him before the Wraiths come, but I'll not do it," answered Rochendil coldly.

Lindalcon stared at him in horror, but then did a thing he could not explain to himself, arming his bow and leaning out over the branches. "Fael'ur," he called and the warrior looked up to see the arrow aimed for him. He managed to give a jerky nod and then struggled to still his convulsions so that Lindalcon would not miss. "Namarië, mellon, you will be free to go with my Adar," he said quietly and loosed his bolt.

Fael'ur felt a bright, hot jolt through his chest and a rush of peace flooded his mind; he smiled as his heart stilled forever, sightless eyes locked in a last look of gratitude upon the means of his salvation. Even as his life-blood ebbed away, his spirit arose from its expiring husk and beheld there in the trees Valtamar waiting for him. Their communion was swift and Fael'ur made haste to obey the dead warrior's demands.

"Valar! That was coolly done, kin-slayer," remarked Rochendil, unable to completely squelch his unbidden admiration for the merciful act which he had not been moved to attempt.

"Be silent, Bagronk," seethed Lindalcon, tears smarting his eyes as he turned away from the scene below. The Orcs were raging about the loss of their conquest and charged from their hiding place, sabres drawn, and poured forth their wrath upon the Elf's body.

"Now is the time to flee," urged Rochendil and tugged at Lindalcon's sleeve.

"Nasan," Lindalcon choked out. He knew he should try to kill some of the Orcs below while they were distracted but could not make himself look upon what was happening to Fael'ur's remains. "Which way to get out of this mess?"

"Back south. We are completely blocked ahead. Not only the Wraiths but a full-out war is raging near the Mountains; I heard faintly some of Talagan's battle-speak. Quickly now, for the Wraiths will not let us go so easily if they see us." He was already hastening through the branches as he spoke and did not pause to see if Lindalcon followed.

Despite their lead, the furious screech of the Wraiths' followed close behind. The Elves went faster and moved higher into the thinnest, brittlest twigs beneath the frozen, denuded canopy, running the track wherever it bent southward. By and by, a noise of marching Orcs came to them from ahead and they stopped in consternation. Soon they could see the roiling mass of black blobs as a troop of soldiers tramped toward them. Lindalcon gave a sharp gasp and Rochendil turned to see why. His young nemesis was peering to the west and in that direction now came another patrol of Orcs. Quickly the fiends reached their vicinity and there was no doubt they knew where the Elves were perched.

"Vile Nazgûl!" fumed Rochendil. "They are guiding the Orcs right to us. Your precious Tawarwaith hasn't managed to rid the woods of our chief enemies and now we are trapped."

"He has done more than you," accused Lindalcon, calmer now and puzzled by that. Strange, with the anticipation of disaster dispersed by its realisation, he no longer felt afraid. Perhaps that was the gift of experience and he was certainly a novice no longer. He had killed five times this night, one of the deaths his own kind. A shudder ran down his spine and he forced his thoughts back to the situation at hand. Rochendil was no strategist; his plans took them deeper into trouble. "What does it matter if they know we're up here? None of those beasts can see us clearly enough to hit us even if their bows had draw sufficient to shoot so far. We must go back toward the battle."

"You are mad," said Rochendil. "The Central Mountains are a raging turmoil of strife and war. In it we will perish."

"In it are Talagan and his troops; you heard battle-speak, did you not? We will have aid that way. To the south are only more Orcs and then the Tower. We cannot go that way and the Wraiths draw ever nearer."

While they argued, another cry of dread filled the air, this time filled with triumph and amusement, and Rochendil cringed low and whined like a whipped cur. "How do we get around them, then? Nothing stops them and we are in sight of them now," he wailed.

It was true; Lindalcon looked down into the blank blackness of a faceless hood turned up upon him. His skin writhed in revulsion and he shut his eyes. Then a strong sense of urgency passed through him in the wake of the tremors and he rallied. His heart filled with hatred for the creatures threatening him and he wanted nothing more than to have his chance at shooting off one of those rings as Legolas had once tried. Buoyed up on this tide of unexpected and indignant fury, Lindalcon straightened up but did not arm his bow. He needed space; he needed time.

"Come," he exhorted Rochendil and took him by the arm. "We must try to get past them. They'll not reach us here if only our courage holds. Come on! Back along the trail!" 

He set out, pulling Rochendil with him. Every step they were dogged by the silent spectres below and accompanied by brazen taunts from the Orcs who now completely encircled them from a distance of several metres out. Soon Lindalcon saw why. The corrupt path had worked its evil magic again and now the Elves found themselves looking out into a vast field of felled trees partially covered in snow, the result of the ground-shaking event. The empty space was bright with reflected light, the clearing wide; a void in a place where there should not be one, a pocket of camouflaged death in the midst of the Great Wood. Beyond the devastation stood the dark ranks of the hibernating trees. Betwixt them and that enticingly dense cover, in the centre of this scene of destruction, stood a lone beech. 

Dismayed, Lindalcon and Rochendil worked along the edge of the gap, seeking a point where it was bridged, and ere they had gone far the horse-master was nearly thrown to his death as a limb cracked and gave way beneath him. The same befell Lindalcon and the pair quickly retreated from the dangerous tree. Unsure which tree to try next, their deliberations were interrupted by a thunderous commotion resounding from the way behind them. The rhythmic thwock of many axes biting into frozen wood preceded the deafening creaking and crashing noise that could only be caused by the downfall of mighty oaks. 

Hastily they climbed higher and doubled back to see and found the Orcs bringing down the very trees through which they'd just made safe passage. The Elves shared expressions of dread and doom; the trunks had to have been mostly cut through already in order for the Orcs to fell the hardwoods so quickly. Never had either of them heard of such a thing and Lindalcon could not help thinking it was a ploy invented to spite the Tawarwaith and his fields of spear-lined pits: a trap designed specifically to catch Wood Elves. 

"The other way," said Lindalcon and turned again to follow the border of the desolate clearing. 

It was hopeless. Each tree into which they moved attempted to drop them into the very laps of the Wraiths. The Orcs chortled and chuckled with malicious glee. With the path behind them cut, the Elves were now truly isolated on an island of frozen limbs, any of which might give way beneath them. The only option left was to cross that open reach where every tree but one had been cast down. 

"We'll have to jump," said Lindalcon, eyeing that lone beech, their stepping stone across the void.

"The distance is too great," whispered Rochendil. He cowered next to the trunk and hid his face.

Lindalcon spared him a look of intense disgust and made ready. Even as he gathered himself for the leap, a strong warning clanged through his heart, but there was no other means to get on. He sprang, sailing through the crisp, clear air as a hail of arrows whooshed beneath his tightly tucked feet. He made it, grasping the fragile frozen limb avidly, arms and legs wrapped around it tight. Heart racing, he inhaled and let loose a great, triumphant yell, smiling as he stood upright and turned to see Rochendil preparing to jump. The Orcs were strangely silent; the Nazgûl motionless.

The horse-master threw himself through the air with a terrified and incoherent shout. He reached for the nearest branch and just grabbed it, pulling himself onto a level lower than Lindalcon's but still too high for the Orcs to make their volley pay. Rochendil, adrenalin pounding through his veins and panting for breath, grinned down at his foes and laughed. Just as he was conjuring a deriding remark, an ominous groaning and grating noise began. The tree in which they were housed shook and started to list into the moonlit clearing. It was undoubtedly one of the poisoned beeches and was obeying the orders of its gruesome Master, destroying itself in order to deliver the Elves into the hands of the Nazgûl. Of course, it had been chopped mostly through to make certain its obedience.

Lindalcon shouted in outrage and fear, trying to orient himself to make the leap into the waiting trees still divided from them by the ring of cool, white moonlight on the northward side of the renegade tree. Yet he had no time to do so, requiring all his agility to remain on the upward side of the falling trunk as it plummeted down, shutting his eyes as he braced for the impact. The tearing of the wood was horrible to hear, filling the air with the death throes of the beech, a grinding, cracking violent anthem of confusion, hatred, and remorse. A branch whipped across his cheek and cut him. Frigid bark ripped at the skin of his hands and tore the cloth of his leggings at the knees as he scrambled amid the toppling limbs. The earth rumbled as the rotten tree met the ground and quivered to stillness. Lindalcon opened his eyes to see a swarm of hooting, howling Orcs pouring through the clearing toward them. He reached for his bow and realised Rochendil was already firing.

TBC 

  
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	100. Chapter 100

_italics indicate thoughts_ |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd

 

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
* Part Two - Winter War ***

****

Winter's first blast of chilling breath always brought the enemy forth, for like Elves the Orcs little felt the cold and the lack of verdant cover made their quarry easier to track. In this initial advance of the annual campaign, as warmth vanished into the occluded skies over the vast expanse of denuded branches, as the frozen land contracted around roots and compressed seeds, Tawar slept. The omnipresent entity fell into the long, dreaming hibernation triggered by the withdrawal of Anor's light, only a small portion of sentient thought still active among the evergreens, but even this awareness was sluggish and disjointed, functioning in slender pockets and slices of the woodland realm, isolated from the long reach of rhizomes and fibres that connected them to the rest of the wooded world.

Ancient and untouchable, removed from the threat of Melkor's evil plots and schemes by virtue of his indifferent disdain, Tawar remained unacknowledged and thus was never accounted of any importance by the Dark Vala. Though ravaging fires spawned by his violence were common enough, these were propagated more to harry the Elves than to kill the trees, and never did he strive to utterly strip Arda of the forests. Strange that was, for had he destroyed every green thing, how then would any living creation of Iluvatar flourish? Even the twisted creatures Melkor wrought with his terrors and his torments depended on that fragile envelop of air clinging to the world, its valleys draped and its peaks sheathed with that impalpable, evanescent veil exhaled by the trees. 

Wise was Yavanna and close to the heart of Eru; through her designs had come the very key to the existence of all life. From the smallest plants adrift in the rolling seas to the mightiest of the tallest trees, green life breathed for Arda. So slender was the sleeve of air about the world, so tenuous the misty ether that gave breath to all of life, yet every bit of it came into being from the respiring plants, be they minute or majestic. What an effort that was to manifest and great was Yavanna's toil, and while many accounted Laurelin and Telperion her finest masterpieces, it was not so. She was content to keep her pride hidden and rejoiced in the quiet confines of her inner heart. But for her green growing things, the fullness of the Music of the Ainur could never have been realised.

So cleverly concealed was the Goddess' magnificent art that Melkor never even attempted to warp her grand invention. Balrogs mimicked the Maiar, Orcs were patterned on Elves, Trolls were but misshapen and mal-intended Dwarves, but there was no antithesis to the trees. Turn them he might have done but didn't; infect some with poisonous darkness Sauron eventually did, yet there was no evil counterpart to plant-life striving to suffocate the earth. 

This few noticed, save the Wood Elves who remarked it almost at once. Is it any wonder their reverence and love for Tawar developed so fully? Here was Arda's most powerful entity, incorrupt. 

Not until Sauron slunk beneath the trees did Shadow take note of Greenwood anew and gradually changed that. Melkor's successor developed a deep hatred for the sylvan Elves abiding there, and for Thranduil in particular, for they opposed him despite their fear of his Black Tower. He could neither destroy them nor drive them out, and when he abandoned Dol Guldur he left it in the keeping of Orcs and men who still worshipped him. In time, he sent his Wraiths to organise them. Together they gave the woodland Elves no peace and Greenwood darkened, sullied by Shadow, inviolate no more.

So it was that in winter, though Tawar would not have it so, Greenwood became a fertile hunting ground for the Orcs of Dol Guldur and their masters. This annual hunt was the bane of the Wood Elves and the reason the population had not rebounded as well as it might after the devastation of the Last Alliance. Hoping to spare as many of his people as he could, Thranduil was eventually forced to exhort his subjects to abandon the greater part of the forest and retreat into the furthest reaches of Greenwood's northern bounds.

Ever since, when the snows came those of the people with children moved their families into the stronghold for the duration of the season. The underground fortress burgeoned with folk from the scattered colonies throughout the northern reaches of the woods' extent and the Mountain Amid the Trees rang with song and laughter and the noise of young ones at play. The warriors went out to meet the Enemy; the rest looked after the children, but even these folk were prepared to fight should need demand it. Should the mountain be invaded, the children would be led through secret paths out of the fortress to flee through the densely covered heights skirting Ered Mithrin. From there they would go west to Anduin and seek shelter with Beorn and Radagast.

The escape plan had never been utilised and with the emergence of the Tawarwaith, hope returned to the Wood Elves. Deliverance was at hand. The Nazgûl would be defeated and the Tower destroyed now that Legolas was relieved of the burden of the Tasks. While it would be good to believe the woodland people loved their champion because of the quality of his character, it was more honest to admit they loved him most for his unflinching tenacity, his unmitigated hatred of the evil infecting Tawar.

This year, in which so much sorrow had been overcome by joy, as their Tawarwaith regained his rightful place in the community, as the snow whirled and the temperature plunged, the folk of the woods gathered their progeny and herded them into the fortress. The inner doors were shut tight and bolted. Sentries kept vigil from the wall of the Great Gates and the city stood empty, grim and silent in the dark. The secret way was checked and torches lit along its length. Everyone capable of wielding a weapon was armed. Should the unthinkable happen and the Wraiths' forces defeat their Tawarwaith, the people were ready.

The Nazgul had a clear and definite purpose: they had been sent to Dol Guldur to search for the Ring. Thranduil's vaults were a likely possibility. Suffice it to say they had captured and tortured numerous elves without learning anything useful about the contents of that treasure trove. The Wraiths had never caught anyone belonging to the King's inner circle and even these few had never been inside the caverns or seen the riches therein. They had concluded that either the Ring was not in those cavernous chambers or the Wood Elves were exceptionally well-conditioned to withstand phenomenal levels of pain and torment. That left them with Sauron's secondary desire: destruction of Greenwood as a kingdom and scattering of the forces of Thranduil. This objective they pursued with great relish, if no small amount of frustration. The sylvans simply would not back down and Thranduil seemed as immune to death as the Nazgul themselves.

This year the Shadow-slaves desired a new achievement foremost: to seize the Tawarwaith. They sensed the turmoil in Greenwood and felt an instinctive dread at the thought of the soul-stealing Sindarin King reclaiming his outcast son and joining forces with the forest champion, forging allegiance with the folk of the Golden Wood against them, the woodsmen added as an expendable fighting force. So their intelligence warned was happening. It was to crush this confederation that they amassed so great an army to march upon Thranduil's city so early in the season; indeed, before the season had even begun. 

Legolas was their true target for this and for personal reasons. Long had they borne the abuse and interference of this unprecedented lone avenger. He had escaped through their net of Orcish soldiers, aided by unexpected allies from Imladris and by the meddling grey wizard. Now he was safe in Thranduil's city and reinforcments from Lorien had arrived as well. So be it; they would lure him from the safety of the elven realm.

Now the Tawarwaith was certainly cognisant of the numerous reasons for their plots and schemes, few elves knew as much about them as he, but there were other concerns with which his heart and mind were wholly consumed. Lindalcon's whereabouts was chief among them. He little thought of the Nazgul except to relegate them to the battle at hand and Talagan's able troops. His chief concern was seeing to it Lindalcon did not run afoul of the corrupt spectres.

He'd hoped to reach Lindalcon before now, but the young warrior had been out wandering around for days and like any Wood Elf left no trace of his passing. This was the night of the fourth day the Tawarwaith had been abroad in the winter woods and the only good thing he could attribute to the time was the healing of his shoulder wound. Now only an irritating stiffness remained, making drawing his bow to full weight uncomfortable. To make matters more perilous, the Orcs were on the march in great numbers; several troops had passed beneath Legolas as he slipped through the high canopy. Normally, Legolas would take enjoyment from picking them off and taunting them into chasing him through the traps, but he refrained, not wanting to attract attention to his solitary search.

He had a fair idea of where to go to find his young, misguided, and probably terrified heart-brother. Too well he knew the paths easiest to locate and use were now often more treacherous than the savage scars wrought over the forest floor by the constant tramp and stamp of Orc troops scouring the woods for game and Elves. So many of the trees had been turned and those that were still ensconced in the Spirit of the Great Wood were becoming more and more isolated, unable to help much in times of need, even less so now in the depths of their winter sleep. He had already tried to get through to them, hoping to wake the trees and send a vision to Lindalcon of the right path, but the effort failed. 

He was inclined hurry, faulting himself for the delay at Malthen's grave, but forced to go carefully in search of signs. How could he forget the reason for being out here in this desolate, frozen landscape? Legolas shivered as he moved carefully along the ice-glazed limbs, tucking the fur cloak tighter around him. He reviewed again the mental map he'd made the night of the battle against the spiders, thankful he'd had foresight enough to commit to memory the location of the dark, diseased enclaves of turn-coat trees, spiders' colonies, and Orc outposts. Without that he would be at the mercy of the murderous hardwoods and easily fall prey to the Wraiths' minions. That this very thing may already have happened to Lindalcon chilled his heart.

Quickly Legolas reviewed the assumptions that had guided him to this point: Lindalcon must have headed out of the stronghold following the Elf Path, that much seemed obvious as he would want to avoid the mountains and reach the Road. This route took him almost to the limits of the forest before he could get beyond the malignant peaks unseen. The Road was not far then, less than five leagues due south from the Elf Path. Once over it, Lindalcon would bear obliquely north, seeking for signs of the renegade's passage. 

For all his noble heart and best intentions, this goal was impossible; Greenwood encompassed too great an area to make such a search plausible for one lone Elf. Thinking this, Legolas' heart cramped down in a painful thud; his goal was virtually the same. What would likely happen, as soon as Lindalcon realised the magnitude of his error in judgement, was that he would try to get back to the Road and use it to head for Erebor. In attempting this feat, he would invariably run upon the corrupt pathways and be drawn instead toward the Central Mountains.

_So I will go there at last and make war upon those invasive demons, as I have long wished to do._

Now many years had Legolas spent in the middling regions of Greenwood near the Forest Road, for Mithrandir's commission to spy upon the Wraiths was a recent one, just seven years old. During the long and lonely seasons prior to it, Legolas had spied upon the Orcs inhabiting the Central Mountains. Driving them out would surely have been a suitable feat to account for at least one warrior's wandering feä. He learned much about their habits and their routines: when they came out hunting and when they came out for warring; where they drew water and where they threw away their wastes and rubbish. The midden was foul and so tremendous it had turned a bend of the river below the cataract into a noisome fen filled with unspeakably vile and rotting offal.

He learned that they kept watch unceasingly on the lands surrounding their underground lair and he could not dig traps anywhere within sight of these outposts. He discovered numerous 'backdoors' through which the Orcs came and went, tunnels delved to procure escape routes and increase the flow of air through the caves. He found out about their hunger for the flesh of humans and thwarted many a caravan of slaves from reaching the Central Mountains. This had in fact constituted his first contact with the doughty, stubborn woodsmen who had chosen to make Greenwood their home and refused to budge. These rescues had earned him their loyalty and trust and he in turn had hoped to enlist their aid in ridding the mountains of the infestation.

For there was no other means to do it than to assemble a great army and lay siege to the place. Without knowing the layout of the tunnels and the caves, Elves storming the mountains would be easily killed. Sealing every outlet and waiting without to kill them as they sought to dig out was the only thing he could think of that might work. That and burning them out, but he feared lest the fire get beyond control and burn the forest. The woodsmen had been willing to listen but doubtful as to the plan's feasibility. Legolas had set about training them for such a war, but what he really needed was Talagan's troops and the host of Thranduil's army. 

The siege never came to be. 'Not yet,' said the village matriarchs. 'We are too few and our training to new. Wait until our numbers and our skill increase.' The humans ultimately feared to go so far from their villages to the very place where their kin had been kept as cattle. Legolas sighed; he could not counter their arguments then or now.

_And what can I do there alone? Despite my insistent demands to Aragorn, he was right. Even three could not hope to infiltrate that lair much less empty it out. I was mad to think so._

Madness it had been in truth and he thought back to that time, so recently passed, when he had hoped for any honourable means to end his life. He flexed his hand and looked upon the bonding band encircling his forefinger, wondering over the change in him because of this small golden thing. Now, he could not bear the thought of leaving Berenaur, of dying and abandoning him to grieve, to grieve in the arms of his Lorien lovers. Would he join him in Mandos or remain with them? Was he so selfish he wanted his mate to fade?

_Yes. I would want him to come after me, even to Mandos._

It was not personally flattering, perhaps, but Legolas deemed he had earned such devotion and if he did not believe Berenaur felt that deeply, he would not have been able to put the past behind him as he had. Legolas no longer thought much about the Wandering Warriors or the Judgement. Not for such reasons would he go to those Orc-infested mountains alone; only his concern Tawardrove him, and for Lindalcon and for his young brother and sister left behind in Greenwood. There was enough for their souls to weather, considering the charges Lindalcon had raised against Meril. To lose their brother, too was unthinkable. Legolas wanted to bring Lindalcon back for them as much as for the love he felt for the young son of Valtamar.

Thus, he must now go and attempt this impossible thing alone. Legolas rubbed his shoulder and rotated the arm. He should practise to work the stiffness from the muscles and hone his speed. Perhaps he could lure the Orcs out and pick them off. He sighed heavily, knowing this for the foolishness it was. Perhaps, he thought, he'd been completely wrong and Lindalcon had not taken the Elf Path. Maybe he'd used the trail along the Forest River out of the stronghold, following its course from the palace cellars into Erebor and on to Lake-town. He tried to convince himself this was a valid option for it was one that promised a more positive outcome to his chase. For a moment his heart uplifted but then he groaned and shook his head. Lindalcon was not going to Erebor; he was seeking his father's murderer, at large somewhere in the heart of the forest, determined to earn Valtamar's Release one way or another.

_Death._

Unbidden the word sliced through Legolas' soul and he hastily negated the notion. 

_I will find him; none know the bent and twisted paths as do I._ 

Yet he could not shake the idea that he was too late; that what he would find would not be salvageable. What then would he do? He couldn't even formulate a response. Nonetheless, he had to persist in his search, knowing he could not accept Lindalcon's death without seeing the evidence.

_Until I see his body cold and lifeless I must believe there is a chance. He is not stupid. Mayhap he is safely hidden in one of the old patrol talans of which I told him._

With that conviction he set out again, slithering stealthily through the branches, mindful of the turned trees as he passed them, careful not to disturb their slumber, wondering if the poison of the Black Tower made them immune to the natural cycles of the seasons. He did not want to find out. He could ill afford being discovered and his movements broadcast to the Wraiths.

Legolas, more upset about Malthen's death than he would have imagined, consumed with fear for his misguided brother, was not thinking along devious lines. He did not suspect the Wraiths were about more than the usual attack upon the fortress. Yes, he knew, if the chance arose, they would eagerly capture him, but it was a realisation buried under the greater worries presently harrowing his heart. The winter campaign was such a constant in his life that he failed to consider Maltahondo's warning. The Lesser Evils were well aware of his presence, but content to let him meander about in the frigid trees for a time. Their first attempt to trap him had failed; they were being more cautious in the second.

The path began to thin, an ominous fact, and the Tawarwaith came to the region decimated by the shaking earth. So many trees had been lost and he could not doubt that the majority of them were loyal to Tawar and to Greenwood. Did he dare go to ground and run over the snow? He would be plainly visible then and there was an ugly, ragged brown track through the snow proving Orcs had been here quite recently. There could be stragglers or scouts waiting to spot him if he came down. He had no choice but to skirt the rim of destruction, following the widening gap of felled trunks until he found a narrower place to leap across. 

Time passed and still he followed the verge of humped bolls half-buried under the snow. Such silence he had seldom known and shivered, recalling the distress of the expiring trees in the aftermath of the catastrophe. Had this destruction really been to counter his activity in the southern woods, or was that a misjudgment wrought by his madness, too? Mayhap Sauron meant to destroy the network in which Tawar flowed by felling the loyal trees. Surely that made more sense and Legolas frowned, disturbed that his reasoning had been so distorted then. 

Ithil was high and the scene was bright with white light, a fine thing had the place not been a gigantic cemetery of oaks and beeches. Even Fearfaron could not harvest all this wood and give the lost trees a dignified end.

Presently, he paused and stared in disbelief at the empty air over the graveyard, brows rising as he wondered if he was hallucinating. He had just brought the Spirit Hunter to mind and now came a vision drifting along over that desolate expanse, a sight he could not credit at first. Many things, some terrifying, others awe-inspiring, many more wondrous, he had seen whilst striving to complete the Tasks, but this was either a waking dream or a Wanderer. He waited where he stood and let the ghostly spectre come to him.

TBC 

  
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	101. Chapter 101

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
* Part Three - Fierce Tenacity * **

  


  
"Kwingâ alkwa!" (Empty Bow!)

"Kwingâ kwa!" (Full Bow!)

The cries rang through the dark and frigid air; sharp, clear voices clothed in tension and fear rolling through the night one upon the other, terse verse sung in the round by an endless choir scattered through the canopy, battalions of archers calling for arrows. Quick as thinking came pages running the limbs bearing missiles from the rear, shoving the bundles into the arms of corpsmen waiting to pack the quivers full and call out the affirmation:

"Kwingâ kwa!"

"Kwingâ alkwa!"

Away fled the pages to treetop flets to gather more, bounding amid the highest branches with their cargo, showering the fighters with shivered shards of silvered ice and faint veils of shimmering snow. The warriors moved beneath them and around them, trading trees and springing now higher, now lower as need demanded, firing a continuous hail of arrows upon the Orcs. The archers advanced the dírnaith from both the canopy and the ground, the formation comprised of many layers, pushing the enemy back, back south of the Forest Road.

"Wa Lakra; Rono Golbâ!" (Go swiftly Over Branch!)

"Winto krumbâ!" (Fade left!)

"Ap-pata, Ap-pata!" (Go Behind, Cross Behind!)

Shadows grey and alabaster skittered and leaped from one pitchy pool of gloom to another, dodging the glaring white humps of mounded snow under the clean pale sheen of Ithil's face. Dressed in winter's colourless shades, braids turbaned up in lacklustre, ashen scarves, the Wood Elves merged with the landscape and vanished, mere wisps of breath in the dark of the night. They were gone ere their voices trailed into silence and the glamhoth could not differentiate between direction and distraction. Yet, the enemy were many and the defenders few.

With frenetic tenacity Nandor and Sindar alike refused to give ground, stepping over and past fallen comrades, kin and friends though they be, for should they falter here, so close, so close to the last corner of their world still untouched by Darkness, where then could they go but to death or Dol Guldur?

"Kwingâ kwa!" (Full Bow!)

"El-â! Taika, taika tulto!" (Behold! The boundary, the boundary approaches!)

"Kwingâ alkwa!" (Empty Bow!)

The battle was joined on two fronts, stretching the woodland warriors thinner than Talagan would like. A continuous flood of Orcs was moving due north east from the Dark Tower and massing along the boundary of the Forest Road, seeking to link with the small contingent dug in at the Central Mountains, while a lesser army, an unexpected army, drove east from the cave-riddled depths beneath Hithaeglir infiltrating Thranduil's kingdom from the west-facing ranks of trees lining the valley of the Anduin. These imported demons must have overrun the Beornings and Aiwendil's beloved Rhosgobel yet no word of their advance had made it through to Greenwood. That boded ill for the King's few allies.

"Kego sôm vi ekem! Nukto sôm!" (Fence them with spears; Stop them!)

"Kwingâ alkwa!" (Empty Bow!)

"Winto phoroti!" (Fade right!)

"Risto Nguruki! Wanwê na Rauki-en-Tawar!" (Cut the Orc-hordes! Death to Enemies of Tawar!)

On the ground and in the trees, Greenwood's warriors were efficient and precise, merciless marksmen synchronised in thought and will. Above, they were invincible; afoot, every archer was paired with a swordsman, each hand wielding a long knife, and thus what the bow could not pierce was readily hewed and hacked instead. Above, the branches gave no telling creak or cringe as quick feet raced over frozen stems and slickened bark to flank the enemy and hinder the putrid flow of Orcs. Below, the pristine snow was clean no more but seared in blood, trampled to a gory slurry of black and bold, bright crimson, but the Elves pressed hard, furious determination fuelling their efforts.

In places combat devolved to vendetta, hand-to-hand grapplings purchasing death to pay for deaths long past, little wells of furious isolation where knots of oblivion and brilliance clashed in macabre contests of stabbing dirks, gouging fingers, gnashing teeth, and strangling hands. The clamour of these minor battles transcended the general cacophony of strife, infused with that distinct vocabulary of desperate struggle: vituperations voiced in vile and guttural growls, damnation conferred in the fair tongue, strong words warped by hatred and fear, exigent cries of terror, the last sounds of life before death. In those eyots of doom, these ancient foes became grotesque mirrors of one another, the resemblance in the desire to destroy too keen to be missed.

Yet the night wore on and dark cannot resist the coming of the dawn and the enemy was checked there on the northern side of the Dwarf Road. By minute but measurable degrees the Wood Elves began to force the enemy back.

"Risto Nguruki! Wanwê na Rauki-en-Tawar!" (Cut the Orc-hordes! Death to Enemies of Tawar!)

"An Laikwâ Taurê, an Tawarwaith!" (For Greenwood the Great and for the Tawarwaith!)

The defiant challenge rang through the forest, bolstering the resolve of the valiant Wood Elves. Loud in the crisp, winter night, a new series of whistling bird calls revealed the strategy of the King's right hand, Talagan fighting in his war-brother's stead for Thranduil remained behind in the fortress. He was not needed; the Danwaith had been fighting this war for Ages, for time uncounted before ever Oropher thought to migrate east out of Beleriand. The sylvans knew the Enemy's design well. The attacking horde would drive for the one weak-point in the protected realm, the Central Mountains, and there the Elves hoped to route the Orcs from their lands at last, or at least beyond the boundary of the Forest Road.

With raw grit and deadly skill, the Wood Elves fought until they split the Enemy's army, herding part of the glamhoth toward the Anduin and the rest southward toward Dol Guldur. Resistance was high and the casualties mounted, but the Elves did not give back a centimetre while the Orcs began to waver in confusion. A pivotal moment came when the glamhoth slipped past the boundary of consolidated force into the domain of individual survival; the black line broke. The Wraiths must be occupied elsewhere and in the heat and frenzy of the conflict, few Elves considered that their assailants might have turned tail sooner than so large an army ought. The sylvan's believed their Tawarwaith was the element that swung the balance in Greenwood's favour. They were jubilant.

"An Laikwâ Taurê, an Tawarwaith!" (For Greenwood the Great and for the Tawarwaith!)

"Tad Minitaun Mori! Tambo ten dâla! Tambo ten dâla!" (To that Black Tower! Knock it flat! Knock it flat!)

Even Talagan took the change of fortune at face value and altered his plans, deciding the time was ripe for a more definitive victory than merely repulsing the attackers. He wanted the Central Mountains reclaimed as a gift for his old friend to cheer him somewhat through his personal troubles, a small sign of hope for the kingdom Taurant would inherit, an iteration of Talagan's unfailing loyalty and support as power in Greenwood shifted down a generation in Oropher's line. He, too, considered Legolas' actions pertinent to this campaign, for the outcast had done so much alone. Now all the warriors in the land were behind him.

Into this foment of conflicting causes charged the sons of Elrond.

The Noldorin princes flanked Haldir right and left and together the trio led the battalion of warriors from Lorien into battle, the thunder of their steeds' hooves ominously silent, deadened by the thick blanket of snow as they bounded through the drifts weaving in and out betwixt the bolls. From shrouded dark they materialised, cloaks billowing, helms gleaming, bows drawn and swords raised high, a ghostly force reminiscent of Thranduil's legendary company of unstoppable mercenaries. No fell armour protected the Galadhrim or their Lady's noble grandsons. They did not need it, certain of victory and eager to claim it.

The Orcs balked, terror gripping them at the sight of elvish cavalry bearing down upon them beneath the frozen trees. Sharp eyes flashed with hatred; the pale, cool gleam of First-born skin shone brighter under Ithil's silvery light, their very souls worn like mail. Leading them were two known the length and breadth of Arda as the chief enemies of all Orc-kind. Before this night, these paired avengers had been but myth and legend to the demons of Dol Guldur. Now, they beheld in truth the Orc-Slayers of Imladris and saw that rumour was insufficient to describe such ruthless hunters. The Orcs bellowed their terror and broke ranks, fleeing in mad abandon from certain death.

Yet it became obvious to the foreign warriors that they must either dismount, come under the rain of bolts pelting the enemy, or cause Greenwood's archers to cease, for the horses' speed was great. With reluctance Nirmë and Namië led the Lorien chargers from the front, retreating to wait with the pages and the healers in the fringes of the shifting field of battle. The Galadhrim clambered up beside their fellow sylvans. Seeing they would not be run down, the Orcs reformed ranks, rallied by some unseen authority, and turned upon the reinforcements. A phrase rang out, crudely mouthed in croaking Sindarin, hatred and dread limning the syllables: Guruth an Uruk Dagnir (Death for Orc-Slayer). It became a chanted taunt and echoed in grim, gravelly tones throughout the glamhoth.

Fighting in mirrored synchrony as nature decreed, each his brother's doppelganger, no sooner were the Twins afoot than they were beset, assailed by the foul demons in twos and threes. The closeness of the trees shortened their reach and the snow beneath their boots alternated between thick thigh-deep drifts and slick, icy skins of black slurry. Unused to war beneath so extensive a canopy, the Orc-Slayers stood out in their fine woollen surcoats and their mithril habergeons, their ebony hair swirling stark against the pallid landscape and their swords, feared or revered according to kind, became shining beacons for the Dark Lord's charging legions. What a coup to fell one of the vile Gwanûn, or both?

Before the second wave of Orcs stormed their position, the brothers had each appropriated a second sword from their first kills and fought two-handed thereafter. Their expertise was combined with a degree of concentration rarely required of them, so easily was death dealt from their hands. Even so, it was all the Twins could do to remain alive and uninjured as about them corpses of fallen Orcs accumulated and they were eventually forced to leap this noisome barricade in order not to be hemmed in so close as to be essentially trapped by the detritus of their bloody conquests. Elladan and Elrohir, taught when young to discount the Wood Elves, were struck by the methodical precision in the sylvan ranks. Respect and gratitude replaced erroneous prejudice as time and again a well-aimed arrow spared their lives.

In vain the brothers tried to decipher the code of the whistled orders and strained to comprehend the brief shouts in Nandorin ringing through the trees. It was a futile endeavour and they resolved to take for their captain Haldir, who surely had faced similar struggles in the past.

Yet the March Warden was equally overwhelmed, for while he was accustomed to the multilevel battle formations the sylvans were using, his people had never faced so concerted an assault or so great a mass of foes beneath the Mallyrn. The Lady's Ring protected them from such an annual conflict; he had no means to judge that this winter's assault was doubly vicious, that not all the Orcs were from Dol Guldur, that the danger was greater. The glamhoth inundated the forest and not a spot could be viewed wherein conflict was not raging. As fast as the Galadhrim could fell them, new Orcs appeared and took up the charge. Vaguely Haldir determined that the sylvans were advancing, the enemy's consolidated line sundered in several zones, but he, too, was unaware of the meaning behind the whistled commands.

He and his handful of warriors, the best in his land, initially took to the branches overhead but this natural advantage was stolen due to the ice-coated bark. So much to the south, such heavy snows rarely came to Lorien and the Galadhrim were made unsure of foot and fearful of falling into the blades of the Orcs below. Haldir called them down, for a disadvantaged troop is useless and soon dead. He reorganised the unit as infantry and suddenly at his right hand appeared an unknown sylvan warrior. Hastily she relayed Talagan's orders and the March Warden grinned in grim compliance. Haldir had all but his best marksmen put away their bows and arranged them in the dírnaith. The fair Elves of Lorien drew swords beside the grandsons of their Lord and dove into the fray.

With gradual but inexorable force they pushed ahead, giving way to none and destroying every dark thing in their path. The Wood Elves were opening an avenue for them and they focused upon that frenetic activity with tunnelled attention and tenacious persistence. The main body of Talagan's archers were now away to the north attempting to encircle the Central Mountains and to this struggle the veteran general would have them come. The sons of Elrond and the March Warden of Lorien punched into the glut of vermin and squeezed through the gap opened by the incessant firing of the sylvans above. Suddenly they broke free and were away, slaughtering any Orc foolish enough to follow, the fire of the killing fever burning high in their hearts, eager for the principal arena of battle.

"Galu o Tawar an le! Galu o Tawar le beria!" (The Blessing of Tawar upon you! The Blessing of Tawar protect you!) From above, the woodland archers called down the protection of the Great Wood to aid them.

"Iâr, Acharn, Guruth!" (Blood, Vengeance, and Death!)

Elrohir's battle cry rang out in dire triumph and the Wood Elves took it for their own, shouting loud in furious glee as they covered the Twins and the Lorien archers, ebullient, sure of victory, and pleased with the doughty troop of fighters come to their aid at the Tawarwaith's call, for so it seemed to them.

"Iâr, Acharn, Guruth!"

The Twins matched Haldir stride for stride and beside them ran the sylvan soldier.

"A stirring battle cry, Hîren," said she, grinning, and gave voice to it herself, shaking her bow high above her head, and she laughed as she ran.

"Aye, we find it serves," replied Elrohir, smiling darkly. "You remain with us, maethoriell?" (girl-warrior)

"I will interpret the orders as they come," she said.

"So then, what do you hear?" asked Elladan.

"The Nandor will continue the drive across the Road and then sweep back through the Central Mountains from the south. We will catch the Orcs between us and crush them! At long last, we will cleanse the filth from our mountains," she explained with evident appreciation and joy.

"I find no fault with this strategy," said Elrohir. "What say you, Haldir?"

"I say I am ready to fight and have but one question. How far are we from these mountains?" the Marchwarden queried.

"Far," said their guide simply and then all were silent as they increased their pace.

"Do you know where Aragorn is fighting?" asked Elladan suddenly. It had been in the brothers' minds to enquire about him of Talagan, but the general had left the stronghold with his own troops on his own errand and time had not permitted it.

"Nay, I do not know where the Man is," she shook her head, frowning. "He is a strong fighter, so I've heard, and a great friend to our Tawarwaith, but he left the compound with the first ranks. I do not know where any of them are."

"Can you not use that whistling speech to find out?" demanded Haldir, "and while you're at it, ask after the young son of Valtamar."

"No! It is auth beded: for war talk only." That closed the discussion and the Elves ran on, blowing out white clouds of vapour that billowed about their heads and then vanished.

Now Haldir and his herth numbered just thirty-six warriors, though these were hand-picked from Celeborn's own guard and doughty veterans of the Last Alliance, survivors of the Dark Days. With the sons of Elrond they were thirty-eight and their unknown guide made them thirty-nine, an unlucky figure, to be sure. Yet the Marchwarden was not one to allow superstition to diminish his conviction or alter his plans. These were two-fold: arresting the true culprit of the Erebor debacle and saving the grieving young ellon he'd met in the Council chamber. In both cases, his conscience thrashed him soundly, for in the first he had awarded freedom to the guilty and in the second he had failed to procure protection for the innocent.

Aye, he was glad to help in this war, for Orcs were the bane of every Elf, but finding Lindalcon was his primary objective. He had no idea if the Central Mountains would lead him to the young ellon, but he could not very well strike off on his own and leave his warriors leaderless. At least the region was in a northerly direction and Lindalcon believed his foe was making for Lake-town or Dale. Haldir would join this struggle to free the mountains and then continue his search, alone if need be. He refused to accept that the youth must be lost already, having heard much of the love Legolas held for the children of Meril. If the Tawarwaith could reach him, Lindalcon would have a mighty champion at his side, and to that slender hope Haldir's heart held fast.

Neither of the Twins could manage such positive expectations; too many Orcs were on the move and too many were the days since Lindalcon's departure alone into the wilds. Indeed, they had forgotten about him, having heard of him but recently, and their combined goal in joining Talagan's troops centred on the possibility that Aragorn would be among them, healthy and unharmed. Secondarily, the brothers desired to find Legolas and bring him back to the stronghold alive, needing to relieve the burden their father's malicious abuses pressed upon their House.

The din of battle receded and their foes diminished as they jogged amid the frozen trees, anxious to get to the crux of the campaign but mindful of exhausting their strength on the way. The quiet covered them over with an eerie, nameless dread. They shared troubled looks and refrained from remarking the sensation aloud, unwilling to strengthen it by affirming it for all knew the creeping horror inspired by the Nazgûl. They pushed on through it, forcing their legs to move, heading ever toward the bone-chilling malevolence of the shadow-dwellers' will.

Abruptly, a lone Orc barrelled through the bolls toward them, roaring in madness and rage, and Haldir cut him down. On they went, the silence heavy on their hearts, the cold dragging at their legs and arms, but the foreboding of the Wraiths dwindled and the going became easier.

A thunderous torrent of Black-speech, cracking limbs, and clashing swords reached them some distance to the right and through the trees they spied three Orcs locked in combat, hacking one another to death. They did not pause to wonder at this strange apparition or dare let the scene give them false hope of what it might mean. The soldiers marched on.

In the quiet of Rhîw's icy grip, the woods resounded with the rhythmic crunch of thirty-nine pairs of boots compressing the snow. A subtle shadow darted across the way, startling them, and they jumbled to a stop. A great grey and silver wolf turned and eyed them, tongue lolling and jaws grinning as he ran, and behind followed his pack, loping through the forest, vanishing on noiseless feet into the dark.

"What a place," Haldir shivered. "Are they friends or fiends?"

"Friends," said Elladan.

"Else they would have attacked," added Elrohir.

"Neither," corrected their guide, "but they are under the Tawarwaith's protection. They are not to be hunted or slain."

They ran on.

Then a whistled call reached them from afar and the sylvan warrior answered in kind, excitedly directing the troop to refine their direction. As they drew near, the sounds of battle arose anew, clamouring ever louder, and the Orcs fleeing from it met death on the blades of the Galadhrim and of their Lady's grandsons. War erupted around them like the thunderous rage of a precipitous storm and in a matter of a few strides they were engulfed by the melee, fighting their way forward to join with Talagan's forces, and through the tumult and turmoil a loud cry reached the Twins that made them smile.

"Elendil!" bellowed Aragorn, and there they beheld him at the forefront of the battle covered in glory and gore, sword glinting darkly as it sliced and stabbed amid the throng.

"Auta i Lóme!" (Passes the Night!) called Elladan.

"Utúlie'n aurë!" (Returns the Day!) Elrohir cried, and they raced to their brother's side.

Haldir and his warriors repeated Fingon's ancient call to battle and with a fierce and mighty roar rushed into the core of confusion and strife.

TBC


	102. Chapter 102

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
* Part Four - Rochendil's Fate ***

  


  
They were unhurt. Stunned, shaken, and shocked, truly, and stupefied by the unholy prospect of imprisonment and torture in Dol Guldur, but uninjured save for minor scratches and bumps incurred in the fall of the treacherous tree. All their arrows spent, their long knives taken from them, disarmed and defeated, Lindalcon and Rochendil stood facing the surrounding host of the Glamhoth, that black agglomeration of silent, brooding hatred captained by the dire phantoms, the Lesser Evils. Thus would the young warrior ever think of the Wraiths after Legolas named them to him once in the talan of Fearfaron where he reclined in Analdir's bed telling stories of his adventures in the wilds of the darkening woods.

So long ago that seemed and yet only a handful of years had come and gone since then. How young he had been, how innocent, Lindalcon mused, and tears stung his eyes and thwarted his vision. What would he not give to return to that safe talan and the comforting camaraderie espoused by the carpenter and the outcast prince? Legolas had been his hero and his hope then, the certain means for his Adar's Release, yet that same span of time had slowly eroded every atom of optimism and there was no use denying what had caused the gradual decline of his heart and spirit. There he stood, plainly revealed and yet none but Lindalcon could see him: Valtamar, valiant warrior, loving father, his son's unwitting ruin.

The murdered soldier was as vibrant and solid as any living Elf, standing with his lance in both hands, holding it before him with its knobbed end resting upon the earth but not leaning his weight thereon. Tall and straight he stood, arrayed for battle, his braids adorned with streamers of crimson and blue that fluttered in a ghostly wind. In the domain of the vision it was still summer and the golden light of Anor shone about him. Valtamar might be prepared to go to war or to be honoured by the King for his service, so stalwart and steady did he seem, but for the silent sorrow in his eyes. His face was cast in planes of proud admiration while those eyes, fixed upon his only child, burned with horror and dread and wept tears that rolled away and dripped from his chin into nothingness.

It was unnerving, watching those silvery droplets fall away and then disappear, and Lindalcon wanted to go to him and touch the watery flux, wanted nothing more than to go to him.

"Ada, I will be with you soon. We'll find the Way together," he said, the syllables clear and filled with a calmness the young ellon could not account. "Do you know?"

He was unable to say the rest and speak of his mother's betrayal. It was not necessary; his father inclined his head in assent and lifted a countenance filled with remorse and regrets, overflowing with unspoken longing for forgiveness.

"It was not you, Ada," said Lindalcon and smiled. "Are you going to stay with me?"

Once more the warrior nodded, his grip upon the lance tightening as real agony shot through his disembodied soul for what his son must now endure and he must witness.

"more valuable alive and free than confined to the prisons of your mighty fortress."

Rochendil was bargaining with the Nazgûl and Lindalcon could not suppress a snort of disgust. He would not beg; begging was futile anyway. He wished he had not dropped his dagger the night before. If he had it, he would plunge it into Rochendil's heart here and now, but it was gone. His fingers had become so cold he'd fumbled as he'd dressed a squirrel for his supper. Down to the forest floor it had fallen and he'd been too weary and too frightened to retrieve it.

_Fool!_ he thought, applying the term to both himself and the depraved kin-slayer, but the next second his attention snapped into sharp focus as the horse-master continued.

"You have no idea who you've caught, have you?" he said, giggling nervously as the circle of Orcs encroached. He could see their rotten yellow fangs and smell their putrid breath, or maybe the stench was from the Wraiths. "You have in hand the perfect bait to snare the outcast prince. This youth he counts his brother and will stop at nothing to save him."

"What are you saying?" screamed Lindalcon, horrified. Now he truly longed for a blade of any style that he might cut out the renegade's tongue.

"Be quiet, stupid child; I am trying to get us out of this," hissed Rochendil and seized the young son of Valtamar by the arm.

"By trading your freedom for Legolas' death? You are worse than they are!" railed Lindalcon, jerking in vain to get loose.

"Ahhh." The Wraiths spoke in unison from their empty, headless hoods. The sepulchre tones drifted icily through the night and writhed into the Elves' brains, making them groan and cringe. One Wraith lifted its black-gloved hand and motioned an order to the Orcs; three disengaged from the mob and came to lay hands upon Rochendil. They dragged him forward and shoved him down upon his knees before them. "Speak, Elf."

"It is true. You will not capture the Tawarwaith so easily. He will never come unless he learns you have his brother," argued the traitor. "Let me go and I will relay to him all that has happened. He will hasten to his doom then, heedless of any danger. Let me go and I will guide him to you."

"Vile coward! Bagronk! Bagronk!" Lindalcon shrieked and made a leap for Rochendil. The Orcs holding the horse-master found themselves in the odd position of protecting their captive. Two more hastened from the throng and wrangled Lindalcon onto his knees, and he found himself fighting in earnest to get away. To die like this was bad enough but to be the agent of Legolas' capture and torment was a fate worse than any he had imagined could befall him. "You cannot do that! How can you do that?" he screamed at Rochendil.

The Orcs were laughing and made many a crude remark about the nature of the First-born being deceitful, crafty, and so dishonourable that one should betray another. The Wraiths spoke again to the renegade and put a stop to the conflict.

"You are the one who escaped Celeborn's warriors. We know of you. You would betray Tawarwaith but you betray only yourself now. He would not trust your words; your offer is false."

"Nay! I care nothing for that Hecilo!" Rochendil insisted, panicked and sweating. "I hate and despise him as much as you; more, for my banishment was due to him. Gladly will I bring him to you in exchange for my freedom. He will heed me once he knows I can lead him to Lindalcon. I wish only to leave this place and dwell in Erebor."

"You will never leave this place," intoned the Nazgûl and turned aside, pacing over the frozen ground to remount their dread steeds.

The Orcs bound the Elves, gagging Rochendil with a dank and bloody snot-rag as his frenzied cries rose into the air. Lindalcon remained silent, realising any noise he might make could be the lure that brought Legolas to his doom, yet wishing for the Tawarwaith to be near enough to hear and follow. Head hanging low, he marched beside the Orcs and gave no answer to their taunts and abominable promises of torture to come. From the corner of his vision he saw Valtamar striding along just outside the throng. The ghostly presence heartened him and he renewed his internal resolve to hinder the vile plot in any way possible. An idea blazed into being.

"Ada, can you warn him? Can you reach him? Will he see you as I do?" Lindalcon asked, excited, and his heart leaped when he saw the image incline its head again. A hearty and triumphant laugh escaped him for which he was struck across the mouth. His lip split and he tasted blood, licking at the cut even as he grinned. He had defeated them! Legolas was safe!

He was surprised when the Orcs led them to wargs and forced them onto their backs, mounting behind them and then spurring the beasts after the black chargers. The misshapen creatures stank and snarled, gnashing their long canines as they loped through the snow. The vision of his father vanished behind Lindalcon quickly. Speed was now his enemy, too, and he had a dire premonition that he was about to be ferried back across the Forest Road but not into Thranduil's realm. This proved true and his heart sank, for between them and the stronghold were the Central Mountains.

Rochendil saw the Road and rejoiced, thinking the Wraiths foolish to lead them back into the sphere of battle raging round the low peaks. He could hear the battle-calls faintly and his gut clenched. He thought he'd just heard orders for retreat. That could not be right; he had misunderstood the whistles, his hearing indistinct due to the vile wargs' snapping and yapping. The land was rising more steeply now and they began passing signs of the conflict; a conflict clearly at an end. The horse-master wailed behind his gag, seeing no hope now unless Legolas truly would come and somehow effect a rescue. Despite all his former disgust and resentment, Rochendil began praying for this to come to pass, for the Tawarwaith to save him.

The Nazgûl halted before ascending into the foothills and the barren path to the Orcs' lair. On this side, the battle had not been enjoined with vigour and there were few corpses; a dead body lay here or there melting the snow in which it lay. All but two of them were Elves. It seemed the war had concluded in the enemy's favour yet neither were there any troops of Orcs there awaiting their Master. While not silent, the region was still, the atmosphere filled with brittle tension as though shocked to dull and meaningless murmuring after the horror of battle. Even the sound of the river was softened, lacking the raging chorus of white-water heard in spring, and it was plain to all that whatever fighting had occurred was over.

The Orcs dismounted and shoved their captives to the ground, one settling a solid kick into Lindalcon's stomach as he scrambled to get up. A cackling explosion of laughter was cut short when one of the Wraiths strode rapidly forward, unsheathed its long sword, and beheaded the offender. It stood over the young warrior, the blank black void of its hood pointed his way as though inspecting him keenly. Suddenly he bent forward and reached out his hand, grabbing Lindalcon by the arm and yanking him upright. He did not let go but dragged him away from the horde to stand with him beside his fallen brother.

The Orcs lit torches and set them in the ground in a great ring. The smoking flames cast eerie red shadows over the colourless snow and heightened the menace of the creatures gruesome, leering faces. The Wraiths gave a single nod in unison and each held to one of Lindalcon's arms, pulling him to the edge of this illuminated arena. Rochendil was in its centre, captive between two Orcs, and the two Elves shared the horror of the moment, their bitter rivalry forgotten.

Lindalcon shook and peered up at the black-clad demons holding him. Did the vile things mean to make him one of them? Ai, at every turn a new and more horrible fate assailed his frazzled brain in vivid detail. They made no move to prick him with their Morgul blades, but he could not understand what they wanted of him. So close to them, he was, so close. The putrid stink arose in choking abundance; he gagged, wondering if their flesh was still on them after all, rotting by slow degrees over the Ages, and vomited over his own boots. Steam rose up in acrid tendrils from the mess. He glanced up but they were not watching him. What was happening here amid the firs and pines of the mountains' skirts? His heart told him this was the place where he would die.

He couldn't bear to think about it and so to distract his mind studied them. Why they had no faces was a mystery and he thought perhaps Sauron had seen to it all his Wraiths were headless, decapitated as soon as the rings had stolen their souls. If only he had that knife! He would have their Rings; cut their fingers clean off and watch them dissolve into black smoke and evaporate. They spoke again, addressing Rochendil in that voice of vanquished souls and blackened hearts.

"Speak, traitor. Speak of your hatred for Tawarwaith."

Rochendil stared, eyes bulging, heart racing, lungs heaving, and could make no words come forth. Why? What did they want of him? How could they know anything about him and his dealings with Legolas? Did it matter? Perhaps they would approve of his harsh use of the outcast. A tiny hope kindled in his soul; perhaps they would let him go if he spoke. He waited too long to answer.

A startled cry jerked Lindalcon's jangled nerves and brought him back to the reality at hand. He inhaled a loud breath. Rochendil was struggling against his captives as they stripped him down. The rotten cloth had been removed from his mouth and he was voluble in his protests, begging mercy, pleading for his freedom. His protests ended with a horrendous scream of pain and terror as one of the Orcs drew a dagger and sliced off the horse-master's right ear. Lindalcon jumped and his hand imitated Rochendil's, flying to cover his in sympathy and fear. Blood poured between the renegade's fingers and down his neck.

"Speak, traitor," ordered the Nazgul and this time their was no hesitation.

Rochendil poured out his story, every bit of it, from his desire for Legolas in the early days to his cruel debasement of the Tawarwaith and the attempted rape at the last. He told of his part in the debacle of Erebor; he indicted Meril and cursed his own dead mate. The words flowed out in a torrent punctuated by sobs of terror and rage and all the while his blood dripped down through his fingers and stained his woollen cloak. At last he'd said everything and the look in his eyes suggested shock to realise it had taken so little time to divulge the motivation governing so much of his life, a motivation twisted and warped with darkness. He looked upon the Orcs and saw them as a reflection of his diminished feä.

"Ai Eru," he groaned, the magnitude of his fall enveloping him. "I traded all just to punish him for refusing me, all. What madness is this?"

"You will have what you desire," intoned the Nazgul and both Rochendil and Lindalcon peered at them in bewildered horror.

"What do you mean?" asked Lindalcon.

"My freedom?" asked Rochendil, but he could not believe the answer would confirm his hope. Around him the Orcs chuckled in a grisly semblance of mirth.

"Make you better, stronger," one croaked. "Make you Orc."

"Nay!" The horse-master and the child of Valtamar shouted together, fury and fright mingled in the word.

"You will have what you desire," the Wraiths repeated their promise and one motioned a new command to the Orcs encircling Rochendil.

He was standing hunched low, shame for his nakedness predominant, but clarity burned away such trivialities and he saw what was to come. He slipped into a fighting stance, his sinewy body trembling from cold and fear. His lips retreated in a snarling grin at odds with eyes round as the moon and showing their whites. Rochendil turned in a tight circle, for he was surrounded again, trying to determine from whence the next blow would arise. It was hopeless.

Lightning fast, a sabre strike took the other ear and at almost the same time a blade sliced through the back of one knee. He couldn't get the cries out fast enough and was soon squirming on the ground clutching his injured leg as the vile demons pounced. They were methodical, several holding him still as another proceeded to castrate him. He passed out and they brought him to by thrusting the glowing stump of an extinguished torch into the wounds to staunch the flow. The Wraiths did not want him to bleed out.

"Daro! Avgaro!" (Stop! Don't do it!) Lindalcon shouted over and over, fighting his captors futilely, desperate to give aid but not sure what he would do if he got free. Never had he witnessed anything like this and a part of his mind was silently screaming to run away, to find his way back home, to be with his family again.

Grotesque claws forced open Rochendil's clenched jaws as the Orcs made him consume the gory testicles, clamping his nose and mouth tight until he swallowed, but he could not. Instead he regurgitated around the glands and the Orcs released him so he would not choke on his own vomit. A mighty cheer rose up and much laughter as the fiends made obscene references to the warrior's lost potency. Not that he would need it, they assured him.

Rochendil asked them for death. His tormentors promised to grant his wish in their own time and by a method of their own choosing. Then they made him thank them for this courtesy, his penis held hostage at the edge of the knife, and then sliced it off as soon as the words were spoken. More raucous laughter belched through the night. The renegade lost consciousness again and this time he was wakened by the application of the burning torch to his disfigured head where the severed ear had already stopped bleeding. He attained awareness shrieking and his entire body convulsed.

One of the Wraiths raised a commanding hand and the next phase of torture began. Again he was secured by misshapen and scaly hands. As though they were dressing the hide of a deer, the Orcs went about carefully skinning Rochendil's torso, relieving him of long strips of epidermis and hanging them in the branches of the snow-glazed evergreens about them. The horse-master's voice rose into a shrill, unending wail of agony; rending, gurgling, pleading noises, begging for mercy; an animal sound like nothing Lindalcon had ever heard. Beneath the agonised cries, the Wraiths were speaking, muttering low words in ominous tones, spells or curses, the language ancient and unintelligable to Lindalcon.

He realised that he was still shouting at them, demanding they stop and leave Rochendil alone, tears falling freely down his face. There were too many Orcs involved to see the progress of their work, but the sounds coming from the renegade bespoke unimaginable torment. Lindalcon's demands and threats went unheeded. The Shadow-slaves took no note of him whatsoever, their attention locked on the abominable scene unfolding at their feet.

At last it was over, an Age of unthinkable suffering inflicted though the entire flaying had taken mere minutes. The Orcs ceased, whether by some unspoken command or by prearranged orders was unclear. They stepped back from the mess on the ground so that Lindalcon could see.

Rochendil lay quivering and gasping, rocking feebly in misery, whimpering as his limbs twitched and flinched. He'd lost control of bowels and bladder; the trampled, melted snow beneath him reeked of blood, urine, and bile. His raw meat was smeared with ruddy, slushy, shitty mud and the lengthy tendrils of his dark hair adhered to the exposed tissues. He was a strange colour, bright red and dull brown, save for his face which they had not touched but to take his ears. His eyes rolled wildly but what he could see Lindalcon hated to think. Overcome with the horror of it, he doubled over in dry heaves.

"Ai Tawar help us!" he cried aloud, weeping like a child as he tried to turn from the sight. The Wraiths did not permit it, tightening their grip and forcing Lindalcon to watch.

"Lindalcon!" Helpless and dying, Rochendil rasped the name wet with vomit, saliva, and blood. Whatever else he was going to say was forever silenced by the scream that followed.

With uncommon precision an Orc made an incision about a hand's length long through the Elf's belly. Rochendil again faded into oblivion and was again brought to consciousness, the murmur of the Nazguls' evil incantations more audible as he lay still and silent, too spent to scream. From the gaping hole in the muscle his viscera bulged and an Orc began pulling out metres of pale pink intestines, holding the slippery tube of muscle up before the renegade's eyes, which were squeezed shut in his extremis, then yanking brutally to tear the guts free as their captive was disembowelled.

At that moment Rochendil's spirit fled his body, unable to endure any longer, and was immediately captured by the dark web of magic woven by the Nazgul. Hear the call of Námo he surely did, struggle to answer the summons he must have done, but the horse-master's soul was as tightly bound in the black cords of Sauron's sorcery as a hind in a spider's web. To what end was no mystery and with the last of his thoughts he cursed Legolas and Meril for his fate. After that, he was Rochendil no more, transformed into an abomination, his eternal Elvish soul grafted to the putrid essence of one of the Orcs presently engaged in mutilating his body.

Lindalcon, unaware of the spiritual anihilation occurring, sincerely hoped Rochendil was dead before the next atrocity, for another Orc came forward, thrust his clawed hand into the wound, fished around in the abdomen, and withdrew his fist clutching something small, dark, and red within it. From it blood dripped. Out of the cavity blood poured, a red river running over Rochendil's sides. The Orc crowed with satisfaction and proceeded to eat the organ with great gusto as his comrades roared approval. Lindalcon doubled over again with fruitless retching, silently pleading with the Powers for Rochendil's soul to be taken to Mandos. Whatever he had done, this end was punishment enough and more.

Through these frantic prayers Lindalcon bawled like a babe, knowing he must endure this fate, too. What had he done to earn this end? Was it for revealing his mother's sins or for condemning Maltahondo? Then he remembered his vow to free Valtamar; he had demanded this doom from the depths of his sorrow and rage. Why couldn't it have been his father Legolas' freed first instead of Analdir? Then none of this would be happening and his sacrifice would not be necessary.

"Ai, Ada! Nana!" he cried as if his dismembering had already started, all his disgust of Meril vanished, forgetting his desire to remain silent and spare Legolas. He thrashed mightily against his captors in vain. "Please! I want my Ada! Let me go! Please, let me go!"

No one paid him any attention. The Orcs were feasting on Rochendil's raw flesh, hacking him up at will and squabbling over the choicest parts. The Wraith's were feasting on the smell of the blood and the barbaric gluttony of their minions, but the grip on Lindalcon's arm did not abate and his blows were ignored. He stopped fighting as resigned despair claimed him and his tears dwindled to the faint, quiet sobs of a child drained by the foment of a strife too great to encompass or comprehend.

Before the body was completely reduced to its skeleton, the Nazgûl called off the foul picnic. Again Lindalcon was made to see what was left. Rochendil's remains were recognisable for his face had not been so much as scratched. Sightless, his eyes stared away toward the mountains and his limbless torso lay on its back. His mane lay about him stamped into the filth of his own blood and excrement. The stump of an arm remained in the socket, but both legs were discarded some distance away where the beasts had been forced to drop them, gnawed and mangled in places to the very bones. The intestines had been fought over and small pieces of wan white bowel dotted the land like bits of faded streamers fallen to the ground after a party.

Lindalcon stared in numb incomprehension, his heart frozen, his hope completely destroyed. There was emptiness in his mind, all thought processes halted, his brain paralysed by this unspeakable vision of mortality: an Elf eaten alive before his eyes. There was nothing with which to associate this fact, no words or emotions sufficient to analyse it. Such truths were never admitted; no rumours ever told of events so vile. Elves were not meant to be food; he was not meant to be taken like a hind and consumed by another creature. This could not be happening to him.

Before his stricken spirit could awaken to a fresh round of hysterical pleading and prayers, one Wraith turned abruptly and threw him on the saddle of its shivering black horse. Up behind the Shadow-slave mounted, his brother following suit, and they turned to the hidden way amid the rock-bound hills that led into the Orcs' fort. Behind them, the Glamhoth compressed together in ranks that were more rabble than martial. They trudged along, grumbling over the necessity of leaving their kill, and soon the whole group disappeared into the malignant murk of the caves.

TBC  



	103. Chapter 103

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
* Part Five - Left Behind ***

  


Elrond hobbled in slowly, shuffling awkwardly, inching across the granite from one elaborate motif to another, the floor being artfully carved and inlaid with what appeared to be gold, dripping a trail of blood and slipping in it a little, supported by the same two warriors who had been given the duty of delivering him to the cold and musty chamber wherein Legolas had spent so many unpleasant hours. He took no notice of the grandeur of the magnificent throne room, its ceiling vaulted beyond sight and hung with curious icicles of stone to which were attached some kind of lanterns or torches to reveal in splendour the seat of power in Greenwood the Great, last Kingdom of the Elves on Arda. He did not raise his drooping head to look upon the ruler seated there on the ominous royal chair, the lordly son of Oropher clad in strange, portentous garments that breathed like uneasy souls bound within its warp and weft.

Distantly, Elrond heard the collective gasp of shocked disbelief and dismay that arose as he passed the threshold, but found he wasn't interested in discovering who this crowd of people was. All his effort was required for motion. It was a novel experience to have to actually see his feet to make sure they were moving in the normal manner.

_Normal redefined to mean tottering and graceless._

The difficulty must be borne, the embarrassment suffered, the pain ignored, for he had made up his mind that whatever else might transpire, he wanted to face his accuser on his own two feet. Thus he willed his battered body forward, one bare foot at a time, pondering why they felt as heavy as though he was shod in lead lined boots, grateful for the firm hands holding him at each elbow, glad for the tattered rag of his tunic tied about his waist.

He laughed at himself silently, the mighty Lord of Imladris reduced to shame-faced grovelling, and a faint smile briefly overprinted the strained lines of discomfort into which his ancient countenance was drawn. The lashing had taken its toll and he wanted only to slip back into the oblivion of healing sleep from which he'd been summoned, relieved to have the penance paid. He understood now what Legolas had suffered for so many years.

_How could he endure it knowing it must go on month after month, year after year?_

His torn flesh rebelled against the thought, muscles rippling in sympathetic distress, and the guards paused for a minute as he collected himself. Elrond stifled a groan, hearing the low murmur of whispering horror that sped through the crowd, the tone underlain with a distinct note of scorn. He decided it was just that he should meet Thranduil debased and discredited this way, since it was he who had robbed the King of his first-born, damning the prince to ignominy. A familiar voice called his name and interrupted his wandering thoughts.

"Nae! Elrond! What has become of you?" Celeborn exclaimed over the subdued sound of his soft-soled boots running across the floor. Yet, he halted abruptly and did not go to his law-son, mindful that he had not come here as advocate for the Lord of Imladris, recalling the horrors of which he'd he been told and the result of violence seen with his own eyes. Here was more, startlingly fresh, but he'd not take Thranduil to task in his own throne room. His eyes traced the injuries and experience informed they were not life threatening; Elves heal quickly and Elrond was already mending.

"Celeborn?" Elrond's voice was a rough and grainy whisper. He raised his head with difficulty, mortified beyond telling for somehow he'd forgotten this part of it. Oh, he remembered now, though, and his gorge rose as he tried to look around to see if Aragorn was somewhere in the room, too. It was all a conglomeration of unknown people, clumps of robed figures whispering, featureless faces with mouths ajar. His vision arrested when it fell upon Thranduil, who had risen abruptly to his feet at the moment Elrond shambled through the great doors, responding to the evidence of hard use upon the noble ellon's person.

"Who has dared order this torture?" the King roared, enraged, for he felt he'd been cheated out of his due, and speared his Councillors and their pages with fierce scrutiny, dismissed their culpability, and landed his penetrating wrath upon the wizards. "Only I have authority to pass judgement in this case." He pointed at Mithrandir. "This is your revenge! Bound to the Tawarwaith, you would usurp the laws of my lands and ignore the oaths of your Order to see him vindicated."

"I have done nothing," snapped Gandalf. "If you must know, I've been too worried about everything else that's happening to think about what degree of torment Elrond deserves."

Aiwendil uttered a remark that was as close to a profane oath as he ever came and just shook his head.

"I ordered it," announced Erestor. His arrival caused a stir and a soft rumble of discontented confusion broke out amid the woodland Elves in the throne room, for he was half-naked, barefoot, and likewise bloody with raw wounds from a severe lashing. He presented himself before Thranduil and dropped heavily to his knees with a harsh grunt. Lightly panting, he boldly held the monarch's gaze. "He's my mate; it was my right to demand it."

This met with audible approval from the Council and even Thranduil saw the merits of having the beating administered at the demand of Elrond's seneschal, his kinsman. The Record would note that the King had objected to the brutal treatment and that was well. He smiled grimly down at the Imladrian nobles grovelling before the dais, for Elrond was kneeling now, too, and reconsidered what tack to take in this unexpected controversy.

He glanced at Celeborn and saw that the Lord of Lothlorien would not abandon him in favour of his former law-son. No doubt, he hoped this one physical chastisement would suffice to balance the scales between Greenwood and Imladris. If so, Celeborn was foolishly optimistic. The King returned attention to Erestor, nodded gravely, assumed a nearly paternal and compassionate mien, and relished the seneschal's half-defiant, half-pleading expression.

"So it should be. As Legolas' mate, you will find none in Greenwood opposed to your desire to seek redress from the person who abused him," he said quietly, eye flickering to the golden band about his unlikely law-son's index finger. "Yet, who demanded this torment be duplicated on your person, too? And who inflicted it?"

"I did," said Erestor, "and that is your answer to both queries, Aranen (my King)."

"You flayed your own body?" gasped Aiwendil, eyes round in revolted fascination.

"Legolas did so," boomed Mithrandir. "You've seen the scars. No one cared about that." He glared at the shame-faced Councillors, especially Iarwain.

"Aye, he did it for years and years," Elrond mumbled indistinctly. "Scars, deep and ugly, down-to-the-soul, like mine. Worse. I am sorry about that, about so many things that happened to him after. Couldn't foresee"

"Bah! Excuses and Rationalisations! Be quiet, you deceitful, spiteful, corrupt Half-elf!" thundered Mithrandir.

A wave of heat and garish red light emanated from him in which rage distilled as a kernel of blackness that threatened to germinate, a void expanding to envelop the room and consume its occupants. The Councillors and pages retreated to the surrounding walls with softly clamourous cries of dread. The prisoners gaped up at him in disbelief. Thranduil and Celeborn stood frozen on the dais. Aiwendil snatched at his arm and spoke an incantation that dispersed the discharge and seemed to calm Mithrandir. The Brown Wizard retained his hold and did not let go.

"Enough!" bellowed Thranduil, seeing the danger passed. "You are not to interfere, Mithrandir. Lord Elrond's trial will be an open one for all the Wood Elves to attend, for they have the right to see the one who worked so diligently and treacherously to undermine their chosen champion." He passed his disdainful eye over the humbled Lord at his feet. "Every cruel, foul, and dirty thing you did to my son is known, peredhel," he sneered in disgust. Elrond's head rose with a jerk and pale grey eyes at last met his, fear in them that made Thranduil's heart leap and his soul exalt. "Everything. What you have taken from me cannot be returned and thus, how can its loss be remitted?"

"I know not," admitted Elrond hopelessly and dropped his head anew in shame. What would the King demand? Riches? Imprisonment? Servitude? Really, he didn't care as long as a decision was made and he would be allowed to fulfil his sentence and by so doing cleanse his soul. How right Glorfindel was, how wise and just his evaluation. If only he had listened sooner. If only he had never permitted his darkly damaged heart to become dominant over his bright, unblemished soul. _Too late for any of that now._

"Let us not deliberate upon it here and now," interceded Celeborn, returning to his cousin's side. "Such a grave matter requires careful consideration and, as you said, the Wood Elves deserve to be present for those deliberations." He was disturbed; this overbearing, exaggerated performance was not Thranduil's way. It seemed to him Guardians of the Gates had achieved a nearly complete possession. _Can the wizards not see it?_ Celeborn's eye sought Mithrandir but the Grey Pilgrim was still seething over being called out by the King and merely scowled in furious disgust at Thranduil.

"Well said," Iarwain insinuated his reply into the momentary stillness. The eldest Elder was not inclined to aggravate Thranduil after that demonstration of occult power at Meril's hearing. It was a terrifying development, for in all the long Ages the King had reigned, and before during his years as a mercenary war lord, never had he flaunted his ability to manipulate souls. "I would ask that the Record show Elrond of Imladris has presented himself in Greenwood and will stand trial in three days' passing."

"So noted," announced Fêrlass solemnly. The pages were scribbling madly to capture the scene, having been too caught up in it to write before.

"Nasan," intoned Thranduil. "Take him to the infirmary and have the healer see to these injuries. Erestor, I advise you to go, too. Legolas will not be pleased with this outcome, surely." With that the King turned, motioned Celeborn to follow, and strode from the room in a swirl of flowing robes glinting in gold and the remnant gleam of faer-lim (soul-light).

If he found anything preposterous in such considerate advice, given as it was to the ellon he had recently banned from his infant son's rooms, none would ever know it from his demeanour.

Erestor noticed and raised an incredulous brow in Celeborn's direction. The Lord of Lothlorien confirmed his instinctive misgivings, a look of near desperation briefly passing through the noble ellon's eyes along with a silent command to give aid when called upon. Erestor inclined his head respectfully and when he raised it Celeborn was almost running to catch up with his kinsman's retreating form.

"What do you suppose all that was about?" Erestor queried Elrond as he limped along after him and his conscientious escort. It was not his cousin who answered.

"King Thranduil approves your actions; need you ask more?" grumbled one of the guards. The folk of the stronghold knew better than to inquire too closely into Thranduil's moods.

"Nay, he's right," whispered the other. "That is not like him. I cannot decide if this change is good or bad. Best we remain with the healer to be sure our prisoner does not escape."

"I am not planning to escape," Elrond managed an indignant and imperious tone despite his reduced condition. "I came voluntarily to Greenwood."

"Aye, the first time," Erestor remarked drily, pleased when the reference made his kinsman blanch and drop his face.

It took some time to stumble through the main hallway and manoeuvre the stone steps down to reach the service area of the fortress. The plan was to exit through the scullery into the barracks grounds, thus avoiding exposure to the icy climate as long as possible. At the kitchen stairs they halted to permit Elrond rest. Here was the landing from which the the twisting staircase branched, one half disappeared into the bowels of the mountain and Thranduil's dungeons and vaults. Up from that darkened passage drifted the sombre voice of Celeborn, his words indistinguishable but his tone stern and demanding.

The outlanders were not the only ones surprised and intrigued by whatever was taking place in the Vestibule of the Three Doors. All the kitchen staff were lingering near the landing and not even the appearance of the notorious Noldorin Lord could completely divert their attention. Still, Glânduin could not permit his domain to be discovered in the act of eavesdropping without adjusting the situation a bit. He scowled and cast his eyes about the vast room, hands on hips. Not a single soul noticed his silent admonition and so he took things further.

"Enough. We've many more mouths to feed than usual this night and we'll learn nothing no matter how hard we strain our ears," he barked.

One of his young nephews startled and dropped a pot; the clanging commotion it raised as it struck the stone made the elves collectively wince. With murmuring grumbles of reluctance the household went back to the business of feeding the increased population of the fortress. Several inquisitive glances watched Erestor and Elrond start the laborious trek across the vast cavern to the exit, one or two pausing in their work as the four passed to spit, issuing insults and accusations at the Lord of Imladris. Erestor had won their support as the Tawarwaith's mate and the same elves offered him sympathetic and encouraging looks tinged with morbid fascination at the sight of the raw wounds he bore.

"Daro!" bellowed the chef, disturbed to have his and his colleagues' voyeuristic leanings on display before the Noldor. "Haven't we seen enough bloodshed and violence in this place in recent days? Would you pine for another riot just to sate your sick hungers?" His face was dark red and his eyes flashed as he brandished a large wooden ladle at them. A uniform expression of wide-eyed fear suddenly suffused every elf and he was not foolish enough to imagine this was aimed at him. Glânduin turned abruptly and found Lord Celeborn on the landing, his gaze searching the room. The King's kinsman pierced both his law-son and Erestor with his unusually frantic stare ere he departed back into the interior of the fortress on the run.

Gradually every eye returned to the chef, but only the youngest there had nerve enough to voice the general thought of the group. "Muindor-en-nana, (Mother's brother - uncle) mayhap you could follow and learn if there is aught the Lord of Lorien requires?"

Glânduin shook the spoon at his sister's eldest, a wry smile upon his lips. "Nay, Anardur, you imp. What would the King's chief cook be doing making inquiries of such a noble Lord?" His grin took on a devious cast and he pressed the ladle to his temple. "Yet, a page might do so." He ambled to the scullery where great kettles of water steamed and the staffs' children played beside the warmth of the gigantic hearth. "Cemendur," he called, motioning his younger nephew forward. Close to the little ellon's ear he bent and whispered his instructions. Cemendur peered at his uncle solemnly and nodded once before tearing off in Celeborn's wake.

All this the Noldorin elves witnessed and neither was eager to move on until the urchin returned with his report, but Erestor hoped to seek out Celeborn himself and so urged the guards to get Elrond moving again. The sooner he was treated by the healer, the sooner he'd be able to learn what was amiss and lend aid. He wondered if it had anything to do with the ultimate punishment Thranduil meant to impose. Somehow, he did not believe this would cause Celeborn to be so visibly disturbed and that notion served to spur him to greater speed.

The healing wards were bustling with activity, for injured warriors were straggling in from the war, now some five days old, bearing comrades across their shoulders and casualties in litters. The rooms reverberated with the low, strained tones of hurt and suffering, soft moans and gasping breaths, calm, cool, instruction from the healers, soothing reassurances and comforting words from the efficient medics, occasional screams of agony as treatment was applied. The pace was hectic but controlled, no chaos or panic bled into the tidy wards though the numbers of those injured severely enough to force them from the fight was quite high. Everyone knew it was more than generally expected on these winter campaigns. This reality was absorbed and digested and set aside; the work here was to heal, to salvage life, and the physicians under Gladhadithen's command were committed to their calling.

Gladhadithen knew the Noldor were coming, one of the scribes having sent word of the King's order immediately, and was waiting for them, the door to her infirmary open, warm yellow light spilling out into the frost-bound confines of the barracks courtyard, her slender form an indistinct silhouette against the golden glare. She passed a scorching glare over Elrond and motioned the guards to take him inside. She would not touch that one. Then her hand lifted, a discontented noise escaped her lips, part sigh and part blasphemy, and she reached out to assist the seneschal inside.

"This is how you care for your soul-mate's heart?" she scolded, running her trained eye over the ugly lashes. "Legolas would never condone this and if it was possible I would suppress all knowledge of the incident. Too late for that now; you've let everyone see you, the Council and their scribes, no less. A greater coterie of gossips I cannot name, save the kitchen folk and you've managed to stir them up, too, I'd warrant."

"We didn't stir them up; there's trouble in the stronghold between Celeborn and Thranduil," Erestor countered, his voice couched low for only her ears. That he surprised her was evident for she drew back and glared at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?" she whispered back. "They are allies from of old; there could be no trouble. If Celeborn meant to challenge his cousin he would have done so at the time of the riot."

"Nay, I do not think it is that, exactly," Erestor struggled to voice his impression of the situation. "It is as if he fears for Thranduil, not for what Thranduil may do." Even he was disturbed by this summation and looked at her in consternation. "Get me fixed up, Gladhadithen; I need to see Celeborn at once."

"Aye, I'll do it myself and save you from being scarred."

Before she could even begin, a great eruption of noise and commotion arose from without. The barracks grounds filled with the thunder of running horses, the clamour of voices calling in the night, the jostling of bodies dismounting, people running, armour creaking, swords swishing into leather sheaths, all tuned in the desperate key of panic. Erestor turned back to the door and flung it wide to behold a scene of confusion and tumult he had seen before as a youth in Gondolin: soldiers driven back in rout from the field of battle.

"Orcs on the Elf Path!" They were shouting.

"To arms! All who can do so arm yourselves!"

"The forest burns! Retreat to the caverns!"

"Where is the King?"

"They are many, too many to turn!"

"All Gundabad is emptied!"

Erestor's heart seized in a sudden response to the smell of such raw fear but he mastered himself. Then he realised there was indeed a scent of smoke in the frigid air and he ran to the edge of the compound to gaze over the postern. The tops of the trees were lit with a faint and eerie orange light from which roiled an impoverished cloud of grey air. He could but stare; this was a nightmare. Greenwood could not truly be burning.

"We are doomed!" shrieked a wounded swordsman as he limped toward the infirmary. "My mate, cut down as she tried to stifle the flames, my mate!" He dropped where he stood, wailing and gnashing his teeth, and his suffering raised the level of terror higher.

Now, the patrol of the Elf Path was the easiest of assignments and thus few were the warriors stationed there. Traditionally, the duty was given to novice warriors, untried archers who had been involved in spider hunts but not open battle with Orcs, and ancient veterans who hoped never to see battle again. No Orcs ever came out of Hithaeglir to the boundaries of Greenwood and none had ever found much less set foot upon the Elf Path, Thranduil's potent wards of disembodied souls and the majesty of Tawar sufficient to protect the entrance. This was an established fact of life in Greenwood. To have these truths proved false turned the world into a deadly mystery one could neither confound nor solve.

Their captain killed, the leaderless warriors had tried to remain firm and hold back the tide of invaders, but when their arrows were spent and the fires began it was more than their hearts could bear. Now they were rampaging through the armoury, struggling with one another for the possession of the few remaining supplies of bolts in the stronghold, the bulk having gone to the main forces deployed at the front along the Forest Road. These few munitions were for the last defence, a necessary precaution none had ever thought would prove more than that.

The pitch of cacophonous babble rose to that of frenetic hysteria as folk poured from the stronghold, Councillors and citizens, servants and wizards, scribes and pages. Elves looked upon the terror of their novice archers and caught the infectious mood from them, though most were of age and experience sufficient to quash such irrational behaviour. Added to the mix was the loud clamour of the sylvan warriors relieved of duty because of their part in the attempted coup against Thranduil. Incarcerated in the barracks, they broke free and swarmed into the courtyard, striving to take charge of the situation. The Councillors opposed them while the Istari backed them and argument broke out, vociferous and vehement as each insisted on control. Those in the wards who could rise did so, Erestor included, determined to bring order and reason to bear upon this mob, but were hindered by their wounds and the healers.

"Daro! Orthoro achas lÃn! Enni, Methyr-en-Taurgalen!" (Stop! Master your fear! To me, Warriors of Great Greenwood!)

Into the heart of chaos and conflict strode Thranduil, a compelling vision of strength and majesty in full armour, cloaked and gloved and helmed for war, the sword he had carried into Dagorlad in his fist, his aura bright with his wrath and spiked with eagerness to meet his foes in battle. He emerged in silence and passed his eye over the billowing throng and the people felt his scrutiny, fell quiet and parted before him. The power of his will and the determination of his mighty heart shone forth. Tall and proud he stood, his figure imbued with that indomitable courage and ferocity of purpose that made him unconquerable. He took command at the centre of the yard and a palpable sigh of relief exhaled into the night, a misty cloud that settled over the distraught sylvans' heads and stifled the contagion of fear.

Thranduil's eyes measured the troops remaining to him and he was forced to repress his disappointment. Naturally, all his best warriors, his personal Sindarin guards, the last of his famed militia, all were at the front. Before him stood this handful of sylvans, barely two battalions worth, all of them too young, all of them untried save for the betrayers who gaped at him in awe and fear. Here and there he marked one or two ancient veterans too worn by years of conflict to bear more and they, too, watched him with wide eyes and wondering hearts.

_Not a Sindarin fighter among them._

He mentally cursed his short-sightedness; assuming his ghostly wards were sufficient to protect the integrity of the Elf Path was a failing to which he should not have succumbed.

_Too dependent on past experience to make that way truly impregnable._

It could not be helped now. He was about to call one of the novices to him when a thing happened that evoked his surprise and exultation. Out of the knot of disgraced betrayers a single soldier dropped to his knees and spoke:

"Aranen (my King), forgive my insolent rebellion at the Council of Erebor. Take it as a sign of loyalty to your son, the Tawarwaith, misguided and detrimental though my actions were. I should have trusted you to correct whatever wrongs had been done him and I plead your mercy. Let me fight for Greenwood now and prove my words are true. I renew my pledge of fealty to you here before all gathered: my life for Greenwood, for Thranduil, and for the Tawarwaith!"

He ended his impassioned plea with bow raised aloft and boldly held his King's stare. In seconds, every one of the rebels followed suit, falling to their knees and uttering the same promise, begging the same privilege of defending their homes and families. Thranduil looked upon a cluster of uplifted bows in clenched fists, upon eyes burning with earnest remorse and defiant pride, and he smiled, truly moved by the spontaneous gesture. He lifted his sword, pointing it out over their heads and all bowed beneath it.

"I accept your oaths and forgive all debts. There is no enmity between me and thee. We are Wood Elves; none shall stand against us when we stand together as one! Arise, Methyr-en-Thranduil (Warriors of Thranduil), and make you ready for war!" he called out. A jubilant cheer resounded through the grounds as the soldiers praised their King and leaped to their feet, racing away to gather their gear and ready their steeds. Thranduil turned back to the harried novices and motioned one closer. "Your report, quickly. What numbers are these Orcs? How are they spreading fire?"

"The path is black with them, Aranen," she paused to consider as an anxious ripple ran amid the crowd. "Yet, no more than two companies could seem like more when sighted in a place they've never been."

"It is so, Aranen," one of the war-weary ancients agreed. "Three companies and no more."

"Then we can take them!" an excited young voice cried from the ranks and several more affirmed his optimism.

"We shall destroy them utterly," promised Thranduil. He turned as a figure approached from the stronghold and grinned in savage delight to behold Celeborn clothed for battle, his sword drawn and his face grim. Orophin was at his side, bow and quiver at the ready. "Who shall stand in the path of Celeborn the Wise and Thranduil the Bold?"

"None, Aranen!" shouted Orophin and his answer was repeated by the warriors, their hope renewed and with it their courage.

"Speak of these fires," spoke Thranduil to his chosen lieutenant.

"They shoot flaming arrows amid the branches hoping to catch the trees alight. Some have succeeded and when we came to smother those flames, our warriors were within range of them. We lost many that way, our captain among them. We fled to bring word of this attack. They will come, they will be at our very gates; they"

"They will never set foot here. They will not reach the gates. We will make them into fodder for the trees. Greenwood's roots will feast upon their offal," assured Thranduil and another cheer rose up.

"Cousin, concentrate upon the fires; I will rally these worthy folk and decimate the beasts who dare sully the ancient entry into the realm of the sylvan people," Celeborn suggested, knowing well his kinsman's strange powers to make and extinguish flame.

"So be it," agreed the King. "Yet the fires are only on the fringe of the path; the snow and ice hinders its spread. I will ride with you a time. We go to battle together once more, cousin, and to a more thorough victory than the last. To war!" He raised his sword high and Celeborn did the same and the sound of the metal clashing as they crashed blades together echoed through the courtyard. The noise was buried in the roaring of the young warriors, so proud to fight beside their King and the Lord of Lorien, their flight and fear forgotten.

"An Taurgalen, an Tawarwaith!" (For Greenwood the Great, for the Tawarwaith!) called one of the wounded warriors from the infirmary, where all so able were crowded round the open door.

"An Taurgalen, an Tawarwaith!" Celeborn answered, meeting Thranduil's eyes, daring him, challenging him, but his kinsman never hesitated. Thranduil shook his sword and laughed, shouting his response to the heights:

"Aye! An Taurgalen, an Tawarwaith, Legolas Thranduilion, Ernil-nuin-Gylf!" (Legolas son of Thranduil, Prince under the Branches) He leaped upon his charger, readied and dancing in eagerness to be off, and they bounded over the postern. "Aphado nin!" (Follow me!)

The rest mounted up on fresh horses, Celeborn on his mighty grey stallion, and chased after Thranduil, and in the passing of minutes the crisis was passed, the Greenwood's integrity ensured by the ferocious confidence of the King. The silence left by their departure was less chilling and ominous than it had been before, and none in the stronghold doubted their people would triumph. As long as Thranduil lived, Greenwood could not fall.

Erestor watched them go, furious to once more be left behind when a critical moment arrived, just as in Gondolin. Pen-Rhovan was out their somewhere fighting, Celeborn and Thranduil would likewise risk their lives, but because of his need for vengeance he was forced to wait until he could raise his sword. It would be dawn by then and he was sure this skirmish would be over.

"Do not be troubled," soothed Gladhadithen at his ear and he turned to find her compassionate eyes upon him. "Legolas would not have it so and if he returns injured, as I am sure he will since thus he went out, then he will need your strength and love to recover. We both know he will not save that young one he adopted as brother and the babes here are still in danger while their Naneth languishes under the King's doom. He's going to need you, Erestor, and if you fail him I will let Mithrandir rip you apart.I might even help."

Erestor scowled; her words were no comfort. Across the yard, he met the frowning glare of Mithrandir and saw there the same discontent, but the wizard did not follow the King. He and Aiwendil filed into the stronghold amid the knot of Councillors, pages, and scribes. Erestor returned to the ward with a heavy sigh, resolved to go and keep company with Dambethnîn until their loved ones came again through the gates of the stronghold.

TBC  



	104. Chapter 104

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
* Part Six - Fael'ur's Bond ***

  
It was dawn again, the fifth since he'd parted from Berenaur, when Legolas reached the remains of Fael'ur, led to the spot by all that was left of the warrior: his Wandering feä.

Anor's return was stark and sudden in the winter wood, the night giving way in a hurry as harsh, white lances of light stabbed through the net of limbs and made the snow shine like a blanket strewn with a thousand thousand tiny suns. Yet it was cold illumination lacking the jovial laziness found in a golden summer morn, bereft of the boisterous noise of springtime's first hint of day-glow, divested of the crisp clarity found in a red autumn dawn. For all its brilliance, the light remained distant, disinterested and aloof. It failed to touch the heart, brought no solace to the soul, and touched the earth wanting any semblance of personal attachment to the branches and bolls the shimmering rays revealed. Legolas preferred the dawning of the day to its waning, but not during Rhîw. He felt exposed, marked out in an illusion of glory by Anor's beams.

It was difficult to see for Arien's progress was just at that point where her blazing charge was seemingly level with the branchways. Legolas made progress slowly; no matter where he bent his sight the glare was there beating against his retinas and creating false shadows and phantom movement. Even so, he was glad for the light for it would be worse for the Orcs. Whatever the Nazgul were doing to the creatures, whatever unspeakable practices were carried out to make them less like monsters and more like Men, they were still uncomfortable in daylight. If his luck held, he would encounter none until dusk and cover the remaining distance long before then.

A blue-hued, glittery flash flickered across his field of vision and Legolas stopped abruptly, heart pounding, thinking it was a black arrow coated in that deadly poison the orcs were wont to use, but it was only Fael'ur. He sighed and shook his head, a faint smile ghosting across his features, watching the loosed soul bobbing and swooping through the air, looking very much like he was thrilled with the experience.

_Come back, mellon._

Fael'ur did so at once. The spirit shone resplendent beside him, clear, luminous, star-like, a second source of radiance to counter Anor. He, too, was hard to see but the quality of the blue-white effulgence was blithesome, exuberant in spite of the dire situation. No stain of past wrongs marred him for in the fullness of his sacrifice no debt remained to pay. None of that could Legolas deduce, observing only that the warrior's freed feä was shot through with joyous gratitude. It was a bizarre experience, feeling the soul's exultation while scrutinising the horrible refuse of the body below them.

Senses strained to their limits, Legolas detected no danger here now and cautiously climbed down. He could not recognise who the warrior had been by the chunks of red flesh and pale bone littering the ground. Even knowing the warrior's name did not help and Legolas could not identify him or the troop to which he had belonged. As yet, the spectre had not manifested much ability to communicate and Legolas was at a loss to understand why. Beyond the initial, almost violent, emission of beckoning energy, bracketed by the name, Legolas had not detected anything more from Fael'ur than fleeting impressions of great emotional relief. The Tawarwaith hoped to learn what he needed here, where the spirit bade him come. He had not expected to be guided to the place of the warrior's demise.

It was a revolting display, the spent blood having melted the snow in a wide ovate region where the trampled, muddy ground bore evidence to his attackers' numbers. Fael'ur had been torn to pieces by at least five Orcs, Legolas guessed, while others had stood a ways apart and watched. That was decidedly odd behaviour for Orcs, who normally fought one another viciously for rights to a kill such as this.

He frowned and lifted his eyes to the silent spirit beside him, the elf's features still mostly hidden by the glory of his salvation. Nonetheless, Legolas was convinced Fael'ur was focused on the sight of his own body, dismembered, dishonoured, and desecrated. The Tawarwaith considered how abhorrent a thing this must be, and Fael'ur abruptly lifted his ghostly head, a faint shake back and forth negating the notion. The semblance of a hand, afire with argent splendour, motioned to the weapons scattered over the place of death as a single thought filled with urgent yearning slipped through the ether into Legolas' mind: _An le_ (For you).

Legolas' brows rose in surprise but the ways of dead were not as the ways among the living. He nodded and went to collect them. Of course there was a fine bow, its quiver and harness unrecognisable amid the bits and pieces of leather and cloth ground into the cold, dark soil. A long knife was still fixed in the crumpled fingers of the warrior's fist, and there was a dagger, very ancient, a relic from Beleriand surely, though the belt and scabbard were rudely hacked to tatters. That anything was here at all was unusual; weapons of elvish make were generally confiscated by the Orcs; bows were broken and burned. Something had stopped them from completing their despoiling of Fael'ur and the direction of their hasty retreat was visible as a wide path of cleared earth where they had ploughed through the snow. Legolas suspected he knew what had prompted them to abandon their kill. Confirmation came from the spirit: _Lindalcon. Rochendil._

Pleased they had progressed to this level of mutual comprehension, Legolas bared his teeth thinking of that young one, so full of promise and potential, held captive by Orcs. That Lindalcon had actually located his father's murderer was not much of a surprise after all. The false pathways had ensnared both wandering Elves and drawn them in the same direction. Knowing where the trail culminated, Legolas' desire was to go after them at once, but Fael'ur's ghostly aura sparked with his desire to communicate caution; speed was neither wise nor beneficial to either his former comrade or Valtamar's son.

_Comrade?_ Legolas wondered. Rochendil had been part of Talagan's elite forces and Legolas knew all the warriors in that troop as they knew them. Fael'ur was not a familiar name. In that instant he received a clear glimpse of the past through the spirit's free-floating thoughts and placed him: one among the soldiers who feasted on his pain and anguish whenever Rochendil exercised Chastisement. Fael'ur was always in the stable yard when he came to Ailinyéro, always leering and making crude jokes and issuing cruel insults. Legolas had never known who he was nor wanted to. He turned away, shamed and angry, but all about him was the evidence of the price Fael'ur ultimately paid for his transgressions.

Legolas grimaced darkly; he did not care. It was right that such a one should suffer so. He glanced down at the dagger in his hand and bile rose in his throat, recalling that last night in the storeroom. Fael'ur had been there, aroused, watching. He was about to cast the knife back into the pile of rotting flesh when a slight touch feathered over his arm.

_Forgive me._

Legolas startled, a cold shock running through the nerves of his arm down into his fingertips, and turned to look upon the warrior. Fael'ur's features were more defined now, the glare reduced so that it seemed Legolas beheld him from the opposite side of one of Thranduil's festival fires. He scanned the face and remembered seeing him in the stable yard when the guilty warriors were stripped of rank and commission and exiled. This was the only one who'd dropped his eyes when Legolas' burned each of them with his glaring hatred, but that could have been sorrow only for what Fael'ur had lost.

_Nay._

_How can I believe you?_ Legolas seared him with the same fury now.

Fael'ur motioned to his decimated body. _I am here._

"Huh, and am I now to obtain your Release, too? I am not here for you but for Lindalcon. Why do you Wander here?" Legolas said aloud and pointed the dagger at the wavering form.

By way of answer, the spirit spewed forth a flood of information, a stream of visions flashing rapidly through the Tawarwaith's awareness, scenes of Fael'ur's end and Lindalcon's valour. Legolas inhaled sharply and staggered back under the intensity of emotion, the complex mixture of terror and determination, resignation and paralysing hope, happiness and liberation that flowed through the last moments of the warrior's life. Such evidence was not to be challenged and he breathed deeply to cleanse his heart of the disturbing experience of having lived another's death.

"So be it. I hold nothing against you, Fael'ur; you are forgiven."

The brilliance returned to the warrior's essence and he fled skyward in pure exhilaration, twisting and turning and leaving a sparkling trail like star-dust in his wake. In spite of himself, Legolas smiled, eyes wide in wonder to see this. The next instant Fael'ur stood beside him again.

_My thanks, Tawarwaith._

_If you are truly grateful, help me rescue Lindalcon._

At this, Fael'ur exhibited once more pointed to the weapons, his mood tense and insistent. Legolas sighed, sensing the spirit's resistance to go after the missing Elves and decided that itself was part of the message the deceased warrior was trying to send. These weapons, too, were important, but Legolas could not tell if they were vital to helping save Lindalcon or necessary to the warrior's redemption. _Both_ came the answer and Legolas could not deny the aura of ritual infused in the light of Fael'ur's eyes. Still, the time required to fulfil this ancient rite rankled.

Much was visible to the dead that the living could not see, but Legolas needed no mystical insight to understand what was ahead of him. _A trap, of course, yet I must try to reach Lindalcon at any cost. We must find him before he blunders into it._ At once the disembodied warrior became still and radiated an almost desperate admonition against proceeding yet. Legolas frowned. _What is this fear? Nothing can harm you now._ As soon as he thought it Legolas realised the lie inherent in the idea even as Fael'ur blasted his brain with visual depictions of the ways an unhoused spirit could be captured and perverted, chained to the abhorrent flesh of an Orc, all reason lost, stripped of identity, smothered with darkness. Such was the fate awaiting Fael'ur unless he heeded the summons to Mandos. _Or binds himself to Tawar, yet Tawar sleeps._

_Must not linger unhoused._ Fael'ur agreed.

Perplexed and suspicious, Legolas eyed the translucent entity and recalled his communion with his uncles and with Tê-telch in the Vestibule of the Three Doors. They had hoped to possess him and nearly succeeded. He shuddered, watching the glimmering shade of Fael'ur, wary of him attempting the same.

_Nay! They are bound to you, Master of the Gates._

Legolas' mouth gaped for a second or two; here was another unwanted title thrust upon him. How could it even be possible? _You know of them? I released them from captivity; I am not anyone's master._

_I know them. Master of the Gates, Tawarwaith, Master of the Spirits bound to the Gates._ Fael'ur's astral hand pointed at Legolas and then swept again to the weapons. _An Le._

Still hoping for aid, for it could not be denied that an entity unhindered by physical limitations might be able to provide unique assistance despite his inability to wield arms, Legolas swallowed down his worries. It occurred to him that Elven eyes were constrained by a distinct range and could only see so far, and not through solid stone in any case, but lacking them the dead warrior's sight would be immeasurable, illimitable. Thus it was when Legolas 'saw' through his linked awareness of Tawar and thus he squelched his instinct to race after Lindalcon and ignored the implications of Fael'ur's revelations. He brought the weapons forth, holding them out, and filamentous fingers stretched toward them, favoured them with a touch both regretful and proud.

The warrior could not prevent himself from grasping at the hilt of the dagger; his amorphous digits couldn't hold together against the solid structure of the metal and exploded in a showery flower of incandescent sparks. The particles drifted about and winked out in the snow, but the hand reformed itself at once, less glaringly ephemeral and more solid appearing. Legolas' eyes found the radiant star-spots that served as Fael'ur's and smiled. The Wanderer's expression was one of sheepish self-reproach for trying to take something he'd just offered as gift.

_I would not begrudge you the wish to wield it one last time._ His mind was filled with scenes relating the dagger's history; its transfer from father to son all the way back to the days before the Sun and the Moon. The bow was a gift Fael'ur's wife-mate made for him ere they marched from the forest for Dagorlad where she died. The long-knife was a gift from his mother and a good weapon.

_Orcs must not have them._

_Who are your kin that I may give them these heirlooms?_ Legolas was surprised by the dramatic increase in thoughts between them, wondering over the link wrought by this ritual of presenting the weapons, the physical substance serving as a bridge between them. Fael'ur elucidated:

_The weapons are the bond. No kin have I here. They are for you, for the Tawarwaith. A great honour._

_Agreed and I thank you._ Legolas bowed.

_The honour is mine. Receive, that I may freely accept what you have given me: forgiveness._

_So be it._ Legolas tucked the dagger beneath his waist, stowed the bow alongside his own, and kept the long knife in hand. _I accept your offering._

_Ha Coren.(it is done.) Freely have I offered and willingly you accepted. As long as you keep the weapons, so long shall I be bound to you._

_Bound! I do not want that; go in peace to Mandos._ Legolas' skin crawled in revulsion, comprehending this was how his Adar had enthralled an uncounted number of free souls and made them serve his will: a debt owed, a physical object in which to hold the deceased at hand. Still, he needed Fael'ur's ghostly eyes. _Yet stay. Will you give me aid now? I would find the horse-master and my heart-brother and bring them back safely to Othron-en-Thranduil._

_I will serve you in this one great trial before departing for Mandos. Námo calls but permits this delay. As to Lindalcon, this you can figure out without any assistance._

_He has been captured, then?_

_Why do you ask what you knew before ever I came to you, Tawarwaith? The Wraiths have him._

Legolas' heart felt leaden in his breast and ached with the weight of his grief and guilt. While he had enjoyed his reunion with Berenaur, Lindalcon had faced a most terrible crisis, the revelation of his mother's responsibility for his father's death. In the grip of that duress, he had gone forth to wrench justice from Rochendil and earn his father's Release, and for this valourous misjudgement Lindalcon was now doomed.

"Then there is no hope."

_There is a little._

_Aye, little indeed. Yet, if I can get close enough mayhap I can grant them a more merciful end._

_That is the trap the Wraiths have made for thee._

_And Lindalcon and Rochendil are the bait._

_Aye._

There was a pause as Legolas considered the situation. It was a clever ploy indeed and one from which he would not turn. Could the Wraiths know of his love for Lindalcon or were they assuming he would come to the aid of any countryman? It was true that Legolas had defended outlanders against the Nazgul, so perhaps they did not know how important Lindalcon was to him. His capture must have been random chance. Still, it was one thing to fight alongside comrades, even as he had with the Noldor and Aragorn, and another to go knowingly into a deadly trap.

Would he? Legolas found he could not be certain.

It was an uncomfortable realisation and he shied from it. Perhaps he could turn the trap around. He frowned grimly; at best, this conflict would ultimately come down to a trade: himself in exchange for the captive, released unharmed. The Wraiths wanted him and had failed to secure him in spite of rigourous efforts to do so. Surely they would accept those terms. The recent fight with the Lesser Evils and his taunt about their Rings must have angered them beyond reason, if they possessed any. It was a threat the Chief could not ignore for Legolas' skill was sufficient to make good his promise; for a moment he felt an exhilarating thrill to know he'd correctly identified their one weakness. They could ill afford him the chance to fulfil that challenge.

Yet, there was no assurance they would be willing to make a trade. Lindalcon might already be dead and Legolas' efforts would be futile; his death worthless. Nor, he had to admit, could they assume he would offer his life for some unknown warrior's. Legolas doubted he could do it even for Lindalcon; all his training forbade it and self-preservation rebelled against it. Looming in the horizon of his heart was the vision of his future life with Berenaur, forfeit if he played out this gamble. Did he not deserve that life and the love with which it abounded?

He would certainly not trade himself for someone he did not know, reasoning the King's warriors understood the high risks serving in the patrols invoked. He would not expect anyone to be sacrificed for him, either, even if they were known to one another. Not only would the captive be killed, but the rescuer would be lost, too, for the Nazgul were honourless and their promises but lies.

_What are they really planning? Could they have discovered my deep commitment to my siblings' safety and happiness? How would they use such knowledge?_

While the Tawarwaith racked his brain to determine whether this might be possible, Fael'ur focused on his new master keenly. Legolas paced, measuring the same three steps over and over, slapping the flat of the long knife's blade against his palm, face a harried scowl, eyes reflecting the conflicted feelings streaming through his heart and mind. The mental and moral struggle he was enduring was clear to the unhoused feä and he felt for the troubled ellon. There was no point in intervening or attempting to alleviate this turmoil; the decision could only be Legolas', made freely and without reservation. Fael'ur knew what that decision would be and thought it odd that Legolas did not. He would go no matter who was the bait, infuriated over the audacity of the Nazgul to tempt him thus, and if nothing else attempt to give the captive a quick death.

Yet, there was another thing that Fael'ur could not put from his mind. At last his curiosity could not be denied and he touched his wispy fingers to Legolas.

_You would have granted Rochendil mercy?_

_Aye. None deserve to suffer the cruelty of the Nazgul._

Legolas dipped his head firmly just once and then turned aside from the spirit. That, he thought, was silly as his mind was not shielded and Fael'ur was party to his musings and misgivings. It was easy to say he would not want Rochendil to suffer now that the renegade was beyond all suffering, yet he wondered if some part of him truly hoped the vile ellon had been tortured. He ground his teeth and then nearly jumped out of his skin as the weight of Fael'ur's ghostly hand reposed upon his shoulder and the pressure of squeezing fingers registered.

_Be untroubled. He was unrepentant and squandered the punishment that would have saved him as did mine. His stay in Mandos will be long, indeed, if he obeys the summons._

_Will he come to me, too?_ Legolas was not thoroughly comfortable with the idea of encountering Ailinyéro's unhoused feä.

_Unlikely. I came for remission of my sins. He died cursing your name._

In spite of himself, Legolas drew a sharp breath of shock and dismay. What had he done to make Rochendil despise him so utterly? His mind travelled back to his earliest memories of of the warrior and realised that the horse-master had shared the general contempt of him the majority of warriors expressed, until the day of the caning. It was Rochendil's cruelty to him that morning that had precipitated Legolas' theft of Oropher's war bow. Had he also been there to witness the resulting punishment? Legolas could not recall; there were numerous warriors in the throne room, but it was possible. Had that been the instant Rochendil's craving to inflict pain was born? It was a question that could never be answered now.

_His soul darkened. What is the means by which this poison reaches the soul? Meril's fall is horrible to realise and now impacts my siblings' lives. Is it right that Iluvatar permits this corruption of his children?_

_I am not Vala, just a warrior like you._ Fael'ur presented a faintly amused grin, arms crossed before his chest. _Yet I will pass on your complaint to Námo when I meet him._

"Ah, just what the situation calls for, a sardonic spirit," grumped Legolas. He sighed uneasily and looked up into the trees. There was no reason to remain here longer. "I hold you to your bond for now, Fael'ur. It is only us two; no one else knows what has happened and no other help will follow. Mayhap we will journey to Mandos together, the three of us, but waiting does not improve our chances."

He climbed back to the heights, looking over the network of branches with dubious confidence. The safe trees were few now and would only grow fewer as they neared the mountains. He glanced to his ghostly companion hovering alongside and considered a second option,one the Wraiths might not expect. He would follow the road through the snow left by the Orcs and use Fael'ur as his scout.

_Can Orcs see your spirit?_ For answer he received a highly insulted and scalding glare. Legolas grinned sheepishly; if Orcs would not spot a Wood ELf in the flesh, how could they hope to see one unhoused?

He sent Fael'ur ahead to locate any lurking demons and report on their position and then set forth with renewed speed and determination, mind riven with the possibilities, heart heavy with dread. If there was a way out of this with his body and soul intact at the end, Legolas could not perceive it. His only hope was that he might somehow evade capture long enough to relieve Lindalcon's suffering quickly. A sharp jolt of regret assailed him as the pangs of longing gripped him. If only he could see Berenaur once more and explain everything, help ease his heart so that he might not die in the agony of grieving. Yet it was likely that his end would precipitate Berenaur's and he would not have to remain lonely in Mandos for very long.

Bleak and sombre though it was, the notion gave him comfort. Legolas resigned himself to his fate.

"This is impossible," groaned Haldir, watching as the sally of Orcs loosed a volley of black arrows from behind a stone barrier. None of the Elves were hit but the rain of bolts prevented them from advancing. Cackling with laughter, the Orcs disappeared back inside the noisome hole from which they'd briefly emerged. Thus far, he had watched Talagan lead no less than five attempts to storm the cave, all of which failed as arrows and lances sailed from the looming black opening and forced them to turn back.

"Aye, they've the advantage here," complained Elladan. He had his bow armed and his eyes trained on the darkened oval, hoping for a hint of movement at which to aim. "We cannot get to them."

"What we need is fire," opined Elrohir. "We should mount a guard around every escape hole and then stuff the main entrances with burning bracken."

"Smoke them out?" asked Aragorn, shaking his head. "I don't know; how deep are these caves? They may be able to seal off this area and retreat to the depths. They probably have numerous air vents delved to make it possible."

"Unfortunately, next to Dwarves, there are no better tunnellers in Arda," sighed Haldir. "I fear Aragorn is right. With Thranduil to consider, they most likely assumed that trick would be tried."

"These are Orcs not Men," argued Elladan. "They do not think."

"The Wraiths think for them and there are Men among them, too," reminded their sylvan guide. "We have tried fire without success."

Silence fell among them and they watched as Talagan organised a two-pronged assault, planning to use one group to draws the Orcs out into attack while the second cut them down. This ploy worked, but as fast as the Orcish warriors fell, new one appeared and used the fallen as an additional shield.

"This is impossible," growled Haldir. "Where is the rest of Greenwood's forces? I thought you said they would swing around and come at the mountains from the Forest Road?"

"How can I know this when I am with you?" she snapped.

"All right, let us not become adversaries," admonished Aragorn. "We need a new strategy. If we had shields, we could advance into the entrance without fear, our archers firing over the shields as others held the barrier steady."

"That is not a bad idea," remarked Elladan, "save that I do not see a single sylvan warrior who bears one. Close fighting is not their strong point."

"Maethoriell, signal to Talagan this plan; learn if he has any such shields in the stronghold armoury," insisted Haldir.

"There are only a few," she shook her head, "brought out of Beleriand by the Sindarin folk. Not enough."

"We do not need many," persisted the March Warden. "How wide is that tunnel; would you guess two metres, Elladan?"

"Nay, I would say about three," answered the elder Twin and Elrohir nodded his concurrence. "Have you ten shields, Kwingarê (female archer)?"

She blushed a little under his use of her native tongue and her eyes shone with eager hope. "Aye, there are at least that number, perhaps a few more. I will send the news." At once she cupped her hands round her lips and whistled a string of musical notes reminiscent of finches calling out their territory boundaries. Instead of a similar reply, Talagan came himself.

"A shield barrier, excellent," he smiled with grim approval at the Man. "We've not used them since the Last Alliance and the leather grips will need repair."

"Ah, we can fit them with woven rope in place of the leather," assured the sylvan warrior. "There need be little delay, just enough to make our return a surprise."

"Not only that, we can play them for fools and kill a great many if we do this right," nodded Talagan. "I will signal new orders to each battalion. We are to withdraw, sounding the calls for a return to aid comrades at bay, and use the notes from last season. The Orcs know that command and a few others. If they fall for it"

"We'll have a proper ambush waiting," grinned Elrohir.

"There is something else," added Aragorn. "Not far from here is a trap field, a huge one. Legolas ran it while we were struggling to make it back to the fortress."

"Another excellent suggestion," said Talagan, but he was shaking his head. "No one has gone back to set them since then. I passed near enough to smell it on the way here. In any case, it is on the opposite side of the mountains. There are others scattered throughout the area, but none on a direct line back home. The Orcs would suspect our plan if we make for one of them. They are not as easy to lure to the pits as Legolas would have us believe. I am not willing to be the bait, nor would I permit any of my archers to volunteer."

"Of course," grimaced Aragorn, recalling exactly how his friend had managed to get the vile foes to chase him. "I'd forgotten."

"Unfortunate," sighed Elladan. It could not be helped and so they had to be content with the plan as it stood. "How are we on arrows?"

"Not as many as I'd like to have," scowled Talagan. "The pages are scavenging the usable ones now. Whatever remained in the stronghold will be taken by the King and any forces he can raise."

"So be it," shrugged Haldir. "We will just have to defeat them before we run out of bolts."

That elicited a round of mild laughter and Talagan turned to rejoin his company. The five outlanders and their troop of archers made ready to move up into the trees when a distant set of signals reached them, faintly and much broken up. What was discernible was sufficient to make Talagan's jaw drop and he immediately whistled a demand for a repeat of the message. It came, closer this time and more distinct, and caused a flurry of surprise and distress amid the archers high in the canopy.

"Ai! Is it possible?" asked the sylvan guide, shaking her head, eyes on Talagan.

"We must assume so," he said. "Make ready to return in haste to the stronghold, but let us at least do as we planned here." His eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze along the low ridge of mountains. _Not this time, but I'll return and finish the task. I'll have Dwarves as neighbours before I'll suffer the scum of Mordor on my doorstep another year._ He stalked away to rally his patrol.

"What has happened?" demanded Haldir, plucking the guide's arm.

"The stronghold is under attack; Orcs swarming the Elf Path, setting the trees afire," she said, her tone worried and filled with shocked disbelief. "Come, we are needed for a more important battle. These mountains will still be here when it is done." She scampered up the nearest tree and made Talagan's orders clear. With much commotion Greenwood's troops began their retreat.

Haldir grimaced with distaste as he watched them reorganising. "I do not like this," he muttered, shaking his head as he assembled his warriors and gave the news. He had no desire to return to the fortress without even attempting to find Lindalcon.

"Mellon, we are with you," whispered Elrohir. "Let us be the rear-guard for the King's troops. Once they are safely away, we will resume our course."

"Well said," nodded the March Warden. "My instincts tell me the youth is doomed without aid. That is a loss I would fain prevent."

"You are going after Legolas and the boy?" asked Aragorn, finding confirmation in his brothers' stubborn expressions and Haldir's intractable glare. He held his hands up, brows high in supplication. "I am not opposing you," he assured them. "I would give aid to those two as well. Legolas saved my life and Lindalcon is the first sylvan here who treated me respectfully. Do we inform the King's lieutenant?"

"Nay," opined Elrohir. "I doubt Talagan would find saving Lindalcon worth the commitment of his troops just now, and he knows Legolas is out here alone. Obviously he has made the assumption the Tawarwaith is indestructible. But we are not under his command, or Thranduil's, and I think Lord Celeborn will back us if it comes to a challenge."

"Then we are agreed?" Elladan asked, meeting the eye of many of the Lorien archers.

Haldir noticed and turned to regard his warriors. "What say you? Will you risk all for Lindalcon, kinsman to one of own?"

"You know we will," growled one.

"We are not out here because we think Talagan needs help," snorted a second.

"Lord Celeborn already ordered us to attempt that very thing and to locate Legolas," informed another.

"I know the young one's uncle," said one more. "How could I face my friend without trying to save his nephew?"

The rest sounded their agreement and Haldir affirmed it all with a brisk nod. A low, rumbling noise echoed up form the mountains and filled the quiet woods, the sound of heavy, booted feet running over stone.

"Look sharp; they are coming!" warned Aragorn.

Hastily, one and all ducked into cover, slipping stealthily from shadow to shadow as the Orcs began to spill into the open, raging and roaring in glee, believing they had routed Thranduil's army. They ran straight into the ambush of the foreign elves and were checked, great numbers of them falling from arrows as many more found themselves in the unenviable position of facing the blades of the famed Orc-slayers. In confusion and fear the beasts scurried back to their dank and dismal hole.

Haldir, Aragorn, and the Twins shared pleased smiles and reorganised, jogging a bit further along the way and shimmied up into the limbs, save for Aragorn and his brothers. They had to hunker down behind the wide girth of the mighty oaks and all three wished they had cloaks woven on the looms of the Galadhrim to shield them. It did not take long for the Orcs to rally, realising they were not pursued, and barge down the trail once more, trampling over their fellows' corpses, and again floundered into the trap. This time Haldir's men quickly surrounded the party, cutting off retreat. The Orcs were slaughtered to the last demon with no losses for the Elves.

Believing they had exhausted the Orcs' capacity for surprise after these skirmishes, everyone climbed into the branches, including Aragorn, his brothers arranged to provide him cover, and retreated toward the stronghold, swinging south, however, toward the river. When the next onslaught came, it was no mere sally but a disgorging of a tremendous mass of soldiers. The woods grew black with them and the Man thought the caves must be emptied. They were marching for the King's city, wary and vigilant for while their sight was not necessarily keen, there was nothing wrong with their noses. They could smell the blood of their comrades and tramped stolidly through the trees, peering up into the limbs above as they went.

The Elves permitted the body of foul fiends to march past beneath them, holding position motionless in the naked limbs, counting the Orcs and sharing grim and silent consternation over the numbers. Haldir flashed a hand-sign: not enough arrows. When they were sure all had come forth who meant to, the Elves released a rain of bolts into the running throng, careful to make every shot count, bringing down a sufficient quantity to alert the Orcs of their folly. Too late, the beasts tried to find shelter from the deadly hail, bellowing as the Elves hemmed them round and picked them off from above. At last the creatures' nerve broke and they began running wildly in any direction in hopes of escape. Elladan signalled to let them go and once the sound of them diminished, the outlanders came down from the heights to gather what arrows they could before moving on.

"Talagan will have to manage the rest," remarked Elrohir.

"He seems more than capable from the fighting I observed," drawled Elladan, grinning. "Now, what of our strategy for finding your friends?" He addressed his foster-brother.

"I do not know for certain where to look," admitted the Man. "Wherever Lindalcon is, there we will find Legolas also."

"Forgive me, but I don't really see how even he can locate one young warrior in all this huge forest, no matter how strong his connection to the trees," opined one Lorien archer.

"No, he will find a way," insisted Aragorn. "You don't know him as I do. Above all he hopes to protect his siblings from hurt or harm."

"Hopes are one thing," sighed Haldir, "and I wish for nothing less, but reality is all around us. They could be anywhere."

"Hiren, I am uneasy standing here so near those caves. There could be more Orcs at any time and my quiver is now sorely depleted. I salvaged only twenty arrows." This warrior's complaint was attested to by the rest and Haldir had to admit their concerns had merit.

By habit more than anything else, he lifted his eyes and scanned the treetops; smiling as he found what he knew must be there. He pointed and ordered everyone up into the trees surrounding an old guard's talan he'd spotted. His archers clung to the limbs and Elladan aided Aragorn's ascent. The Man surveyed the space and noted the similarity to the flet to which Legolas had led him and Mithrandir during their flight to the fortress. He went at once to the trunk and opened it, withdrawing the blankets he knew would be there. Those he handed to his brothers and Haldir, for there were only three. At the bottom was a small brazier, a bundle of kindling, and a sack of coal. In minutes Aragorn had the little heater burning and all the warriors huddled inward to be nearer the bright orange glow. His brothers were impressed and even Haldir smiled at the sight of the firebox.

"Legolas showed me," Aragorn said with a shrug.

"We do likewise at home," remarked one of the Lorien archers, "but it is usually for cooking, not warmth."

"Haldir," said another, hesitation in his tone. "What is our plan? The forest is five times as great as Lothlorien and we know nothing about it."

"Aye," added another. "I would not see him suffer either, but it would be easier to locate a single silver leaf within a heaping pile of golden ones."

"Nay, there is a factor sure to play into this drama none of you could know about," announced Aragorn, suddenly realising it himself. He smiled a slow grin and nodded to himself.

"Well, what is it, muindor dithen?" demanded Elrohir, shoving him lightly.

"Aye, you seem to have become quite the sylvan in your short stay here," laughed Elladan, "so share your wood-lore with the rest of us."

"It is something that happened to us, Mithrandir and me, on our journey. We kept losing the path, though he knew it well. Then we encountered Legolas and he explained it: the elf-made paths in this region are corrupt. All roads, whether on the ground or in the branches, lead to those mountains." He pointed to the rounded humps rising above the tree limbs and watched his brothers, noting expressions of both concern and hope drifting in unison across the Twins' mirrored faces. They shared a glance and some silent communication, inhaled as one, and then Elladan spoke.

"That is distressing news, but as you indicate at least we have narrowed down the area to search."

"We must divide," continued Elrohir. "Haldir will keep two thirds of his warriors here and watch the paths leading to that cave entrance. If any of those departing troops return, we must have advance notice; likewise if anymore depart. Aragorn, you come with us and the remainder of the archers. We must get over these hills and set watch on the Road from the opposite side."

"Agreed," nodded Haldir, "and I suggest we utilise Celeborn's battle calls from here on. The Orcs will not know what to make of them."

"But any Elf will recognise they are signals," grinned one of his warriors. "By Elbereth! We may just salvage that young warrior after all."

Everyone's mood improved and real hope kindled in their hearts. The troops were divided and just as the Twins were preparing to leave, all the Elves stiffened and turned to face south. A faint cry was heard through the cold air and they strained to hear more, but there was nothing.

In unspoken accord the Twins moved out, hastening to the ground as Aragorn could not maintain sufficient height in the branches to protect him anyway. The small number of Lorien troops chosen to go with them did likewise and soon they were all racing to get over the mountains. Even for Elves the distance was not small and they floundered through drifts and brambles and across unexpected ravines. Once they surprised a small party of Orcs and fighting broke out. Through the din of battle, they never registered Lindalcon's terrified pleas for his parents. By the time they reached the crest he was already deep beneath the mountains and dawn was breaking.

From their vantage, the Elves perceived the makeshift arena, sunlight dazzling through the ice-filmed limbs over the desolate and gruesome scene, the smoking torches marking the site of the barbaric butchering. The way down was just as hazardous and took time to navigate. Eventually they crossed into the clearing and gaped in shocked disbelief. Even Elladan and Elrohir had seldom seen anything so horrendous. Even the battle hardened warriors of Lorien who knew Rochendil for the coward he was turned away, sickened in heart and soul. There was nothing to show that Lindalcon had ever been there.

"Thank Elbereth it is not the young one," Aragorn said quietly. Soft murmurs of agreement sounded around him as he tore his eyes from the hideous, earless face of Rochendil and scrutinised the ground, hoping he was not wrong and only one body was here. His brows rose in surprise. "Hoof prints!" he announced and then Elladan groaned and dropped his head.

"Orcs do not ride horses. The Wraiths did this," he hissed through clenched jaws. An uneasy stir rippled through the Galadhrim guards.

"The tracks lead back to the mountains," continued Aragorn. "They're in the lair."

"Which can only mean they expect the corrupt paths to bring Lindalcon right to them, as happened to this ravaged soul," commented Elrohir. "Our plan stands; it is up to us to head him off before he comes within range of whatever spying eyes the Nazgul have watching."

"We'll need to divide again," said Elladan, eyes on the limbs above. "There are several tracks that converge here; three major ones."

"I am no use in the heights," reminded Aragorn. "For me, there is that razed trail through the brush and bracken left by the Orcs."

"Nay, it bears from the east and south," cautioned Elladan. "Those are the roads out of Dol Guldur. Lindalcon will not be coming from there but from the Forest Road. Besides, he was trailing Rochendil, or trying to, and likely never discovered him at all. Aragorn and I will backtrack to the Road and move westerly, searching for indications on the southern side. Elrohir, take the Galadhrim and divide them as you will, follow the branchways."

"Agreed," said he, "and if we've found nothing by nightfall, we must join forces anew and rethink our plans. I suggest we return to Haldir and the guard's talan on Thranduil's side of the Central Mountains."

There was nothing more to discuss. None pondered the idea of facing the Wraiths in the depths of the tunnel-riddled mountains; such was not their objective. All parties moved out, heading south and west in the direction of the Forest Road, never imagining that Lindalcon was already a prisoner, never thinking Legolas was en route to this very location.

TBC  



	105. Chapter 105

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
Part Seven - Sereg Aer, Gûth Deleb (Sacred Blood, Death Profane)**

  
"Heciiiiiilo!"

The word rang out in sing-song style, an ugly mockery of childish taunting, the grating voice an unpleasant amalgamation of menacing welcome. "Masters await Hecilo." There was a ponderous and pronounced metallic jangle. "Chains ready."

Legolas, half out from cover as he prepared to fire, jerked back behind the tree and the bow went lax in his hands; the arrow plopped uselessly into the snow. He shivered in revulsion; the clinking repeated and sweat broke over his body. His gut seized in familiar, clenching pain.

_What madness is this?_

Skin crawling and lungs straining, his heart raced in macabre anticipation. Twelve years of submission to the torments of Chastisement were ingrained in his very cells; the clank of the chains and the pronunciation of that hated slur triggered his body's responses. A phantom sensation of cold steel manacles encircled his wrists; a stab of pain burrowed into his shoulders in memory of being restrained, arms extended between two posts, for hours and hours. The nerves all down his spine tingled, every muscle tense as though awaiting the first blow of the scourge. Laughter rang out, smutty and satyric, underscoring another rattling shake of the fetters. Legolas shuddered.

"Eager to begin, Hecilo?"

His breath caught, a sharp intake of wintery ether that froze his soul and gushed back out in a noisy cloud of misty moisture. These were words he'd heard before. For a second, he had the terrifying thought that it was Rochendil out there wielding those weighty links, waiting to finish the cruel abuse begun so long ago. He shook his head. _I saw the remains._ Comprehension blazed through his mind and his heart made a resounding thump of relief. During the torture preceding his death, Rochendil must have told his persecutors the things he had done and the words he had used. Legolas breathed another huge lungful of frigid air. Then as fast as it had come, the reassuring rationalisation vanished.

_How would Orcs know to ask him about those days?_

They wouldn't and for all he'd boasted of battling the Wraiths, the reality was daunting. An enervating pall of apprehension descended upon him, a sense that the trap had already sprung and he was caught fast. True enough, though unhindered and free to leave, Legolas could not be more surely bound were the chains already on him. Just as he had gone to Rochendil contrite and humbled for the sake of the Wandering Warriors, so for the sake of Lindalcon he would go willingly to whatever punishment awaited him now. Yet, he remained still.

_I must; the alternative is unacceptable._

He remembered Lindalcon as a young child learning to use the bow, his adoration of Valtamar, his love for Meril, his polite and respectful manner to Legolas and the other warriors. _'Will you show me how you grip your bow, Legolas?'_ He recalled vividly the day of Judgement and Lindalcon's confusion and grief. He relived the days of healing in Fearfaron's talan when the young one in essence became his brother, the child's confidence, faith, and loyalty unwavering. _'I do not believe you killed him!'_

Then it all poured over him in a cascade of mingled details: the concern in Lindalcon's eyes when he revealed they were brothers in truth with siblings linked by blood to both. Crawling through the stronghold tunnels to meet Taurant, grit under his fingernails and the swaying lantern illuminating Gwillith clinging to her brother, their hair the same coppery colour. The bonding day pranks, Lindalcon waiting for him there on the path, hopeful, happy, and proud. The hurtful words after Berenaur's dunking, standing side by side in the Chamber of Starlight as Thranduil humiliated then exonerated him.

For all the Erebor debacle had taken from him, Legolas felt he had gained much more. His life had been barren of love and friendship all of his days until then, and through the deaths of the three warriors he had received a father in all but blood, siblings to cherish and protect, the respect of his people, a mate for all of time that remained.

Thinking all this galvanised him. He could not just give up and give in. Doomed he might be, but never helpless. Lindalcon was in those caves, hostage to the Wraiths' hatred, enduring what unspeakable punishment he dared not imagine. Legolas summoned courage into his heart and strength into his legs, ready to spring. Bow armed and ready, he crept round the tree, casting a careful evaluation up into the silent, twisted branches as he issued his challenge.

"Tawarwaith seeks talk with your masters. Send word to them that I am here."

"Oh, Master knows. No talk, Hecilo, you die. No Tawar here; no wizard here to save you," the gloating Orc replied.

"Your death is in my hands, Orc. Send for your masters and live or come claim your fate."

Legolas had its position marked by ear and eased himself closer, angling for a clear view and a clean shot, but it was hunkered down in the shadows. The desire to see it before he killed it, this beast that knew things about him it shouldn't, nearly overwhelmed him but he remained cautious, eyeing the limbs above and the trees across the clearing. All fell quiet, but not the respectful attention the forest normally accorded him as the voice of Tawar. It was a predator's stillness, fraught with slavering hunger and malice, a miasma of foul air enveloping the twisted trunks, insinuating the stink of death into his lungs. In it grew an unbearable tension; the Orc broke first.

"Kill you, Elf; eat you. Throw what's left on Thranduil's land; sylvans see and then they know. All elves die; Wraiths rule Taur-nu-Fuin, and Orcs"

"Dîn!" (Silence!) commanded Legolas, disturbed by the boasting prophesy though he had heard similar promises before. He calmed himself and methodically scanned the area for other foes, detecting none. Yet he mistrusted his assessment even though it was uncommon for Orcs to remain still and quiet when an Elf was near, but none of this was normal.

"Your masters refuse to come forth, so be it; I will ferret them out. And your death is assured, Orc. Not even the worms will deign to eat what's left."

Another round of coarse laughter followed and an arrow sailed his way, but it was aimed with negligence and fell far from his position. Or was that a ruse designed to make him careless? Legolas altered his direction and inched noiselessly through the shadows in order to come up behind his enemy.

"Good, good! Come, Heciiiiilo!"

The dare drifted through the icy air and the chains shook, but the sound was diminishing. Legolas' silently cursed as he stood tall, drew the bowstring taut, and killed the mocking sentry. His sight was sharp enough to note a dark and lanky figure running through the trees toward the mountain caves, his ears sufficiently acute to hear the jingling of heavy iron links, and he cursed aloud. There had been two of them and the one he'd wanted had escaped.

The need to see his kill consumed him and he did not race after his tormentor. He took his time reaching the dead Orc, concerned this might be an elaborate ambush, though Orcs were not given to sacrificing themselves in order to make a greater victory possible. None had ever managed to remain motionless and hidden from him until this day.

_The chains distracted me._

It was a disturbing realisation and he determined to immure himself to such tactics henceforth. These Orcs were not behaving like a pack of mindless animals and he had to adjust to that fact quickly. Such intelligence could only be the Wraiths' work and he nodded with satisfaction; his challenge had been accepted at last. Would that he might have the opportunity to test his theory of their weakness.

With no other sentries or soldiers to deter his progress, he soon stood looking down on the dead Orc. It was long in the body and had rather more hair than most of the vile things he'd seen. Its face was hideously scarred with one eye missing, but the nose, though broken more than once, was still a nose and not a snout. These observations suggested that it had not been born in this state and Legolas could not help but wonder how many centuries ago the creature had been an Elf. Had he known him once?

_Is that how they know what Lindalcon means to me? Is that how they know about the chains?_

This made no logical sense unless this unfortunate creature had once been counted among the number of warriors thrilling over his abasement in the stronghold storeroom. Yet his time with Rochendil was too recent; this creature had long ago ceased being First-born, and he was left with the unresolved quandary and the uneasiness it produced. All his instincts screamed to flee, to avoid any chance of suffering a similar fate, but he stifled them. He could not abandon Lindalcon no matter the consequences. Fael'ur drifted beside him and Legolas watched the shimmering shade examining the corpse.

_This was an Elf._

_Once. Long ago._

_Did you know him?_

_I cannot say; it is an Orc now, or was. Now it is nothing._

_And its elvish soul is forfeit; it will hear no call from Námo._

_No._

_What of the one with the chains?_

_What of it? It is an Orc; it does the bidding of its master._

Legolas scowled, disconcerted that Fael'ur understood what worried him yet remained so reticent over his answers. Then again, he was not exactly eager to state the obvious conclusion either. The Wraiths wanted him alive and what they would do with him, and to him, lay at his feet.

_I will not permit that; not for me nor for Lindalcon._

He could but hope his link with Tawar was strong enough to waken the encompassing entity long enough to submerge his spirit within it. Such a fate was far preferable to the defilement on display. He felt a sharp and searing jolt of grief for the loss of Berenaur. The desire to fly to him filled his heart and Legolas tried to suppress it, berating himself. Fearing his thoughts would reach the seneschal and precipitate sympathetic grieving, Legolas banished his mate from his mind completely and focused again on his brother.

_For Lindalcon, I must go in. If only his Adar had been the one Released all those years ago, the young one would not be in peril now._

_Valtamar was freed almost at once, Tawarwaith, but he is bound to stay._

Legolas stared at his ghostly companion, incredulous, for it was obvious Lindalcon had no inkling of this. Nor had he. _It cannot be. Life has been nothing but torment for his son, knowing his father Wandered._

_Andamaitë remains and so he remains. They are soul-mates._

_But Valtamar's memories have been brutal to experience. What father would subject his child to such horror? This makes no sense; Valtamar was not cruel. He loved Lindalcon dearly._

_Aye, but he also loved Andamaitë. He thought Lindalcon could understand, but the child possessed a child's mind, and a grieving one at that. There was much he could not understand, refused to understand._

_About Andamaitë and his Adar?_

_Aye._

_Still, it would have been better for Valtamar to leave him be._

_The dead are not Vala; we do not see all, Tawarwaith. Valtamar erred, wanting Rochendil to answer for Andamaitë's death and so effect her Release._

_Rochendil has answered._

_Aye. The Judgement is now fulfilled._

_Then Valtamar remains for Lindalcon._

_Aye, for his child. It is the only comfort he has now._

"Lindalcon is a child no more," said Legolas aloud. "All the pain and anguish an adult may know he has experienced, yet none of the joys and happiness. He has never been in love or felt the surge of desire that accompanies it. He will never taste another's lips nor feel the warmth of his beloved's body move against him in passion. Even I have been granted this grace. He has done nothing to earn such a harsh reality and now all I can hope to do is prevent more suffering, and a faint hope that is." He met the gaze of his spectral guide and nodded sharply. "Lead me to him."

Whatever remained of autumn reasserted itself in the passage of days, Rhîw relenting and relinquishing her frigid hold at last, and the land warmed. The air in the zone of fallen trees acquired the heavy aromas of loam and blood, earth and entrails, excrement and fallen leaves. The patches of clean snow still covering the haphazard stacks of once mighty bolls were stark in comparison, obscenely bright and dazzling mounds interspersed with the putrid gore of what was left of the killing party.

The Orcs had not found the foray as effortless as it might have been and not only because the woodsmen had been unexpectedly aided by a full troop of elven warriors from Lorien and the Orc Slayers of Imladris. The men had fought with a controlled ferocity unlike anything they'd exhibited before, the shouts uttered as they charged proclaiming their allegiance and fealty to Tirn-en-Tawar, the Watcher of the Great Wood, the Tawarwaith.

Elladan was glad for it even as he heaved bile and mucous onto the pristine sparkle of a drift, unable to control this need to purge after battle no matter the remedies he'd tried. After so many wars over so many centuries, it was something he accepted now. The Orcs would have been defeated anyway, he'd seen that as soon as they came upon the struggle, swords aloft, hungry to make some contribution to this war since their mission seemed a failure. No sign of Lindalcon had been found, nor of Legolas, and the trail they'd followed led them ever away from the mountains. When finally this region of destruction had been reached, the indications were anything but hopeful.

Racing across a clearing, Elladan sensed in a fleeting instant the remnant terror of captives of the Nazgûl, caught a minute glimpse of elven eyes, amber coloured and filled with rage and fear. He had actually been happy to fling himself into combat so intense was the communion with that lost young soul. He knew it was Lindalcon; knew the accusing hatred in those eyes was not for him, but it smote his heart with sorrow and regret anyway. _I should have been here. What foolish whim delayed me?_ The illogic of such a thought did not escape him, but knowing this did nothing to ease the burden those eyes imparted. Elladan groaned and swabbed his face with a trembling hand, but the vision remained.

"He's dead," he coughed out, reaching in his tunic for a handkerchief to wipe his lips. The weight of a calming pat on the back drew his notice to Aragorn behind him, anxious questions in his steady grey stare. "The young one."

"Elbereth, no," hissed Haldir and took his bow, beating it in vicious, impotent fury upon the carcass of an Orc at his feet, his ire enough to crack the weapon. With an echoing shout he threw it aside, narrowly missing one of the woodsmen. "You're certain?" he demanded.

"It could be no other," said Elrohir, for he had shared this vision with his brother, as often he did. "It wasn't Legolas; too young."

Haldir turned and stormed through the field of fallen bodies, deflecting an aide's company with a curt motion of his hand. He halted out in the very field where Lindalcon had been taken captive and stood beside the axe-hewn trunk of the lone beech, arms crossed before him, head bowed. He'd deserted his post at the Central Mountains, instinct telling him the division of their forces had been a mistake, and hastened to join the Twins and the rest of his warriors. Now he had to wonder if Lindalcon's fate might have been averted had he remained on watch.

"We did not know this elf," ventured one of the men, approaching Aragorn, "for seldom do any but Tirno come out this far south. Yet, if he was friends with our atheling, then we mourn him, too."

"That is well," nodded Aragorn. "Will you join us?"

"If you are fighting Orcs, we will join you," grinned a second. "We go to the Mountains, for so Tirno ever bade us do, to clear away those demons who have settled betwixt his people and ours."

"We have come from there," said Elladan grimly. "The fighting will not be easy. They have gone to ground and we will be at severe disadvantage. You may lose many of your people."

"We lose people continuously," growled the first, the captain of the small battalion.

"Then let us waste no more time here," called Haldir, striding back to the Twins, his wrath still high. "I will avenge him if I can do nothing more. Come! We have been chasing illusions while our friends have suffered. We can do nothing for them; it is plain now, but we need not let the Orcs feel complacent in their victory." His speech disturbed the men deeply and they shifted in uneasiness, sharing murmured words.

"What do you mean?" asked their captain. "Do you believe Tirno is also dead?"

"It is Wraiths who have taken them," said Elrohir. "We cannot expect them to survive and, indeed, for an elf it is abomination to do so. If either of them live, we must free them, whether by effecting their rescue or dispatching their feär to Mandos."

Stunned silence met this response and the men gaped in wide-eyed horror. Aragorn sighed and sheathed his sword, gripping the captain at the shoulder.

"You live here; surely these things are known to you."

"Aye, but hearing it said is hard. We have not considered losing the Tawarwaith. He is meant to be our salvation and effect the cleansing of the woods."

"He is meant to live free as is every elf," snapped Haldir. "Would you have him turned over slow centuries into your most hated enemy and the bane of your people? If he is as skilled as all proclaim, Legolas would make a potent ally for the Shadow, could he be twisted into that unholy shape." He pointed at a dead Orc.

"Tirno would never turn!" shouted an aggrieved soldier, striding up to confront this out-land intruder. "No friend of his would say it!"

"Aye, he would, to open you ignorant minds," spat Haldir.

"Peace!" exhorted Elladan and got between them. "We do nothing but the Enemy's work arguing like this. We do not know that Legolas is captive, but if it is true then I swear to you we will do all possible to get him free alive. Does this satisfy you?"

The men exchanged glances and reached accord. "It does," said the captain, "and we do not want him to be tormented and tortured either. If he cannot be salvaged, then"

"Then we will see to it," said Elladan. "He is one of ours." But with Elrohir he shared his desperate panic, for he knew he could not fire an arrow into another elf's flesh. To this Elrohir had no comforting answer, for he was like the men, denying that it might come to such a pass.

The combined troops formed up ranks and retraced their steps, trampling ground already riven by the boots of Orcs and the hooves of the Black Riders. All the elves were afflicted with remorse, for each one saw that they had unknowingly left the captives behind them, wondering if the Nazgûl had taken Legolas and Lindalcon into the caves even as Talagan and his warriors fought. The tortures would have begun long ago.

His chin struck the obdurate stone and stunned him, a blinding flash of light that extinguished all thought in an explosion of reverberating pain that left him limp, crippled and weak, a warrior no more. He was nothing, a groping, floating morass of shifting, fleeting sensations, meaningless, purposeless, devoid of memories. He had no history, no sense of time or place. He was marginally aware yet not self-aware. How long it took to emerge from this un-world, this mindless zone of hurtful light and thunderous silence was expunged by a sudden, fiery assault on every cell in his body. What had been done to him? Garbled shouts and roars and crashing noise pounded on the silence and mixed with the peculiar swash and swirl of a rushing torrent, though he smelled no water near, save that contained in the blood.

_The blood._

Blood all round him; he was drowning in it. The scent was sweet but acrid, like butter going sour mixed with honey to hide the taint of spoilage. Despoiled, lying in a pool of blood, he wanted to scream, to cry, to plead and pray, but cold encased him, gagged him. He was a pebble buried in the mud of a crimson flood. Thought coalesced within the random, viscous flow of sludgy sensations: He must rise and fight.

"Rise up and face me, Hecilo."

The voice cut him like blades and he writhed trying to escape it. _Ah yes, escape._ Clarity was born of confusion. Of course. He was a prisoner. _Nazgûl._ The rushing river was the blood in his veins, the meaningless cacophony the growling and raging of his tormentors. He was Tawarwaith; his history was legend, his life an evolving odyssey. He was Tawarwaith, and he must rise up and fight.

_But the blood _

He blinked, groaned, and pried open his sealed eyes to find them focused on the sightless, lifeless amber irises of Lindalcon, sprawled dead on the floor beside him. The blood was his; it was all his blood. Legolas' cheek was pressed down into it; his arms swam in it, his chest was coated, damp and slippery; he could taste it on his lips. He heard himself cry out, saw his hand sluice through the congealing vermilion lake to touch the face of the child, this corpse, his friend, his brother. Other hands prevented it, yanked him to his feet and dragged him skidding and flailing through that precious stuff, sacred fluid now polluted, ruined, spoilt, and spilt.

From Lindalcon's throat the instrument of his death protruded and the dagger's hilt gleamed garish in the torch light. An ancient weapon finely wrought, the handle and quillons cut from a single green gemstone, the blade of the finest steel, sharper than dragon's teeth, engraved in runes now faint from the wear and use of Ages: a relic from Beleriand, the blade given by Fael'ur. It was fitting in a grotesquely repulsive way: Lindalcon's arrow had spared the older warrior Rochendil's fate; Fael'ur's dagger gave the youth the same mercy.

"Face me, Hecilo."

Legolas had no choice but to do so. Clawed fingers entwined in what remained of his hair and pulled his head up to satisfy the command, but there was no face to confront. There upon a carven throne of black basalt sat the spectre, strangely vital here in these subterranean depths of heat and stifling air, bent forward with elbow poised atop black-clad knee, gauntlet-gloved fist supporting a chin that almost was not there. There was something, though, to catch at sight obliquely, impressions and expressions of features: a full-lipped mouth leering, thick dark brows, hawk nose, an eye-less, malevolent glare. Legolas had the disturbing sense that this was all familiar somehow and it came to him the many times Thranduil had struck the same pose.

Legolas shivered and his gaze wandered back to the cooling carcass, wishing he could take Lindalcon from here, see him buried properly. He would wrap him in the panther cloak and pin upon his breast Oropher's ruby broach, and Fael'ur's weapons he would inter beside him.

"Noss dagnir," croaked the rangy Orc beside him, its crooked digits still embedded in the hacked and ragged relic of his mane. They'd re-enacted the Judgement and burned the heap of twisted golden strands, made him eat the hot ashes, threw rocks at him. "One of us soon." Gloating laughter answered this from the clutch of misshapen warriors ringing them, but the Tawarwaith did not respond.

It was the one with the chains, this orc with its vile fingers fisted in his tresses, and the heavy links lay at the feet of the throne. Legolas' sight flickered there where the Wraith's heavy boots rested, noting the foot gear was of good quality and fine construction. What doomed and cursed soul was forced to make this thing's garments and shoes? he wondered.

"You do not speak," intoned the Nazgul and the thing rose, towering over him. This was the Chief, the eldest of the three and the Master of Dol Guldur. Where the other two had gone Legolas could guess, for there was war in Greenwood. "Do you not know your fate? Have you no words of bargaining? I was told you would have talk with me. For this reason I allowed you to enter my domain unharmed, yet now you are silent. Speak, Tawarwaith, and tell me why I should not destroy you."

Still Legolas said nothing. This was all but part of the torture and he wished they would just move on past the taunting stage and resume the physical brutality. The endurance of the body was always lesser than the strength of the mind, he knew, and hoped to die of the punishing abuses. It would all be over then and someday he would meet Berenaur again in Aman. Surely the Valar would not deny him that, though he had failed in part. He had meant to use the Chief's trap to attempt divesting it of its ring and thus dissolve its shadow of life, but he had to free Lindalcon first and once that was done the Orcs were on him. He never got close to the Wraith.

Instead, they took away his ring, his bonding band, the one blessed by Mithrandir, Feärfaron's gift, the symbol of his troth with Berenaur. Its taking had not been without pain, the words the Wraith uttered to break the wizard's enchantment potent and horrible. They lingered, scraps of the incantation drifting across his thoughts when he was drifting into unconsciousness. This alarmed him and he strove to force the hideous phantom sounds from his memory. Was the bond broken now, too? He didn't know what they'd done with the ring and the notion worried him, plagued him. Could they somehow use it to get to Berenaur, lure him here?

A sharp blow bruised his jaw and would have sent him reeling to the floor again, but the Orc still held him. He spat blood and through the ringing in his ears knew the creature was bellowing at him to answer the Master. Legolas smiled, gathered the bloody spittle in his mouth, and sprayed it over the Chief's boots. He had a strange perspective on the one that rose up and connected with his breastbone, depriving him again of air and reason, distantly aware of wallowing in the blood at the Nazgûl's feet. He slithered through the puddle closer to Lindalcon, reached for the hilt of the dagger. Another bright burst of agony ricocheted through his scull and reality faded into darkness.

He raced through the tunnel, taking the main entrance against all reason and hope, flying down the broad passage, Fael'ur his eyes. Legolas, nimble with the grace of the First-born, easily leaped a yawning chasm, dodged around piles of fallen rock and boulders, skirted narrow pits meant to swallow the unsuspecting, those blind in the dark. Once, he could discern, this had been a clean place, delved by the same dwarves who'd dug the caverns of Ost-en-Thranduil. Here and there was a fragment of a decorative detail, directional runes upon the walls. He had a dim memory, so distant and vague he wondered if it was his first, of being here with his parents, the reason unknown.

_Perhaps that is a false memory, imagination._

Or, mayhap it was a glimpse at the future. Perhaps the child was not him at all but Taurant, and Thranduil would bring him here in days to come. The elleth holding the babe, who was it? Not Meril and certainly not Ningloriel. Legolas drove the pictures out, concentrating again as a black bolt bounced off the stone behind him. He was getting closer now.

It had been simple to get in since the Chief wanted him in this unholy place. He entered boldly, Fael'ur his guide, and navigated the vermiform tunnels with confidence. Orcs filled the alcoves along the hall as he progressed; he could feel them, smell them, the heat and weight of their bodies as they jostled one another for position, the weight and malice of a thousand peering eyes, but none opposed him and all fell in behind, stamping, clashing their swords on their shields, gleefully chanting out their victory call. _Death! Death! Death for Tawarwaith!_ The Tawarwaith, caught at last! _Into the pits! Cast him in!_ They wanted to see their nemesis beg and plead for Lindalcon's life while slowly robbing him of it, but he would not give them that.

With Fael'ur's unhindered vision, he saw the two sentries waiting at the doorway to the Wraith's lair long before reaching them. His dagger dispatched one and as the other prepared to fight him, his long knife flashed and cut it down even as its grasping claws pawed the air for him. He burst into the torch-lit chamber at full run, locked on Lindalcon's location through his spirit guide's awareness and beside him, the Chief. Through this augmented sight, he could perceive the Wraith as it truly was: a revolting hulk of wasted, diseased flesh bound up in black garments that seemed to serve the purpose skin once had done. He could see Valtamar there, too, standing behind his son, ghostly hands gripping the youth's shoulder.

And now here was the moment, his one chance, and Legolas did not hesitate.

"Muindor, caro hûr!" (Brother, make ready!) he shouted, barrelling closer, hearing the Orcs hard on his heels. "Fael'ur, pantpathrach gwaedh lin a na lain!" (Fael'ur, fulfil your oath and be freed!)

Orcs could not discern the silent communication when his eyes met the young warrior's, but the Chief did and turned sharply to Lindalcon. It comprehended at once the sudden proud stance the son of Valtamar struck, the defiant lift of his chin, and a dark hand shot out an instant too late; the blade was soaring. None could follow the speed of the Tawarwaith's hand as it hurled the ancient dagger with deadly accuracy at that exposed throat. Everyone could understand Lindalcon's final words: _'Le gohenon! Le melin, muin' (I forgive you; I love you, broth)_

The sentence ended in a grotesque gurgling hiss as his lungs tried to scream. His hands were bound behind him; he could not grab the blade and pull it free. He tried to remain standing and accept his death, even as he had promised he would, but the body relents to destruction unwillingly. He fell in jerking and twisting spasms to the floor, horrible noises arising from his severed neck, there to watch in wild-eyed horror as his life drained away, bathing him in its grisly red fountain, coating the stone, running in little rivulets over the floor. When it was over, Fael'ur and Valtamar surrounded his spirit and drew him away; the three were gone in seconds.

Legolas fell to his knees in the spreading pool, sick with grief and yet triumphant; the promise of Fael'ur was fulfilled. Bound to Legolas, the Wraith could not influence him nor capture him. Valtamar, bound to his son's fate and his soul-mate's spirit, likewise was inviolable. Together they shielded Lindalcon from the snares of darkness and fled with him, free to seek the Halls of Mandos and Námo's mercy. But Legolas remained. 

A sharp, searing, tearing pain retrieved Legolas from this memory and he found he was on his knees again, his back afire. He'd left his pack outside or he'd believe they'd found his old scourge, but of course they had whips aplenty here. This one had teeth in it; he'd seen the metal barbs woven into the leather glinting in the torch light. He gasped, sucking in air desperately as the lash cut him again. He was naked now, stripped of clothes and weapons as he'd expected, but his grandfather's cape was not among the items they rent and ruined, left behind outside with his weapons. He had not thought to try and remove his ring and wished he had.

"Master speaks, you answer, Hecilo!" shouted the Orc and hauled him upright, shoved him so he staggered forward and fell again at the Chief's feet.

The stone abraded his palms. A gloved hand took him at the biceps, squeezed; the Wraith crouched down beside him and Legolas found himself eye-to-eye with it, shocked to find there were eyes to meet. They were as lifeless as Lindalcon's, mud-coloured irises afloat in yellowed, dark veined whites, but there was a mind inside peering out at him in hungry anticipation. From the creature's ephemeral grin wafted a stench of rotted flesh and from this stink substance was born. He saw a blotched and bloated countenance, the thick, chapped lips revealing teeth stained brown, the cheeks like bruised fruit, the chin devoid of flesh where a foul sore festered. A putrid tongue slithered out toward him, rank and dotted with maggots, and Legolas recoiled with a fearful cry.

"A kiss! Kiss him!" Laughter and stamping accompanied this shout as the orcs announced their approval. It was short-lived.

Legolas was fighting, having kicked the Wraith soundly and freed himself momentarily, only to confront his gaoler and the whip. The wicked thong wrapped round his calf and tripped him as he fled; he landed hard on his back and a heavy boot stomped his gut. All air was driven from his lungs else he would have yelled from the pain. The Wraith stood over him, foot resting on his stomach, and leaned its weight into him. Panicked, he strained to breathe and could draw no air. Thus immobilised, he felt iron cuffs tighten over his ankles, heard the clanking as manacles were secured to his wrists as well. The boot was removed and he struggled to get up as the orc dragged him by the chains to the center of the room. Two tall, stout posts loomed there.

In a burst of rage he wrapped his fingers round the links and sprang up, taking the orc unawares and tearing the chains from its hands. In one leap he was on it, draped the chains over its neck and yanked them tight, head-butted its hideous face and followed it down, braced his knee against its sternum and hauled on the chains with all his strength, wishing he could rip the head off this way. It thrashed and struggled and hissed and wheezed as it choked; he watched yellowed claws tear through his forearm but didn't feel it; ignored the minor pain, and though the room echoed with the roaring of the Wraith's minions, none interfered and he was too filled with exultant fury to wonder why. Legolas delivered it death, even as he'd promised. The Orc went limp in the chains but still he strangled it, determined it must not rejuvenate to torment him again. Time ticked by, the cavern went silent, and one by one the torches all went out.

Legolas dropped his prey and crouched low as he ran, hoping to relocate before these foul things could capture him, but the chains hindered his speed and gave him away. They swarmed him, kicking, pounding, beating him with fists and feet and clubs, and he was quickly subdued. They dragged him back to the centre and heaved him upright, attached the chains to the posts. Desperate, he twined fingers in the links and once more pulled himself up, lashing out with his feet, connecting briefly before he was overcome and the ankle restraints were secured, too. His toe prodded the body of the orc he'd killed. Through the shouting and cursing Legolas heard his mournful cry: "No!" He sagged in the chains, shaking uncontrollably.

He knew what was coming and the darkness made it worse. Gradually his mind cleared and he regained some measure of control over his limbs; he stood tall in his bonds, panting. An arrow straight to his heart, that's what he longed for, but he must not beg them. In the depths of his soul, he knew he would before it was done and that more than any imagined abuse broke him. He could not endure this, not alone, and he only wanted to flee, to escape before that horrible living corpse raped him and gave him to the Orcs. From the depths of the cave he extended his spirit, seeking a safe haven in which to hide while these beasts destroyed him. They must not have his soul for their use afterward.

_Mithrandir._

He had sheltered within the Maia's being once before and the wizard had not shunned him. Surely he would help him now, if only he could reach him. Frantically, Legolas probed the space about him, stretching, searching.

A feather-light touch stroked his chest and retrieved him from wandering. He twisted away in disgust, a curse on his lips, but it was hopeless. The fingers came back, rough but not clawed, and he knew it was the Chief. A ghostly chuckle accompanied the next foray as his nipples were lightly brushed, his pectoral muscles traced. He aimed another kick but the chains defeated his effort. The fingers returned, stroked his buttocks, and he shouted in fear and anger, twisting away.

"So skittish. But we know this is what you like. The traitor said so. Oh, how he hated you; how you loved to be hated so, Hecilo."

"No!"

"Yes, Hecilo."

"I am not outcast. I am Legolas Thranduilion, Tirn-en-Tawar, the Tawarwaith."

"As you wish."

Something stiff, hard, barbed, and cold was shoved inside him, ripping skin and muscles indiscriminately, and Legolas screamed, jerking in the bonds as his legs gave out. His shoulders burned under the strain of his weight but he barely noticed as the solid tool was worked in and out rapidly. His blood warmed and lubricated it, allowing it to probe deeper with each thrust.

"Daro! Daro!" He pleaded, knowing what they wanted to happen. He could not let them make him feel pleasure and so he clung to the pain, thought about that wormy tongue, and vomited. Loud laughter filled the dark.

"What is fucking you, Tawarwaith?" queried the Wraith, its breath hot and noisome at Legolas' ear. The thick intrusion shifted, twisted, burrowed deeper and struck his tender prostate. He howled in shame and delight, tears gathering. "Truth be told, it does not matter, does it?" whispered the Chief. "You just want to be degraded and mastered." It pulled the tool back for another punishing plunge. "I will accommodate you."

"Baw!"Legolas screamed and tried again to use his legs to get free of his assailant, but no sooner had his foot lifted than a calloused hand reached between his thighs and stroked his hardening cock, palmed his balls and squeezed in time to the penetration. He groaned in misery and set his foot back down, braced into the hold, felt his hips buck into the grip. "Please," he moaned."Death, give me death."

"We are," chuckled the Wraith. "This might take a bit of time, but even an elf so depraved as you will eventually perish, mired in the dark, anticipating the next time, eager for it."

"NoAi!" Legolas cried as the hand round his erection withdrew only to be replaced by a wet, sucking mouth. The tool inside drove him into that torrid cavity forcefully and he felt sharp teeth rake his cock even as a tongue massaged the slit. He gasped and matched the rhythm of his pivoting hips to  
the pace of the rod inside. "Oh, nay," he moaned.

Fingers delicately picked at the points of his ears; a tongue, rough like a cat's, grazed over his left nipple; a second mouth feasted on its twin. The sensations mounted in the pitch, reality became twisted and skewed, replaced by this well of agonising, exquisite pleasure, all underscored by heavy breathing, his gasps and moans, the subdued, persistent clapping of a hundred hands masturbating excited flesh. The brutal tool abruptly left him and he cried out in relief and despair, his climax near now. Icy hands gripped his hips and the putrid scent of rotting flesh assailed him.

"So now you know who is master of this forest, Tawarwaith," said the Wraith, and thrust its bone-hard cock in. A satisfied sigh accompanied the invasion and then it commenced a pounding coition. Grunting and wheezing, it fucked him with abandon.

Horrified and terrified, Legolas once more gripped the chain in his fingers, strove to get a firm hold and pull himself up and away from this nightmare. He could not, must not submit to his body's urge, but his motions only served to enhance the friction and prompt his captor to dig in harder, the mouths to lick and suck more fervently, the invisible hands to caress and pluck and tickle and tease. He was unable to stop what happened, but this in no manner spared him the shame and guilt, a thousand fold more terrible than anything he'd experienced in the storeroom with Rochendil. In an exhilarating rush, his seed spurted into the mouth devouring him and his loud cry spurred the Wraith to completion, too.

A long, keening wail reverberated in the cavern as a vile stench permeated the air and the corrupt King excreted the rancid juices of his rotten prick into the Tawarwaith's bowels. From all around the space, echoing expletives and grotesque shouts of pleasure erupted and Legolas had the sickening comprehension that this was only the beginning. Loud panting sounded in his ear and he tried to turn from it; an Orc bit his nipple and he cried out, trembling, as teeth closed down on his lax penis, still trapped in some foul demon's maw.

"So sweet to fuck you," chortled the Wraith, "and know I pleased you so well. We shall be bound, you and I, as is the custom for your kind. Shall I give you my ring, Tawarwaith?" This elicited raucous laughter and shouts of encouragement.

The next sensation Legolas felt was that of salt being ground into the lashes. He screamed and writhed in the chains and then the sounds were choked off as the whip was taken up again. The lash sought for virgin skin to tear and he heard his voice climb into an incoherent, animal shrieking. When the beating stopped he sobbed, and when a clawed hand parted his buttocks he wept. The Chief laughed as the Orc entered him, and in that moment Legolas' consciousness fled.

Cut free from the domain of his body, he could see without eyes and sped away through the twisting tunnels, seeking the surface and light, seeking Tawar. The tunnels were not as he remembered, as though all had been reordered, or he had slipped into some other dark place somehow. Far away he spied a door, dazzling white, pristine and pure. Behind it lay peace and safety, refuge from this gross abuse, and his spirit fled toward it, reached out to it.

Blinding, garish, smoky and yellow, torch light dazzled his eyes and revealed the cavern packed with orcs, snarling and stamping and shouting in Black Speech. He shut them, howling his own cry of anger and disappointment; the portal was gone and he was back in this place of dire horrors, alive. The Orc using him had finished; its seed combining with the Wraith's and running down his leg, sticky and smelling of filth and decay. He vomited, retching out bile and mucous that flowed down his chest and mixed with the salt, burned him as it passed. An abrupt flash of pain and a loud clap echoed in his ear and whipped his head sideways.

"Where do you think you're going, Tawarwaith?" demanded the Chief in gloating mirth. "There is no spirit waiting to carry you away to peace in Aman. You are mine."

"Nay." Legolas hoped to sound stern and strong, but his voice was hoarse and croaking and he was aware now of terrible thirst. He swallowed, then twitched in flinching dread as the Nazgûl filled his field of sight, looming over him.

"Yes. We are to be mates, you and I. This, I think, is best: for Tawarwaith to rule beside Hîr o Dol Guldur. See? I have the ring ready. It was meant for your young brother, but since you have stolen him from me, I will have you." The black-gloved hand came up before his nose, palm up-facing, and upon it rested a heavy gold band, plain of design and devoid of decoration. Then the Wraith, chortling darkly, took it up and tipped it so he could see the inside. The under surface, the skin-side surface, was carved with ugly runes and potent symbols, but none of it was elvish. Even so, Legolas did not doubt the spells it could inflict upon him and he thrashed wildly against his bonds.

His energy was wasted and utterly ignored. In frantic, disbelieving denial he watched the gloved hand take his own, isolate the index finger, and force the ring past his knuckles. The Wraith was murmuring, dark tendrils of evil uncoiling from its lips, caressing Legolas as they slid over his face and torso and made their leisurely way into the ring. Immediately it shrank, tightening round his finger, and a sharp spike of agony pierced his heart.

He realised he was screaming and then the horrid face pressed into his, the rancid, rotten tongue probed his open mouth, and instinctively he recoiled, bit down hard. The mobile muscle stilled and in revulsion he spat it out, retching, but all around him the Orcs were laughing and cheering, and even the Chief was grinning. It licked its lips with a new tongue, a writhing, black sphacelus, all the while massaging and squeezing Legolas' lax genitals.

When this elicited no response beyond a volley of cursing and another attempt to kick, the Wraith shrugged and ceased, circling behind to avail itself of the elf's seeping, bleeding hole. "Plenty of time," he crooned darkly, gripping tight to angular hips, ramming the rigid arse hard. "You will learn to love me, Tawarwaith."

Legolas sought to disengage his mind again, seeking freedom from this horrendous fate, but the ring held him bound. His body would require much more torture, he realised, to descend into oblivion again. He vowed silently to deny this unholy bond, holding to his memory of the night he'd exchanged rings with Berenaur, but it was impossible to deny what was being done to him. The futility of it all engulfed him. Behind him, the Wraith achieved orgasm and pulled out. Another Orc took its place. Legolas went limp in the chains.

There was only darkness when he regained his senses; darkness, pain, and solitude. For the last, he welcomed the sharp flaring agony shooting through his right calf, cared nothing to be moaning aloud for any to hear, rejoiced for a new injury to distract him from the internal ones, both of hroa and of feä. The Chief was gone, the Orcs were gone, and nothing else mattered. Dully, he wondered why they were gone, wondered where he was now, and that's when he registered water swirling round his waist, wet stone against his shoulder and head where he'd fallen against it. Cautiously, delicately, he tried to move, finding he was awkwardly folded over, legs bent beneath him, and instantly his calf erupted in a warning pang, hot and fiery in his mind, and he stilled, braced his hand upon the stone wall beside him.

Reality was gradually asserting itself and he coughed, the odour surrounding him putrid, foetid. Now he felt the other arm trapped beneath him and and moved it, drawing it out from the weight of his body, so grateful no new agonies accompanied this motion that he gasped, or sobbed; he couldn't distinguish the difference anymore. With attempts at cautious manipulation that were in fact terribly sluggish, ponderous, and clumsy, he managed to shift his weight without setting off more than minor complaints from the leg, which surely must be broken. The implications of that had not surfaced as yet.

Thinking to sit, he found the position offered new and stinging reminders of all that had gone before this. He groaned, frustrated and weary, wanting to find means to get out of the water and lie flat. He manoevered to his left hip and leg and the corresponding shoulder grazed stone. His breath caught and he explored the bounds of his cell, finding it fit no such definition. The memory of the tunnels in Thranduil's fortress assailed him; had not the dwarves delved this place, too? He panted and struggled not to aggravate the broken leg as he reached and twisted to feel around him, desperately praying to be proved right. Those entreaties never rose to the lofty mansions of the Valar. It was not a passageway, not a cell, but a pit little more than his arms' width in diameter.

Legolas struggled to calm himself, suddenly frantic to stand up and learn the vertical limits of his confinement, fearing what he suspected. The fractured limb hindered him and he cried out twice when he automatically tried to use it, but at least the misery quelled his panic. The sound of his lungs working in harsh respiration mingled with the vaguely melodious splash and swirl of the water. His stirring increased the noisome stench enough to taste it on his tongue, bitterly acrid, and Legolas' harried subconscious understood even before his thoughts could form the idea. He retched violently, clawing at the smooth rock to haul himself upright at last, crying out in disgust and fear.

It was a shaft burrowing straight down, its top undetectable in the perpetual pitch of the lightless caverns. It was not for air; it was not for holding prisoners. It was a hole for filth and waste, a latrine. As though to underscore the horror, distant scuffling high above made him turn his face upward and his cheeks and chin were sprinkled with urine. He howled in outrage and mad laughter resounded overhead, buffeting around him in the confined space before diminishing.

Legolas cringed close against the wall and ground his teeth. _I cannot endure this._ "Let me out!" he shouted suddenly, voice cracked and wild sounding. The words echoed in mockery and he groaned, ashamed of this outburst so soon after his capture. He prayed no one heard him.

Hours later, shivering with cold and shaking with fever, he felt differently. He'd already had to relieve himself in the vile water in which he stood and the agony as his bowels moved left him weak and whimpering. The tears ripped by the studded phallus were not sealed over and the grotesque stew in which he had been soaking was not fit to clean himself. His throat was parched yet he dared not drink. He leaned against the wall for support and wept. He did not want to die this way, here, his body rotting until all that remained was its bony frame; his soul consumed to feed the malice of the Wraiths. He wanted to go home to Berenaur and to Fearfaron. "Ada, Ada, come and find me, please."

Raucous laughter enveloped him and the Orcs mimicked him, their taunting calls loud as he cowered closer to the rock. Something plopped into the water nearby and was followed by a veritable rain of excrement as the noise and stench of intestinal gases filled his nostrils. Gagging and coughing, he scrabbled at the walls for a means to pull himself up and found none. The stink faded into the general background stench to which he was already accustomed and he rested, his sound leg supporting him, the other bent awkwardly and propped against the stone shaft.

TBC

NOTE: Here is a Feud update at last. We knew it was coming to this, didn't we? We're all going to have to suffer through this abominable torment with Legolas now. Stopped here because I have struggled to get this far. Still writing, so hold on.  



	106. Chapter 106

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Anc-en-Gurth (The Teeth of Death)  
Part Eight - Leithian (Release from Bondage)**

  


There was only darkness when he regained his senses; darkness, isolation, and pain. For the last, the sharp flaring agony shooting through his right calf was undoubtedly responsible for waking him to the noise of low moaning, a mournful sound that reverberated strangely, echoing around him in ghostly sympathy, a symphony of woe and languishing affliction such that his muddled mind thought other captives shared the void. This black obscurity must be the hell where Námo contained those most deserving of punishment for dire atrocities committed while still extant. Had he done something heinous, something to regret for the rest of time? His heart froze as an image of blood, the awful noise of strangling breath, and amber eyes wide in terror permeated his fragmented awareness. Immediately he shut it out; the Chief was gone, the Orcs were gone, and nothing else mattered.

Dully, he wondered why he could not remember meeting the Vala of death and judgement, wondered how he could feel pain in a body he no longer possessed, wondered if Malthen's voice was among those haunting groans, wondered if he was permitted to look for him and shifted, thinking to rise. That's when he registered the water swirling round his waist, wet stone against his shoulder and head where he'd fallen against it. Cautiously, delicately, he tried to move, finding he was awkwardly folded over, legs bent beneath him, and instantly his calf erupted in a warning flare, hot and fiery in his mind. He stilled, braced his hand upon the stone wall beside him, waited for the jagged pulses to subside. The weary cries ceased at the same time and he heard instead loud and laboured respiration somewhere near at hand. He listened, straining his ears to determine where it originated.

The harsh, rasping gusts grew in volume and density until they became an unnerving source of ill-defined menace, the dead and damned hunting him. The sound expanded and contracted, rose and fell, gulped and coughed, circled and stalked him the way wolves worry an interloper. He thought of the countless elves lost to Shadow through the Ages: kin-slayers and betrayers all, and he was one of them. _Lightless souls in a well of darkness._ His pulse was thundering. Why this game of teasing intimidation? What intention did this ploy support? "Show yourself!" he shouted suddenly and the harried words blattered back at him, distorted, loud, multiplied a hundred fold, bouncing around the confines of the rocky tomb. He issued a startled and incoherent cry that assaulted him the same way and he recognised himself as the sole source of the windy bluster, embarrassed not to have known it all along.

After this breakthrough, reality asserted itself and he realised he was not yet dead but merely alone, his enemies only absent for the moment. It was enough to make him nearly mad with despair, for he must be in a dungeon deep beneath the mountains. He choked on the next breath; the odour of the air surrounding him was putrid, foetid. Now he felt the other arm trapped beneath him and and moved it, drawing it out from the weight of his body, so grateful no new agonies accompanied this motion that he gasped, or sobbed; he couldn't distinguish the difference anymore. With attempts at cautious manipulation that were in fact terribly sluggish and clumsy, he managed to shift his weight without setting off more than minor complaints from the leg, which surely must be broken. The implications of that had not surfaced as yet.

Thinking to sit, he found the position offered new and stinging reminders of all that had gone before this. He sighed, frustrated and weary, wanting to find means to get out of the water and lie flat. He manoeuvred to his left hip and leg and the corresponding shoulder grazed stone. His breath caught and his heart convulsed; the space was small. He set about exploring the bounds of his cell, finding it fit no such definition. Denial presented him an alternative in the memory of the tunnels in Thranduil's fortress; had not the dwarves delved this place, too? This must be something like that, an escape chute into which water had seeped; his fingers would soon detect those shallow grooves meant for hand and foot holds. But there was nothing.

He panted under the pall of expanding panic and struggled not to aggravate the broken leg as he reached and twisted to feel around him, desperately praying for his fears to be proved wrong. Those entreaties never rose to the lofty mansions of the Valar. It was not a passageway nor anything a dwarf would have delved. It wasn't even a cell, but a crude pit little more than his arms' width in diameter. Legolas struggled to calm himself, suddenly frantic to stand up and learn the vertical limits of his confinement, fearing what he suspected. The fractured limb hindered him and he cried out twice, automatically trying to use it, but at least the misery quelled his terror.

The rasp of his lungs working mingled with the vaguely melodious splash and swirl of the water. His stirring increased the noisome stench enough to taste it on his tongue, bitterly acrid, and Legolas' harried subconscious understood even before his thoughts could form the idea. He retched violently, clawing at the smooth rock to haul himself upright at last, shouting in disgust and fear. It was an oubliette reduced to receiving the filth and waste of the orcs and goblins dwelling here. As though to underscore the horrible truth, distant scuffling high above made him turn his face upward and his cheeks and chin were sprinkled with urine. He howled in outrage and mad laughter resounded overhead, buffeting around him in the confined space.

_I cannot endure this._

Legolas cringed close against the wall and ground his teeth, trying to summon reason and calm himself. They could not leave him here forever, but thinking this only convinced him that is exactly what they would do. "Let me out!" he shouted suddenly, voice cracked and shrill in wild desperation. The words echoed in mockery and he wailed, ashamed of this outburst so soon after his capture.

Hours later, shivering with cold and shaking with fever, he felt no shame and called almost continuously for help, for freedom. He'd already had to relieve himself in the vile water in which he stood and the agony as his bowels moved left him weak and whimpering. The gashes ripped by the studded phallus were not sealed over and the grotesque stew in which he had been soaking was not fit to clean himself. His throat was parched yet he dared not drink. He leaned against the wall for support and wept. He did not want to die this way, here in this pit of filth, his body rotting until all that remained was its bony frame; his soul consumed to feed the malice of the Wraiths. He wanted to go home to Fearfaron and sleep in yellow pyjamas in Analdir's bed. "Ada, come and find me, please."

"Ada, Ada!" Coarse laughter enveloped him as the Orcs mimicked him, their taunting calls loud as he cowered closer to the rock.

"No one to hear Tawarwaith, no one coming."

"Tawarwaith die here."

"Slow, slow to die. Ha! Ada come, not know you."

Something plopped into the water nearby and was followed by a veritable hail of excrement as the noise and stench of intestinal gases filled his nostrils. Gagging and cursing, he scrabbled at the walls for a means to pull himself up and found none. The stink faded into the general background stench to which he was already accustomed and he rested, his sound leg supporting him, the other bent awkwardly and propped against the stone shaft. He rested, waiting for what would come next, but nothing happened. He was alone in the dark.

It was impossible to calculate the duration of his imprisonment; he could not remain focused, or perhaps he did not want to count it up. He only knew the pit was visited numerous times and it became clear the Orcs could see him quite well and never failed to target him accurately no matter how he shifted and shuffled from side to side. He was coated with faeces, urine, and a slick, mephitic evacuation like diarrhoea, forced to plunge into the reeking slop to dislodge the worst of it. His thirst increased and his fever mounted and Legolas hoped he was nearing death. Surely he would lose consciousness and slip under the foul water, drown there. He shivered, but the notion held a strange allure for all it was an ignoble end and he fought it. He must not succumb, for what would become of his spirit then? He wished he had not released Fael'ur. Thought dissolved quietly, leaving him empty and still.

Time elapsed, unfurling as slowly as the petals of a flower opening to the sun, but Anor behaved in peculiar fashion, coming and going abruptly, glaring one moment, as now, then becoming fogged and hazy the next, absent for long stretches. He was awake in a place he did not recognise, leaning against the thorny stalk of a gigantic rose, its height equal to the mightiest oaks soaring to the dizzying top of Greenwood's canopy, the shadow of its leaves heavy and dark, the scent of its black blossoms foul and dank. Dew fell from it, sharply acidic, and a flock of crows roosted above him, defecating as they cackled together, insulting him cruelly. He did not like this rose, but knew he should try to climb and get into the upper branches. He found himself unable to move and looked down at his feet, surprised and amused to find them gone, replaced by thick roots anchoring him into an inky, viscous mire. He croaked out a laugh and the crows pelted him with stones.

Legolas drifted in delirium, only half realising that he was ill, listening to invisible orcs revile him, to himself trying to sing now and again without realising it was his own voice. The singing enraged the orcs and precipitated a volley of rocks. He lost consciousness.

Abruptly awakened when the broken leg jolted against the stone wall, he found himself slumped in the water again, unable to stand up. He stopped struggling and lay still, waiting for the pain to subside, incapable of realising his doom, emotionally inert in the lassitude of ague. He lapsed briefly into oblivion, waking with his face half submerged in the ordurous fluid. Snorting and retching, he turned his head away and thrashed about. The leg protested anew as he tried to rise and Legolas groaned, the taste of offal in his mouth, his heart beset by the ponderous suspicion that he had been here for Ages, a punishment for something he did not want to recall.

It was devastating nonetheless, this corrosive guilt and grief, and the keening misery of his wailing cries shocked him. He opened his eyes wide, trying to understand why he couldn't see anything. Above, the muffled shouting of the Chief reached him but he could make no sense of any of it. Something splashed beside him in the water followed by the sounds of running feet slapping on the stone above. There was a peculiar scratching and scraping sound descending toward him, some creature creeping down the slick walls, tossing away muttered expletives as it neared. He saw two blind, miniature dragons with sharp, white teeth and black claws making for him, but their faces were those of Gwillith and Taurant, grimacing like demons, nostrils smoking, and he flinched, curling into a ball.

Scaly fingers grabbed him at the underarms, pulling him back and forth in an uncoordinated effort to drag him up, and he fought against them. His resistance raised only laughter from above, the sound unbearably loud and he pleaded with them, begging to be let go, incongruously demanding to be freed from the pit even as he hindered the goblins attempting to do just that. They yanked him this way and that as though fighting over which would retain hold of him, their curses in Black Speech an offence to his ears, their sour breath an affront to his nose. His legs and head swung and dipped and collided with the walls, but soon enough he was out and his helpers released him, expecting him to stand on his own before his captor. He could not and fell heavily as the broken leg buckled under him. Before he could orient himself to the new location a gloved fist cuffed him at the temple. It was more than enough to render him senseless.

The scene was transformed in astonishing opposition to the oubliette when next he gained consciousness. A single torch flamed brightly on the wall and after the absence of light he could hardly take his eyes from it, wondering if it was real or another hallucination. He reclined on a magnificent bed, the coverings rich and sumptuous, the hangings held open with tasselled golden cords, the canopy above him pleated in a radiating pattern held taut at the center beneath an elaborate oval shield. The devices on it were unknown to him, but he spared it barely a glance, too afraid the light would disappear if he took his sight away from it for more than a second. All was silent, his heartbeat the only sound, his breathing its only accompaniment.

Gradually, he noticed a second source of light and focused on it: a pale luminescent door, closed. Now the sight of it made him nervous; it seemed to grow and advance toward him and he struggled to shift away from it, finding his good leg unable to move, his left wrist clamped to the bedpost. In vain he hauled against these bonds.

"Baw! Nay!" he yelled aloud, frantic to evade the looming portal. Menace surrounded it; behind it lurked some unspeakable horror.

"Why do you resist? Beyond is rest and comfort for you," spoke a familiar voice. Legolas searched the room for its owner and gasped as the elf stepped closer.

"Lindalcon?" he cried, half in joy, half in dread. The young ellon looked strange with a dagger embedded in his throat.

"Of course," said the phantom, smirking, and shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you think I would leave you?"

"Yes, you promised."

"I promised Adaren, not you," shrugged Lindalcon. Then he unwrapped his arms and pointed, his expression hard and cold. "You destroyed me; I will remain until you have paid the price for it."

"Price?"

"Aye. You are a kin-slayer, Legolas, under Judgement again. You must be punished before you can go through the white door," said the youth. He turned and moved toward it.

"Wait," Legolas cried, desperate for Lindalcon to stay; again he struggled to raise himself but was held fast. "Do not leave me; you said you would stay!"

"I'll return anon, after you've had a chance to undergo your Chastisement."

"No! I was forgiven! The Council"

"I did not forgive you," Lindalcon halted and peered over his shoulder, eyes smouldering red in fury and hatred.

"Nay, nay, Muindor, you did!"

"Did I? Even so, you must earn your own Release," the spectre chuckled, an unpleasantly lewd sound. "When you have paid, then I will take you away from here." He smiled in condescending amusement, his gaze running over the prone form boldly before he resumed his stroll toward the glowing door.

"No, please, Lindalcon!" Legolas pleaded shrilly. "Take me with you! Take me now!" To his relief the ghost paused and turned, grinning, coming back to him quickly, so quickly it made Legolas' head spin. Now the young son of Valtamar hovered over him on the bed and a soft caress ran down his chest to his stomach. He shivered, revulsion and anticipation mingled.

"All right, if that is what you really want," crooned Lindalcon and in an instant had seized the injured leg and yanked it up and out. Into the gap he drove and the next thing Legolas knew was the piercing penetration of a rigid cock.

He screamed in disbelieving abhorrence as the fair visage screwed up in lascivious delight, rocking back and forth above him, eyes leering, the invasive organ advancing and retreating, delivering a sickening sensation of excitement, disgust, and fear. A grotesque black tongue slithering out from Lindalcon's smiling lips and lapped across his. Legolas blacked out as the phantom jerked and trembled in the throes of orgasm, Lindalcon's comely face and form dissolving until only the hideous tongue remained.

Reality mutated into a grotesque progression of conflicting images and sensations, smells and sounds, impenetrable darkness and shocking brilliance. He could not tell what was actually happening and what was a product of sorcery afflicting his mind, madness enhanced by the infection rampant in his overburdened body. The surreal environment of stone and velvet, ecstasy and torture, became his universe and his mind peopled it with figures he knew and loved, all turned against him in revulsion and hatred. They spoke to him in vile combinations of Black Speech and elvish and their words wounded him. Fearfaron condemned him; Malthen returned to violate and mock him; even his mother appeared and berated him for abandoning her. Lindalcon was a constant, associated with the plush red bed, the bright torch, the disgusting tongue, obscene pleasures.

Deprived of adequate sustenance and water, he was beset by constant thirst that in his desperation forced him to drink whatever was put to his lips. At times this was mephitic water, at times urine, and still other times some form of strong alcoholic brew laced with medicinal herbs. The last he hated most of all for it preceded a level of lucidity that was an acute torment, moments when he knew who he was and where he was; what he had done and what was being done to him. The Wraith did not want him to die quickly or cleanly, it seemed.

The abrupt shifts from pitch darkness to dazzling torch light were disorienting, the shifting percipience of his senses bewildering. Absence of light gave his nose and ears a finesse that rivalled sight, yet in light his eyes seemed less perceptive. Unwashed for uncounted days, he had never before so despised the scent of his own person, and felt he must be rotting, becoming a living corpse like the Chief. The sour, pungent odour of semen clung to him and mingled with the stench of faeces, blood, urine, and bile. His hair smelled like he'd washed it in a sewer; he imagined it to be crawling with maggots, his pubic thatch infested with lice and other parasites. His skin itched interminably. Once he heard himself alternately demanding death or a bath.

When light returned, he was shocked to see himself so diminished, oozing lashes crusted with blood and pus, his lower body coated with filth so that his skin was splotchy brown, his injured leg purple and swollen around the break. His right hand was the worst, for the Wraith's ring bit in deep and left an angry red welt on either side of it. He fancied he could feel the evil runes cutting into his flesh and was certain the horrid thing whispered anew the Wraith's incantations whenever he lapsed into sleep.

Not that he truly slept. He dropped out of one state of awareness into another, sometimes entering a deeper state of unconsciousness that robbed him of all perceptions, something he much preferred, though it was rare and so short, so brief. At times he saw the white door and made efforts to reach it, but always he was jerked awake on the red bed where Lindalcon awaited him. After these encounters, he found himself glad when the Chief arrived and unchained him, carrying him away to the upper cavern where the stone posts were always ready, the whips always handy. He would much rather the Wraith beat and rape him than his friend, his brother. He began to wish for the Chief's brutality rather than endure the lusty attentions of Lindalcon's ghost. From wishing to openly begging, he found, was a simple thing.

"Do not let him have me anymore. Am I not yours? Is this not your ring?" chained at the wrists, down on his knees in the circle of orcs, Legolas peered up into the empty hood with its bleary eyes.

"You are ready, then, to be my mate, Tawarwaith?" The Wraith fondled him freely, teasing firm nipples and toying with the elf's partially erect cock. He chuckled as his captive leaned into the touches and shivered.

"Oh, yes," Legolas whispered, head falling back as he fidgeted under the rough fingers' exploration. Slippery and hot, the black tongue lapped his chest and he groaned, arched into the lubrication, knowing teeth would follow and a sharp, jarring pain as it suckled him, drawing blood, drinking of him this way. He moaned impatiently, eyes closed, shifting in his bonds, rocking his pelvis into the loose hold. "Please."

"Please? What would please you?" The Wraith squeezed his balls just to hear him squeal.

"Don'tdon't!" Legolas gasped, then cried aloud as tight compression surrounded his root and twisted his scrotum. The pressure increased and he screamed, feeling something wrap taut round him, pulling outward. He froze, afraid to move for it felt as though this device might rip his genitals off entirely if he did. Just as he began to tremble under the extreme tension, a delicate caress swabbed over the pinnacle of his organ, erect and rigid now, and he spontaneously pivoted toward it. "Ai!"

"Don't what?"

"Don't let Lindalcon" His words trailed away into a long low wail as the tongue tickled across the slit.

"Was that good for you?" the Wraith wanted to know and repeated the stimulation.

"Yes, yes," groaned Legolas, shuddering. "More."

"More? What more?"

"Fuck me."

"As you wish, Tawarwaith."

Yet no penetration ensued. Instead, a flat narrow paddle smacked him across the nipples while the fingers played with the head of his penis, pinching, squeezing, rolling the foreskin back and forth. It was maddening and he heard his voice shouting in pain and frustration. The paddling ceased and his chest burned, icy hot and tingling.

"Please."

"Open your eyes."

"No!" He shook his head violently, then shrieked as the cincture snatched at his cock and balls. At that moment similar agony erupted in his chest as heat seared his nipples. He writhed in his chains, twisting to get away, and this increased the tearing tension in his groin. The burning diminished to dull flaring misery and he stopped thrashing, gasping for breath. The clever fingers returned, playing with his cock, picking at his abused nipples, a sensation of his very skin being peeled off. He whimpered, for the feeling was exquisitely terrible. "Fuck me."

"Open your eyes."

"No, no, don't want to see."

He felt hands at his hips, smoothing seductively up and down his sides. The tip of a hard cock brushed his buttocks; he hobbled his knees apart as wide as he could, held his breath. Slowly the organ drove inward, burrowing in minute increments until he felt the dank, sweaty curls of the beast's groin against his flesh. He bucked back against it, recognising from its stink that this was an orc. He sealed his eyes tight. "No." The creature bit his shoulder and lapped at his blood, began to move inside him, clutching him in its claws. The force of its thrusts pressed the tip of his penis against something sharp and biting over and over, bright bolts of pain and pleasure exploding there. He heard himself screaming.

"Open your eyes." The Chief's command sounded above the grunting chorus of its excited minions, all of them eager to be next, struggling to stave off release as they masturbated wildly. "Open your eyes, or I'll give you to Lindalcon and make you beg and plead with him to take you."

"No!" Legolas cried; the orc spilled inside him and struck him on the back of the head as it dismounted, spitting on him for good measure as it stepped aside. Another took its place and rammed into him; the pricking at his cock grew more brutal but the demon was striking his inner core perfectly and he moaned, moving with it, shoving back every time it advanced.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," it chanted with every shove, gasping and gurgling in its pleasure, clawing clumsily at the restraints at Legolas' nipples, laughing when he shrieked and bent into the agony. Soon he was chanting along with it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

"You like this one's technique?" laughed the Wraith. He leaned in and kissed Legolas, then slapped him sharply on the cheek. "Open your eyes or Lindalcon takes you next, Tawarwaith."

Reluctantly, Legolas did so, finding his sight focused on the empty hood, those rotting eyeballs, and the lolling, black tongue. He gave a strangled cry of disgust and desire combined as the orc rode him expertly. His eyelids fluttered down again but another blow to the face made him open them wide. The Wraith was pointing with its gloved hand and he followed the digit to discover the cause of the flaring pain afflicting his cock. His organ was bound and stretched straight out, held fast and taut so that the tip just barely touched upon a bizarre contraption set before him on the stone floor.

It was wooden, a sort of stand almost like an easel, but across it was attached a pliant canvas which formed a cavity in its center, a gaping slit studded with shiny, silver spikes glistening with ruby droplets. Into this pocket just the head of his shaft dipped and dove, and blood dripped from the resulting lacerations. He stared in fascination, mouth ajar, watching the sharp tines stroke him.

Then the fingers captured his attention again, snapping in front of his face before directing him to see what had been done to his tender nipples. They were pierced through indeed, narrow collars of mithril wound round the flesh while a small ring adorned each, to which chains connected. The scarlet skin protruded from them, raw and aggravated, and as the orc moved him the chains tightened and pulled, jerked and twisted. As Legolas watched, the Chief bent low and lapped across them gently and in that moment, while he was alive with the sensation of pleasure this wrought, the orc came, growling and grunting, and pulled out.

The Chief straightened up and moved behind Legolas, kneading his buttocks, licking at his ears. "Do you want to come, Tawarwaith?" he whispered.

"Aye," Legolas whispered back, and swallowed, eyes falling to the spiny invagination poised to receive him.

"So be it, but only when you admit which of us fucks you best." So saying, the Wraith entered him, setting a blistering pace as he continued to lavish the elf's ears with languid caresses, cupping the bound balls tenderly in his gloved hand as he pounded into the seed-slickened arse.

"You!" Legolas gasped out, terrified the Chief would really let every orc in the room mount him, though he suspected many of them had done so more than once. "I want to come when you come," he pleaded.

"Ahhhhh," sighed the Wraith, redoubling his efforts. "Then we shall truly be bound, Tawarwaith."

And these words awoke him fully, cleared the fog of despairing acceptance from his mind, for of course this could never be. He was already bound, his heart given, and the face of his beloved broke upon his mind. The weight of his betrayal fell upon him next and Legolas moaned in denial, fighting his bonds with renewed strength, determined not to let this happen. Through all this the Wraith laughed in triumph as though arousing this very comprehension had been its goal from the beginning.

Legolas refused to give in to despair. He wanted Berenaur. There must be an avenue of escape, a means to reach Mandos and preserve there the love he harboured still for the seneschal from Imladris, a love that belayed his conversion to Shadow. And he remembered others who loved him and whose love he returned: Fearfaron, Mithrandir, his Naneth, his brother and sister. For them he must not permit this false bonding, becoming their enemy, their nemesis, and he prayed for death, eager to stop his heart and thus free it. He shut his eyes, ready for the glowing portal. Yet, he could not shut out the sensations escalating as the Wraith neared its peak.

Fingers worked at the restraints round his cock and he knew the inevitable result. He bellowed and strained against the rising tide building with every thrust and just as he thought the unholy bond would be enjoined despite his repudiation of it, the Chief slipped a cord over his head and yanked it tight. If he'd been capable of it, Legolas would have laughed, for the Shadow King had given him victory. He needed oblivion in order to find the way out and strangulation was sufficient to cause it. Slowly his breath dwindled and his brain bloomed with explosive shocks of light and pain. Through it he glimpsed the door from afar and beside it a robed figure limned in glory and power.

"Legolas! Here, quickly, quickly!" The being called to him and the voice rang with the familiar tones of the Maiar, rich and regal.

"Mithrandir!" Legolas could not speak any longer but found their link as strong as ever and rejoiced. He went limp in his bonds, feä flying through that door, open at last and filled with bright, white light. It closed behind him with grim finality and the halo of illumination vanished from around it.

The Chief paused, uncertain what had happened, then hastily removed the ligature and withdrew, leaving Legolas bound to the posts, his excited organ still caught in the thorn-lined pocket. Stunned to have been cheated of his prize, the Wraith peered out into the horde of demons surrounding it, their yellow eyes glittering back in the torch light. From licentious fervour to absolute stillness, unnatural silence, and a growing sense of bewildered fear, the orcs stared, every breath suspended. The next instant the sounds of battle reached them, faint but growing, screams echoing along the halls, bold voices shouting in Quenya, the clashing ring of steel blades colliding. The beasts erupted in a furore, bellowing curses in Black Speech, stampeding every which way, racing from the entry to the cavern in hopes of escape, shoving and trampling one another in the haste of panic.

Too late the Wraith issued its orders and sought to deter the onslaught of elves and men advancing through the tunnels. The orcs were interested only in surviving and fled the chamber, leaving their master to face the Orc Slayers of Imladris, Celeborn's Galadhrim warriors, and Isildur's heir leading a determined and fierce army of woodsmen. The Chief elected to vanish and thus the rescuers poured into an almost empty room, its only occupant their friend hanging lifeless from the chains of the stone pillars. The rescuers piled into the cavern swords drawn and voices crying, eager for a fight and a chance to avenge their friends, but stumbled suddenly to halting silence.

At first, they could do nothing, too shocked by the raw brutality presented before them, unable to accept the truth before their very eyes. It could not be that they arrived too late. In dumb denial they drew closer and ringed the debased elf, swords dropped low, the fire of the fight quenched, their noble purpose rendered impotent.

Then Haldir saw the rigid organ in its spiny confinement and turned aside in disgust. It was then he spied the source of the rotten stench permeating the place and cried out. He staggered as though to fall, hand clapped over his mouth, overcome by the sight of Lindalcon's bloated and decaying remains. One of his warriors ran to him and together they covered the corpse with the March Warden's cloak.

"Ai, Eru," Elrohir whispered, daring to move forward at last, sheathing his sword. He was afraid to touch the bound body, unwilling to be the one to confirm what appeared obvious. Then a spasm racked the battered frame and a ragged gasp sounded from the mouth so twisted in pain. "Alive!" he shouted, bounding the remaining distance, Elladan beside him, Aragorn right behind. In silence they regarded the sickening orientation of the body, the Twins internally debating the best means to remove such diabolical restraints. Aragorn sighed and took charge, having witnessed something of the archer's afflictions in the past.

"I am a healer; I will do it," he said and sheathed his sword, taking up his dagger instead and kneeling beside Legolas. "Elbereth," he whispered, pushing the grotesque frame out from the rigid, bloody penis.

Quickly and carefully he cut the cords digging into the most sensitive regions of a male's anatomy. A faint but urgent whine escaped the Tawarwaith's lungs. Aragorn studied his fitful respiration as he removed the clamps and chains from the nipples, leaving the rings alone for fear of adding injury in his efforts to slip them free. "Hold him," he ordered quietly, indicating the narrow waist, and Elrohir complied. Then as gently as possible Aragorn took hold of the solid erection and carefully applied pressure, working his hand back and forth, letting the blood lubricate the motion, and as expected, ejaculation was nearly immediate, accompanied by a feeble cry that sounded more fearful than erotic. Legolas twitched once and fell limp again.

In haste the Twins proceeded to open the manacles, Elladan busy with the chains while Elrohir supported the archer, both pleased to find a simple steel pin securing the cuffs. Their eyes met; Legolas obviously had not been left in the bonds alone or he would have discovered this and gained his freedom. As soon as Elladan released the wrists, Elrohir gathered Legolas into his arms and hoisted him up, making for the passage out. Grabbing up torches, everyone followed, released from their scandalised fugue as the obscene tableau was dismantled.

Now Haldir and his comrade wrapped Lindalcon's reeking body in the cloak and carried it away from the caves, out of darkness into the dusky light of the vanquished sun. Up into the stony hills they bore him away, chanting a solemn dirge as they went, an ancient lament in their ancient tongue. Passing through the carnage of war over bloodied ground they picked their way; past the dead and the fallen they marched in stately bereavement and hallowed approbation. Under the fading glory of Anor they proceeded, their sorrow and respect expressed in the formal posture of military precision: straight spines, raised chins, shoulders squared and set, grim pride in their staring eyes and veneration in their voices.

Through Talagan's eclectic army of men, sylvans, Sindar, and Noldor they paced, bringing Lindalcon among them, and all the Wood Elves fell in with Haldir's warriors, adding their voices to the death song and their presence to the cortege, for Lindalcon was theirs and their mourning was raw and real. The Music swelled and filled the place, a majestic anthem to celebrate the courage, dignity, and innocence of Valtamar's son, and the notes cleansed the air of battle-born fear and fury lingering amid the molecules and the motes. To a small hillock unmarred by the ravages of the war they wandered, drawn there by instinct, an unconscious desire to seek a clean place for the interment.

A stand of trees crowned the knoll, drab, dull and dun, its carpet of summer grass and autumn leaves crushed and waterlogged from the heavy snows just melted, but the bland emptiness was fitting. The trees stood with naked limbs upraised, the branches swaying and creaking eerily as if in response to the mournful chorus. Indeed, many of the trees nearby responded in kind, and the elves sensed the rejuvenation of Tawar as the power of their music spread, and this was so. With the orcs gone and the Wraith forced to flee, the ailing hardwoods reformed the subterranean links through rooted soil. The impact of recent events rolled through the forest like a tide, both sorrow and rage in the writhing limbs as they railed against the death of Lindalcon and the breaking of their champion.

Amid the ring of oaks the elves dug the earth and made a grave so deep the shrouded husk rested on the mountain's bones, but Legolas' wish they could not know and neither Oropher's regal cloak nor Fael'ur's weapons went into the barrow, save the dagger. Over the body they made a cairn first, everyone bringing a stone to build the young warrior's final shield, the song spilling down into the humble crypt as they worked, and then they replaced the earth so that a mound was raised up over Lindalcon.

Then the singing stopped and all stood silent, heads bowed and hearts heavy as they considered the cruelty of fate, the magnitude of what Arda had lost, and the injustice brought to bear upon the life of Valtamar's son. Many minds considered Meril's condemnation of her own child with dread, for what hope could there be for Greenwood when one of their own could become so corrupt? Many more considered what fate she had bought for herself by these actions, more than a few longing to see her forfeit her life in payment.

Aragorn wrapped Legolas in the panther skin; Elladan took up the archer's discarded weapons, and Elrohir gathered the battered, senseless ellon into his arms once more. Together, the three raced through the woods, determined to save the Tawarwaith yet, fearing to wait longer than required to attempt more than the most rudimentary treatment, all thinking the same thought: return Legolas to the stronghold where waited the one source of joy in his life. Nirmë and Namië met them and the Twins mounted their war horses, leaving Aragorn behind as they charged through the subtle cacophony of grieving trees and praying sylvans, urged on and flanked by a growing host of Wood Elves following in the canopy.

TBC

NOTE: OK, he's out. When you click 'Next', please be patient; the page loads slowly in some browsers, on purpose.  



	107. Chapter 107

####  _italics indicate thoughts_  
(elvish translations in parentheses)  
This chapter un-Beta'd

# Adel Annon 'Lan 

### (Behind the White Door)

 

Of the journey to Othronn-en-Thranduil, what can be reported? Is there value in knowing the distress of the Greenwood to find for the first time since his birth their champion's inviolable feä inaccessible to them, his quick mind closed and silent, his battered heart locked away? Surely, the Tawarwaith had felt deprived of the comforting communion with the Great Wood while in the tomb-like darkness of the King's vaults and the claustrophobic confines of the escape tunnels, even more so during his imprisonment beneath the Central Mountains, but now he was remote in a more profound way. Indeed, Legolas had endured injury before, been insensible before, been ill to the brink of madness before, all within the bosom of his beloved wood, yet there was undeniably something different in this case. Tawar could not penetrate the ostensible glory of the white door. The trees ceased their foment and went still.

The Twins, veteran warriors against Shadow that they were, had attended to the wounded and dying innumerable times, nor was their skill in the healing arts lacking or less than that of their brother's, though none of them were as known for the art as their father. Barring Elrond, who was better qualified to have care of the failing Tawarwaith than Elladan and Elrohir? How beguiling to picture them on their chargers, flying through the towering bolls, capes billowing and hair flowing, faces set in unwavering resolve, eyes alight with purpose none could thwart, determined to save the fallen prince. See them race beneath the bare branches: Elrohir clutching the wounded elf close to his heart, Elladan guiding the way. How wonderful to think the distance could be crossed easily, cleanly, rapidly, and at the end would be Fearfaron waiting to receive his adopted child into his arms and Berenaur whose love alone was strong enough, surely, to heal the wild elf.

The Central Mountains and Thranduil's stronghold are many leagues apart. It was a long road and not one to be finished in the passing of a day or a night, and too late the brothers realised their error in trying to carry him home on horseback.

It took a mere handful of hoof-beats to recognise the depth to which Ningloriel's child was removed from any reality the Twins could name, a bizarre pathology unlike other's they had seen. Legolas seemed dead one moment, the next came alive in the most horrendous signs of torment and trepidation either brother had witnessed in a patient. His agony and fear were real enough, no matter their delusional nature, yet he was no more aware of the sons of Elrond than of the Encircling Sea so far away from the mighty woods. His shouts and shrieks of furious denial were unnerving, but not so disheartening as the frantic, garbled, unfinished pleas for mercy, and these were not so undermining to the brothers as the undeniable evidence of the stricken ellon's state of arousal.

They were forced to stop and dismount. Elrohir laid his burden down and crouched near, one hand lightly on Legolas' twitching shoulder, heart riven beyond tears, unable to banish from his mind the countless scenarios he'd concocted over the Ages, all wrought from his wish to rescue his wild, woodland half-brother. To see him now, like this, his suffering so raw, so egregious, so opposed to those optimistic fantasies left Elrohir no means of managing his sorrow and self-recrimination. As for Elladan, he did what he could to hide the memories assailing him of the last time he'd rescued someone from the captivity of Orcs, and suffered no less in his own dour and unrelenting way, refusing any blame, repudiating his brother's, and turning his rage upon their father. He observed all with apparent control, dispassionately, yet that word fails to indicate the depth of his shame or the rage coursing though him in silent fury. He refused to look away, even from the most repulsive displays, accepting his role as witness for this unparalleled abasement.

So they were when Aragorn caught them up, and seeing what transpired he cursed aloud. Legolas was consumed in unconscious and vain efforts to relieve the concupiscence afflicting him, writhing, convulsing, emitting noises so base he might have been mistaken for an orc. They had all stopped: the Twin brothers, the horses, the host of Wood Elves in the trees above, the Galadhrim, Talagan's warriors, the woodsmen; all but Legolas, who could not. They stood about awkwardly, mortified and cheerless voyeurs of this private and personal mauling, trying not to look at Legolas, unable to tear their eyes away. It was well this humiliation remained removed from the Tawarwaith's cognisance.

Aragorn once again interceded, thinking his greater experience treating Legolas' particular flaws would achieve results and at the least grant Legolas peace from the erotic phantasm, but none of the means he knew of reaching the archer worked. No call to duty or calamity could raise him to consciousness and no amount of manipulation provided the release he both fought against and struggled to conclude. This was the more unnerving to behold for the inescapable signals of absolute anguish and excruciation that accompanied the hallucination. Legolas suffered as surely as if he had never been removed from bondage. Watching his unabated passion, Greenwood's warriors turned grim and morose and many left him, unable to bear it though they had all seen the gruesome evidence of the evil in their midst time and time again beyond counting.

"What kind of sorcery is this?" Elrohir croaked, fighting the urge to vomit.

"The blackest," spat Elladan. In a sudden, unbridled rush of revulsion and despair, he flung himself to his knees beside the archer and grabbed his arms, forced him to cease the fruitless masturbation, shook him violently. "Legolas! Stop this; stop! Legolas, wake up!" He retreated just as rapidly when the stricken ellon moaned and twisted toward him, rubbed his rigid organ against his thigh. Elladan was up and away, hands tearing through his hair, face crimson in shame. "Valar!"

"Sîdh," pleaded Aragorn, following. "He does not know what is happening; you mustn't condemn him."

"Nay, nay," groaned Elladan, unable to look at anyone, condemnation the last thought in his heart where Legolas was concerned. "I did not mean to incite him further." _Ai Eru! What can bring one of Iluvatar's Children so low?_

"You did not," assured the Man. "This has happened before, though I have never seen him in so deep a trance."

"It has nothing to do with you or any of us, Muindor," decided Elrohir. _This is Melkor's dream realised, almost, but we have him now. We have him now._ He stood and joined his brothers, set a firm hand on Elladan's shoulder. "We need Mithrandir."

"He had no success dispelling these dark dreams even before Legolas' capture," Aragorn admitted miserably. "If he could do nothing then, what can he achieve now?"

"There must be a means to free him!" Elladan insisted, turning a few tense strides away and back. He dared a glance at the aroused elf, took a step toward him, then another until all in a rush he was once more down in the duff beside him. He gathered Legolas close, held him gently, gritted his teeth against the erotic gyrations, hoping only to send what comfort he might past the barrier sealing the ailing prince from them, but found he could not remain removed and had to break away again. He ground out an obscene curse. "We cannot wait here longer."

"I cannot hold him either," admitted Elrohir. "At least, not without binding him tightly. That I have no wish to "

"We will _not_ bind him!" shouted Elladan.

No sooner had he spoken than the climax of the horrific fantasy occurred. A harsh, jarring cry accompanied the ejaculation, a grotesque expression of despair and delight followed by ominous silence. They all started and stood staring a second or two, then Aragorn hastened to do what he could to stabilise his friend's condition, for the wounds were oozing and Legolas was once more in a death-like stupor. Haldir approached cautiously.

"I could send ahead and bring the wizard here," he offered quietly, nearly as fearful for Elladan's agitated mental state as the Tawarwaith's physical deterioration.

"Nay, I don't know if he can survive another such episode and live," Aragorn sighed. "If his fading was halted by bonding with Erestor, it has begun anew at an accelerated pace. We cannot wait." Then he recalled his previous odyssey with Legolas and how they managed their return to safety. "The river," he said, a faint note of hope returning to his voice.

Quickly he relayed the idea to his brothers and all turned about, Elrohir again taking charge of the Tawarwaith, and they retraced the path, coming not to the mountains themselves but to the rugged river disgorging from them. Not a single boat remained intact through the destruction of battle, every craft wrecked and ravaged, hewn and burnt. Seeing this, the Wood Elves came down from the trees, the solution obvious; a raft must be built, and great was their relief to have some positive task to perform.

Elladan led them to the field of fallen oaks and together they dragged several sturdy trunks back to the banks of the frothing stream, bound them together even as Fearfaron had done so long ago, and onto this construction Elrohir carried Legolas. His brothers joined him and several warriors climbed aboard to provide navigation, using their spears to pole the stream and prevent the float from being dashed to pieces in the rapids. Again they set forth and in this manner succeeded in bringing Legolas home. He did not waken once nor stir in the least, not even when the snow-swollen current doused him with icy water and rammed the resilient logs into boulders and rocks along the way.

Few elves came forward to meet them. Gladhadithen was there; Fearfaron was there, the wizards, Erestor with Elrond holding him up, for the seneschal had not remained immune to the grief his mate endured and fading had snatched him with a vehemence reflective of the depth of his devotion to Pen-rhovan. And when the rude raft was poled in, no less a stevedore than Thranduil met and secured it to the dock, Celeborn his kinsman aiding in the task. Others who joined the homecoming, whether through remorse or grief or morbid curiosity, could but stare in disbelief at the motionless figure swathed in the drenched panther-skin cloak. Their welcome was more a paralysis of shock and fear, though word had passed ahead more quickly than the water flowed, for they had seen him whole and strong and noble so short a time ago and now that salubrious veneer was stripped away.

A moment of tense and stifled expectancy arose, an irrational instant of prolonged denial; it was an illusion; it was not him but some other blighted soul; this could not be. How could he have come through all: rejection and defilement, Judgement and banishment and Chastisement, trial and then re-trial under public scrutiny and Thranduil's scorn, redeemed by Fearfaron's love, by love for his siblings and for a foreign Lord, accepted, healed, and reclaimed by his people and his father. All of that and more, he had surmounted every obstacle arising victorious only to be crushed, broken by Shadow?

Then Berenaur broke, collapsing in keening despair, unable to come near, unable to look upon what had been done to his mate, begging Námo for death, death and peace for them both. He had never seen Legolas like this, battered, torn, defeated. He'd had seen old scars and understood their origins; he'd seen minor wounds sutured and bandaged. But this? The brutal reality, the foul obscenity of corruption written in Pen-rhovan's bloody flesh and incised upon his diminished soul, this was an abomination he could not face. He did not hear Elladan's shouted words: "He lives, Erestor; he lives!" His mind retreated into oblivion and Elrond had to take him from the scene, enlisting Haldir's aid to carry him away.

Fearfaron, eager to take charge of his adopted child, dared not touch him for fear of adding to his hurts. He took a faltering step and stopped, arms coming forward in tentative entreaty before falling away as Elrohir carried Legolas ashore. Meeting the carpenter's stricken eyes, red and raw and too terrified for tears, he tried to offer a reassuring smile. "It is true, he breathes. Come, your hold cannot hurt him more and he needs you now." The Hunter of Spirits took the limp body, cradling his son close in comforting strength and unbounded love tinged with both sorrow and joy. All the might of his heart he tried to bring into his muscles and bones that Legolas might sense this through their contact wherever skin met skin, that he would perceive, even in the depths of mindless madness that encased him, that he was home, home safe, safe and loved.

Gladhadithen issued orders and Aragorn ran ahead to fulfil them, Mithrandir following while Radagast hurried off to the dispensary. Legolas was not taken inside his sire's fortress of stone, for his rescuers had agreed without a single word of debate that the subterranean rooms might provoke a false impression that he was still imprisoned. Fearfaron bore him away, a straggling procession shuffling along behind him, a chaotic line of distraught Wood Elves strewn along the path like beads of a broken necklace. They followed to the clearing and the talan built for his new life with Berenaur, but none dared move past the encircling ring of mighty oaks guarding the croft. On the perimeter they knelt and began exhorting the Powers for mercy.

Thranduil was forgotten, left behind at the docks, but Celeborn bade him follow his son, glad to note the real anxiety and dismay in the king's eyes, signs that the heart of a father might yet awaken and learn to cherish the cast-off prince. The Lord of Lothlorien collected Haldir and his loyal warriors and returned to the stronghold to inform the Council of Elders and see to the kingdom's recovery in the aftermath of war.

In the Tawarwaith's talan, Gladhadithen and Aragorn toiled to heal him, the others alternately doing as the physicians bade them and keeping weary vigil beneath the tree. Only Fearfaron and Mithrandir never left his bedside, yet though the wizard poured a steady infusion of his glory into the ailing archer, nothing seemed to help. Gashes oozed and festered, broken bones refused to knit, internal hurts too abominable to name failed to seal up. The state of Legolas' soul was equally immune to treatment and he remained oblivious to his foster-father's loving entreaties, the wizards' incantations, or the unrelenting murmur of prayers and hymns permeating the air around him.

So the days passed, one upon another, while his friends dripped water and nourishing broth down his throat, cleaned the cuts and gashes, did all they knew to bring him back. He grew no worse, yet Legolas languished and did not heal, nor did he emerge from the inner-world that had become a new prison for mind and spirit.

## ~~_Ephemeral impressions of desire upon his lips_~~

  


 

_'You cannot escape'_

The words drifted across his hazy consciousness, soft as a sigh, gentle as a mother's touch, and Legolas awakened with a garbled cry of denial and fear, struggling to rise and fight, to defy the ghostly, gloating voice. He staggered and fell to his knees, gasping, fingers fumbling to find the focus of the fiery throbbing, touching a slick, raw point of bone protruding into the air where it ought not to be. The pain was too much and he puddled into a twitching heap, listening to his quiet groans and faint scraping noises that reminded him of mice scurrying near behind hollow, wooden walls. Amid the pulsing flares of misery, part of his mind found this amusing; he did not know from whence such a memory arose. Had he ever been in a house of wood?

_'Nay, but I have.'_

_'Mithrandir.'_

The name flashed across his consciousness and he relaxed, letting the weariness and exhaustion consume his energy. He had escaped beyond the reach of the Wraith; all else would become clear in time. He was sharing the Istar's memories, safe within the wizard's essence.

_'True enough, the Nazgûl shall not have you. You are mine.'_

Again the words caressed him as soothingly as a lover's lips upon his cheek, but the contrast between their sound and their sense shocked him. His head jerked from the ground and his eyes opened, heart racing and every instinct demanding he flee. Heart and breath both stopped as he gazed upon the place, really seeing it now, and a sickening dizziness seized him as his fingers clawed at what should be the floor beneath him, vertigo and nausea making him shut his eyes at once; there was nothing there.

Nothing. He was lying on emptiness, a vast, unending expanse of blank whiteness without dimension or shape, featureless, uniform, lacking any objects, lit with glaring, even light that had no source and made no shadows. He felt himself tumbling through it, twisting and turning as he plummeted, yet the sensation stopped in an instant, for there was no reference on which to fix his sight that would support the sense of falling. He lay still, struggling to calm his heart, letting the nothingness support his body.

_'My love'_

A panicked wail filled the void around him and he shifted, trying to feel with his body where he was, what this place could be. The first impression terrified him, for it was as though he was still trapped in the oubliette, or rather its opposite, with the foul, black air changed into white, the crowding walls turned into infinite space. At least he was dry; there was no mixture of water and filth lapping against him, no stench, no Orcs.

_'No Orcs.'_

_'Of course not. Rest, Legolas; I will return when you have regained some of your strength.'_

Legolas shuddered, the mellifluous voice echoing in his mind, not sure anymore that this was his friend of former days, and decided he must not do as he was bid. He must resist. It was some trick of sorcery; he was still in the caves. He forced himself to rise, but his legs would not support him and jagged agony tore through his calf as the broken limb gave way. He crashed into oblivion as his battered body struck against the featureless, white floor.

  


## ~~_a hushed sibilation part worship, part entreaty_~~

  
"Do something, wizard," Thranduil ordered. "You saved him before; what stops you now?"

The King of the Woodland Realm stood at the foot of the simple bed, heart still pounding, struggling against an overwhelming desire to retch, glad beyond all telling that the Tawarwaith was still and silent once more. Mere seconds ago he had been raving in madness, screaming as one terror struck, muttering incoherent words, clawing at the break in his leg as he tried to stand, wide blue eyes wild and sightless as they roved the talan. The healer had needed Aragorn's aid to hold him fast and even that had not been enough to prevent undoing the good work the two had only just completed. The festering lashes and lacerations were bleeding anew, the effluence vile and stinking of infection and putrefaction.

Thranduil had not stayed round the clock as Fearfaron and the others had done. He had other children who needed him, he reminded them, uncomfortable with the new compulsion to justify his actions where Legolas was concerned. He found that he wanted these people, essentially Legolas' family, to validate and excuse him, reassure him his reasons were indisputably right and proper. Gladhadithen and the carpenter had done that, declaring that Legolas would not want the young ones to miss their Adar, especially since their mother was removed from them. This support only made the King feel more guilty and he was sure he'd flushed crimson.

He was even more disturbed by the emotional response experienced when Mithrandir bluntly told him his presence was not required, the tone just short of indicating he was in the way and the wizard would much prefer it if he went away and stayed away. He'd wanted to remind Mithrandir of his place by ordering him out of Greenwood, but Legolas needed the Istar and so Thranduil held his tongue, a first. Now, with the expected recovery unrealised, Thranduil was reconsidering the value of the wizard's regenerative power.

"I am doing all I know to do," protested Mithrandir, sitting heavily on the bed beside the motionless patient, propping his head wearily atop his gnarled fists. His voice was weary and plaintive and his bushy brows were contracted in confused disbelief. Could the Powers be blocking his actions, angered by his interference in Legolas' life? Could this be proof that his selfish motives and secret desires were known? "This is the same procedure used before, but it is having no effect at all."

"Yes, we can all see that," snorted Thranduil. He crossed his arms over his chest and uncrossed them again, feeling the urge to pace about but unable to do so since the small room was filled with the Man, the healer, the carpenter, and the Istar. Below, the Twin Orc-slayers sat side by side on the embroidered settee, waiting. It would soon be time for them to relieve Aragorn and Gladhadithen. "Why isn't the treatment working?" demanded the King.

"If I knew I would adjust accordingly. He was able to absorb my strength before," Mithrandir's words died away and he shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. "I cannot reach him."

"There has to be a reason," insisted Thranduil. He forced himself to come closer, bent over his wounded son, extended his arm and gingerly touched the motionless chest, seeking any indication of life. A faint, sluggish vibration ran up through his hand and he exhaled a breath he did not realise he had suppressed. His arm fell away to his side as he straightened up, examining the wan countenance, eyes shuttered, mouth lax, naked body hidden beneath sheets stained with blood and pus. A peculiar constriction afflicted his heart, almost like pain, and he swallowed.

_My son, my first-born, Ningloriel's child and my own._ He felt a surge of rage raise his pulse and set his temples throbbing, but he controlled it. _Someone must pay for this._ He thought of Elrond somewhere in the infirmary tending to Erestor. He thought of Meril sitting in her dank, dark cell.

"The truth is before us," Gladhadithen answered sadly, and found she could not go on, turning away to hide the tears she had been shedding regularly since Legolas' return.

"What truth? What is different this time?" Elladan called from below, his face peering up through the opening between the platforms.

"Indeed, an apt query," nodded Mithrandir. "Perhaps the answer to his remote state lies there, for he had changed much, and quickly, before his capture."

"I see no logic in this," complained Thranduil. "Why would change for the good make him inaccessible to Mithrandir now?"

"He is bound to Lord Erestor now," said Fearfaron and cast a challenging glare the wizard's way. Mithrandir ignored him and remained silent.

"I doubt that would make him reject Mithrandir's aid," argued Elladan.

"It wouldn't," Aragorn interjected. "Whatever locked his soul away is not the good he gathered to it before this nightmare. It is what happened there, in the caves. He has lost Lindalcon and probably had to watch as he was murdered."

"All true," agreed Gladhadithen, regaining her composure and professional demeanour, "but there is something more likely none has been willing to state openly, though Aragorn alludes to it faintly. It must be said now. As a healer, it is obvious to me what it is. He has been tortured cruelly, violated multiple times by beasts and by Wraiths. Who could endure it? Who would wish to live afterwards?"

"Others have, so might he," Elrohir objected, joining his brother, features pinched and stricken. "From all we have heard, he is stronger than most and"

"Muindor, she is right," Aragorn interrupted gently. "We must face this honestly."

"There may be no means to salvage him," whispered Fearfaron, his face a stony caricature of the mild expression normally presented. He sighed deeply, the exhalation carrying with it his resigned acceptance. His head bowed low and he pressed his fist against his ribs above the yawning void opening within his heart. "He will find peace in Mandos. My first-born will meet him there. 'Ere long, I will follow."

"Rubbish!" spat Thranduil, disdain in his sneering lips and cold contempt in the glare he trained upon the Spirit-hunter. "He did not fade through all the horrors of the past, though he was used coarsely by one he loved. Maltahondo's abuse cut his soul to ribbons as no Orc's could do, for he feels nothing but hatred for Orcs. Weren't the corpsman's sexual attentions the same as rape? It was worse than rape, for his assailant made him believe he was the one at fault. He survived that and found enough spirit remaining to love again. Nay, he is not fading; this is something else. It must be."

No one spoke, for while everyone might wish to believe Thranduil's logic, the evidence before them was difficult to ignore. Eyes glanced in fleeting hesitation upon the still figure in the bed, unwilling to rest long upon the ravaged ruin displayed there. Who could recover from such atrocities? None had ever done so, as far as any of them could recall. What would Legolas' soul be like if he did survive it? It entered every single mind, even Thranduil's, that death would be the more merciful end in a case so grim.

"Then why do we hesitate to do what he would want us to do?" murmured the King. He searched each face keenly, unable to hide the unspoken wish in his heart: for one of them to refute him, for someone to curse him for saying it. None spoke and every head turned aside.

"I cannot," Elladan announced. "I will not. Even if it is the merciful course of action and what he would beg of me, if he could."

"No more could I," admitted Elrohir. He covered his face and turned aside, sitting heavily upon the elegant little sofa.

"I am a healer; what you mention is abomination," scolded Gladhadithen.

"Aye," Aragorn nodded, adjusting the covering over his friend. "We can ease his suffering until the end."

"Can you?" barked Fearfaron, suddenly loud and livid in fury. "Tell yourself no more lies, mortal! Nothing you have done has granted him ease. You cannot end his life because he is your friend and you still hope."

"Perhaps," nodded Aragorn, going to the distraught ellon and clasping him tight at the shoulder. "I do hope, though I see no means to cure him this time."

"That is because it was not the skill of a healer that made him well before," stated Fearfaron. "It was Erestor who made him whole again."

"Nay, before the bonding I pulled him back from the brink of death twice," argued Mithrandir, standing to face the Tawarwaith's adopted father. He did not like the implications, for Legolas was so thoroughly closed against him; could this portend anything than the wild elf's full knowledge of the liberties the wizard had taken?

"I do not deny it, but I say to you that he had already begun to give over his heart to the Noldo Lord. The two had already been intimate and Legolas was responding." Fearfaron's face was transformed with eager optimism and his outlook was contagious.

"Where is that wretched law-son of mine?" bellowed Thranduil, leaping from the platform in such haste that he nearly flattened Elladan. Before anyone could temper this new conviction with caution, he was racing across the glade shouting at the Wood Elves in his way.

## ~~_a whisper of contact then a ghost of a draft: his name exhaled_~~

  


_'Legolas. You cannot escape my love.'_

The voice was calm and soothing, brimming with desire and throbbing with an overpowering undertone of virile possessiveness, yet so fully benevolent and harmonious no room remained for a sense of danger or feelings of indignation. The words were limned in real admiration, genuinely and justifiably proud of all he had done, of how hard he had worked to achieve his comrades' release from Wandering, of how deeply he loved his siblings and struggled to protect them. The syllables hovered, overtones sustained within his mind, a nearly tangible presence which gradually assumed shape and form, definitively male, perfectly designed to inflame his erotic predilection.

The words ceased being sound, but the convictions generated by their persuasive tones remained and Legolas relished them, gathering this unlooked for love around him like a warm cloak, eagerly awaiting more, silently singing his response in kind. He had no wish to escape this love. Soon, soon the form would migrate from his interior thoughts and inhabit the space surrounding him, becoming real. Then he would feel them, the words, their shape and their form touching him lightly, then playfully, then passionately. Their dimensions would burgeon to massive proportions and then they would return within him, driven into his body in hard, brisk thrusts until the meaning filled him, shooting through him in a warm gush of heady seed and rising ecstasy.

Legolas sighed, shifting in restless impatience, and realised his eyes were shut. He kept them that way, preferring blindness to the immensity of the colourless abyss in which he lay, immersed in the fire coursing over his naked skin. It was not the searing heat of wrenching wounds; his injuries had closed and left him whole and unblemished. Even the old scars were gone, even that left by the dagger wound under his heart. He had realised this the last time he'd awakened in the strange place, knowing not by sight but by the touch of his hands as he caressed and teased his excited flesh. The sensation began and culminated in the thrumming apex of his unbearably full erection straining for release against the consistent, mobile pressure pumping up and down its length. He whispered a groan: _'My Love.'_

No answer came, but he did not care one bit; he was going to come soon.

_Too soon._

He preferred to wait until the huge cock entered him and drove him to it. He wanted to feel the smooth, resilient heat of it fucking him, hammering at his most sensitive core, seeming to grow and stretch him, delving deeper with every thrust. He wanted to listen for the sound of his racing pulse and gasping breath, his decadent moans and sighs, the odd frictional scritching of his body slipping against the invisible floor. His lover made no sound at all, ever. He didn't care; it was too good to care and he wanted to postpone his release until all this transpired. He raised a hand and reached down to slow the relentless stimulation. Fingers grazed against warm skin, hairless and hard and

_Scaly?_

His hand instinctively retracted, his eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright, gazing down upon his groin, bellowing a shout of shocked disbelief at the sight of an immense, white snake slowly devouring his penis. It had red, unseeing eyes and its muscles worked, swallowing him, as its long, sinuous body writhed rhythmically over and between his legs. A whip-like forked tongue flickered over his concealed slit and Legolas shuddered, involuntarily flexing into the sensation. Then he gagged on bile at the depravity of this response and yanked the vile thing off him. The action sent him spiralling into delicious delirium as his seed streamed forth and his body fell back, prone and trembling in the colourless space. The beady, reptilian eyes smirked at him just before the creature exploded in the tightening grip of his fist, disintegrating and splattering him with a viscous smear of blood and semen.

His eyes closed against this defilement, shut out the glaring whiteness, welcomed the familiar serenity of black obliteration, and he remembered nothing.

  


## ~~_I admit that I am selfish. I am seducing you._~~

  
Erestor stared at Thranduil in confusion, unable to process the words the King was shouting at him, focusing on the way the mighty Sindarin Lord's brows wrinkled and jumped with the force of his fury, first flattening then arching high, then contorting into undulating waves. It was strange, too, the colours sweeping over the wrathful countenance: ashen pallor blossoming with maroon patches at the cheeks that spread until the entire visage was nearly purple. And the mouth! What bizarre sounds he must be producing to account for the mobility on display, complete with flashes of bared, white teeth and a sticky spray of saliva.

"Erestor!"

He startled; that was his name and Thranduil was yelling it at the top of his lungs. What in Mordor did he mean by it? A sudden explosion of pain stunned him and he lost sight of the furious face for a moment when he shut his eyes. Before he could do more than give a plaintive grunt, another blow landed on the opposite cheek and a second voice became audible.

"Stop this! He cannot respond, Thranduil." It was Elrond, his words pleading and stricken. They were ignored.

"Erestor!" Thranduil bellowed, slapping the drugged councillor again.

"Enough! Can't you see? He is fading." Elrond physically grabbed the offending hand as it swung wide to strike again and instantly regretted it. The Sinda Lord snatched free and curled the hand into a fist which connected with Elrond's cheek in a loud clap, generating an flash of light and pain that rocked him to his knees. He was not there long. The force of the kick aimed at his ribs was sufficient to drive air form his lungs and curled him into a foetal ball.

Here was the excuse Thranduil needed and he unleashed the pent rage and frustration building since the second trial of Erebor. It felt good to finally have the real culprit in his hands, the one who had designed Legolas' fall from favour and incited the enmity betwixt Ningloriel and the King beyond repair. He kicked the mighty Lord of Imladris repeatedly, shouting curses and condemnations, punctuating his blows with "Eärendil's Shame!" and "Slave to Vilya!", not noticing that his opponent did not fight back. A feeble, frantic palpation against his back finally reached him and he paused, glaring over his shoulder to find Erestor there trying to stop him. The words he was speaking finally made it through the red haze of Thranduil's anger and he peered at the councillor keenly.

"I punished him. I punished him already; have you forgot?" Erestor said again, seeing he now had the monarch's attention.

"No, I have not, but your right to seek redress does not circumvent mine," Thranduil growled. He hefted Elrond and threw him against the wall with sufficient force to crack the plaster and momentarily stun the Elven Lord. He crumpled on the floor and there wisely decided to remain and recover what remained of his dignity and strength, since he was beyond the King's reach. "So, not fading after all?" Thranduil queried his Ion'waeth (son-by-bond) in sarcastic tones. "Indeed, how can you be since Legolas is not?"

"He is not?" Erestor was astonished and stared, slack-jawed and foggy-eyed, not sure he was hearing correctly. He felt weak and watery as though he'd been dosed with a potent soporific. He plopped onto the mattress and sat blinking up at the intimidating ellon. "Not fading?"

"Nay, it is something else. Erestor of Imladris, you coward, you reprehensible reject from Gondolin and Mithlond, what are you doing hiding here in this sickroom?" Thranduil screamed at the vapid, expressionless face. He grasped the seneschal at the biceps and shook him violently. "Awaken, you useless waste of skin and bone! Legolas needs you!"

A jolt of feeling shot through Erestor then, a tearing affliction of loss and love and fear and despair. "Legolas," he wheezed, the sound faint as a kitten's mew. Absently, he raised a trembling hand to his burning cheek and focused on the King standing in rigid anticipation beside him. "Thranduil," he mumbled thickly and licked his lips, swallowed, and looked about in befuddlement. "Legolas! Where?"

"He is in the clearing, there in the talan made for you both, trapped in some hellish mental landscape of torture and confusion and anguished lust. He is there while you are here, quietly resting as you await a call from Námo that will never come!" Thranduil bent closer and closer with every word until he could see droplets of spit striking the seneschal's skin.

"Stop, please," Elrond pleaded faintly from his spot on the floor, glad to observe his cousin's responsiveness though he could not say he approved the King's harsh methods. "Give him room to breathe and gather his senses."

"No, I have not such a luxury to spare him, or say rather that my son has it not," Thranduil retorted, glaring at the Noldorin Lord huddled against the wall, seeing the dark brows arch high, watching guilt slither through the grey irises. He sneered, nodding acknowledgement. "Aye, my son. My first-born son, Legolas, whom you stole from me, peredhel. I have not forgot you." The King raised an accusing finger and aimed it at the cowering Noldo, turning from the bed and advancing on his enemy until he towered above him. "Pray," he hissed, "pray, if you think any Vala will still hear you. Pray that he lives and comes through this sane and whole, restored to the proper place that is his by right."

"King Thranduil," Erestor's mind cleared, he found his voice, and found that he was sitting on the edge of his bed clad in a night shirt and nothing else, his soul beset with both anxious yearning and forlorn desponsency. "Forget him. Take me to Legolas."

Thranduil had to help him stand and dress, doing so with surprising compassion and a firm but gentle touch that almost made Erestor collapse. What could inspire this consideration save the gravest of circumstances? Legolas must be far gone, indeed, for the King to be so reduced to dependence on an outsider to correct the ills surrounding his cursed House. Erestor faltered, thinking this, and met enquiring green eyes, the panic there astonishing to see. He could not hide his shock and the King sniffed, a self-deprecating noise.

"What would you? He is my first-born child whatever else may be true. If I was blind to the truth before, I see it clearly now. I see him as he is, who he is: a noble heir of Oropher unjustly deprecated. I have embraced that fact with all its implications intact; now I will act as it is in my nature to do: to defend my own against any enemies, any harm, any dangers; to redress any wrongs visited upon those that are of my blood. This should not surprise anyone who knows anything of me."

"I see," Erestor said, recalling Thranduil's efforts during the Last Alliance. He had fought valiantly and never left his father's side, yet the fate of his brothers was surely not indicative of strong family ties. "I am only wondering what has wrought this abrupt change."

"It has not been sudden," Thranduil denied, cutting a swift glance at Elrond's kinsman. They were moving slowly through the corridor and Thranduil remained silent a moment, thinking on this. Some things he could barely admit to himself and was not about to share with Erestor of Imladris, law-son or not.

None of what had happened was Legolas' fault, true enough, for he was innocent, a dupe used to satisfy a twisted mind's cruel hunger to manipulate and ruin what was good and enviable in others' lives. Yet neither, Thranduil believed, was any blame his. What husband, presented the evidence sent by Elrond, would come to a different conclusion? What ellon could accept another's offspring as his own? Culpability lay solely with the Lord of Imladris and his mistress, Ningloriel. Learning he had been deceived into rejecting his own flesh and blood, a son of whom he could be justly proud, this had been even more humiliating than the cuckolding. Legolas remained a living reminder of Thranduil's defeats and failures.

Even so, he had softened since these revelations first broke upon him. He no longer despised Legolas, yet he could not manage to love him, stubborn and contrary and confrontational as the disinherited prince was. He began to identify with Legolas only when faced with a far greater betrayal than any Ningloriel may have committed. Meril's treachery even made Elrond's offences look like child's play. In her hands lay three warrior's deaths, her own husband Valtamar among them. At her feet must be placed Lindalcon's destruction, her first-born child created only to be used to usurp Legolas' title and position. To her cunning mind must credit be given for designing Legolas' intended death through the Trials of Release. Thranduil wondered how he could have come to love her so and a queasy shudder ran through him, reliving their mutual joy in married union, their shared delight in the births of the little prince and princess.

He directed his thoughts away from Meril quickly, preferring to remember instead the invasive presence of his brothers' disembodied souls possessing him. He had fought them wildly, realising too late that he was in their power by virtue of his acknowledgement of Legolas. Admitting he had wronged the Tawarwaith, even if only to his own heart, had given them the lever required. The remorse he felt was genuine and this was the potent ingredient required for ensnaring a soul; through guilt over Oropher's death had he captured his brothers so long ago. Had they not defied Thranduil regarding the enchanted armour, their father would have been spared. Had Thranduil not spurned Ningloriel's innocent child, all the harm that befell Legolas could have been prevented.

How gleeful the spectral princes' triumph while threatening to shred Thranduil's spirit and disburse it! Even more gloating was their description of having their brother's fe¨ cast into the melted metal of the gates, therein to be frozen alongside the abhorrent soul inhabiting Caranthir's dagger. He would never see his children again with living eyes until time ended and the world changed. Finding himself powerless to dispute their right to avenge their nephew, Thranduil had begged as never before, certain Taurant and Gwilwileth would perish with both parents removed from them. Cold despair overwhelmed him when they retorted the little ones would never notice the difference, not caring who inhabited their father's body as long as they were loved and cared for. He knew it to be true and realisation almost broke him.

He shrank to near nothingness and remained quiescent within himself, aware of them acting in his name and person, and considered if perhaps this was best after all. Hadn't he justly earned such a punishment? He had not designed the various afflictions to which Legolas had been subjected, but he had played his part with gusto and become blinded by bitterness. Perhaps he was not fit to bring up Greenwood's next rulers. He stirred and changed his plea, asking now only to be permitted a means to remain near them as they grew to adulthood as they were meant to do. He asked to share the living body they had usurped.

The fiery battle at the Forest Gate forced the spectres to leave him, but they did so willingly, affirming his humbler attitude and encouraging his desire to defend their homeland. Though freed of their presence, their influence remained and Thranduil came forth from his fortress with his spirit rejuvenated and his heart uplifted. He found his respect and admiration for Legolas greater for having shared his brothers' combined sense of pride and protective kinship. They saw in their nephew much that was like their father, and through them Thranduil could deny it no longer. It was also undeniable that his subjects and his warriors approved him taking the Tawarwaith's cause as a battle cry. It felt right to receive him as his own; perhaps doing so would prevent his burden from passing to Taurant and Gwilwileth, and the Wood Elves believed it just, too. Reclaiming his rejected son suddenly become advantageous in every regard.

With victory achieved and his foes routed, Thranduil returned and sought his brothers in the vaults, made his peace with them, striking a bargain that nearly crushed him but left him free to raise his younger children and attempt repairing the honour of the one he'd rejected. The idea of this formidable warrior-prince, tried and true and undeniably dedicated to the children and to Greenwood was soothing to Thranduil's sore heart. He had lost much and would lose still more; he could not afford to lightly cast Legolas aside knowing he was rightly his to claim. Having decided all this and gained Celeborn's enthusiastic support, Thranduil was unwilling to give up now, no matter the severity of the injuries or the depth of depravity to which the Tawarwaith had been subjected.

Yet, none of this was for Erestor's ears. Thranduil shook his head and gave a little tug at the arm he held, propelling the seneschal carefully forward.  
"We waste time he may not have," he admonished quietly.

Outside the infirmary, the day was grey and heavy with rain, a slow, cold soaking precipitation almost thick enough to be sleet. Erestor shivered and curled in upon himself as Thranduil propped him against the door jam and walked out into the weather, calling for a horse which was prepared and waiting. Talagan, draped in a hooded cape that glistened with a green, wet sheen, brought it to the door. He inspected the Noldo briefly, his expression inscrutable, and handed over a cloak to his lord, unfurling one and settling it about him even as Thranduil turned and did the same for Erestor. They put him on the horse and Talagan trudged away back to the stronghold without a word, crossing a courtyard empty of all but the leaden rain, a desolate, muddy expanse of avoidance none wished to acknowledge or traverse, silent but for the monotonous, indifferent splatter falling from the grizzled sky.

Then Erestor felt eyes upon him and turned to spy Elrond outlined in silhouette against the yellow light spilling from the infirmary door. His hand raised, part benediction and part farewell, then dropped heavily to his side, and Erestor was struck by an impression of finality in the gesture. Suddenly Thranduil swung up behind him and urged the horse into a swift, smooth canter and the urgency driving him radiated from his body in great, spiking flares that pierced and infected Erestor. He found his heart hammering, wished the animal would go more quickly though the distance was not truly much to cover.

"You love him?" the words were spoken softly, close to his ear, but had sufficient impact to make Erestor gasp aloud. It was all the answer Thranduil needed. "Then save him. By your own words, he did as much for you."

Before Erestor could summon any assurances to speak, they were there. A throng surrounded the ring of oaks, soaked and miserably cold, huddled under cloaks and blankets in knots of sodden and morose despondency, a sea of wan, white, staring faces wide-eyed in communal despair. Silently they shuffled aside to let them pass, never ceasing the murmur of pleas to Powers they little trusted to hear them, closing behind again to make a barrier to shield their champion from darkness. But they all knew; the darkness was already within.

Elladan met them at the base of the tree and spoke to Erestor. "It is not as bad to see, mellon, as it was at the docks, but he is no better. Mithrandir has had no success waking him. If you cannot face it"

"He will do more than that," Thranduil threatened.

"I am not here because of your menacing orders," snapped Erestor, frowning as he was helped down, ashamed of this weakness he could not manage to surmount. "I'm here for Legolas. He is my mate and this is my place, whatever fate decrees."

Then he lifted his eyes and looked up into the branches; the silken shades were drawn all round the sturdy platforms even as they had been since the talan was built. Light leaked from it, narrow golden slivers that blinked and winked, piercing the gloomy grey curtain of rain and transforming the endless drops into translucent gems of silver clarity not unlike the dewy tears let fall from Telperion's last blossoms. Erestor raised his face to the highest level; the cold, wet beads drummed upon his cheeks and ran down his neck. A curtain parted and a head filled the space revealed: Fearfaron, his features lost in the halo augmenting his subdued aura, but Erestor knew it was him. The taut screen snapped back and in the same instant the seneschal grappled the hanging ladder, glad for Elrohir's strength reaching down to heave him through the gaping hatch.

The little sitting room was crowded and with Thranduil and Elladan pushing through behind him it was almost impossible to breathe in the small space: The Twins, the Woodland King, Aragorn, Mithrandir, Gladhadithen, Fearfaron, and himself. For all the press of so many people, Erestor had the impression of someone missing and at once the fair face of Lindalcon rose in his thoughts. It was the first time he perceived the young warrior's absence and he knew with certainty the ellon was dead.

"Ai Valar, that bright young one," he mourned, finding his eyes on Elrohir, who dropped his head and shook it sadly. "Gone," whispered the seneschal. Did Legolas know? His gaze sought the carpenter's. "Has he been conscious at all?"

"No, he is caught in a form of reverie, deep and detached; he does not hear or sense us, trapped a lurid dreamscape both dangerous and debasing. You know of what I speak; you have seen this," said Fearfaron bitterly.

"I have," Erestor replied, but even so he did not understand, not truly, for what he had observed he had himself induced in Legolas that night in the forest when first they were thrown together. _Nay, not by chance; we hunted him down._

"The usual methods of rousing him are useless," added Aragorn. "This is like no dream he has ever experienced before."

"My connection to him is closed," added Mithrandir sombrely before the seneschal could ask. "It is some kind of sorcery I have not encountered before."

"You must try to enter the dream with him," Fearfaron said, "and hopefully the reality of your physical presence will overcome the spell." At this pronouncement an oppressive silence enveloped them, every face and every thought bent upon Erestor so that there could be no doubt what this simple statement truly meant. The carpenter took a step closer and settled a gripped his law-son's arm. "You must."

Erestor stared from face to face, incredulous. They wanted him to make love to Legolas while Pen-rhovan was dreaming of his days with Malthen or worse, his torment by the Wraith, and this while they watched? "You cannot be serious. I am not going to play the part of his rapist."

"Of course not!" Thranduil thundered and just stopped himself from swatting the seneschal's head.

"You are to play the role of loving husband," snapped Aragorn.

"I trust that is something you can do," added Mithrandir caustically.

"Enough," said Elrohir. "Erestor did not cause this and he must not be berated for his fears."

"I am not afraid," insisted the distraught husband. "I cannot abide him thinking I would want to hurt him, much less like this."

"It will not be like that," promised Fearfaron. "Your love and your bond will provide the antithesis for whatever magic has ensnared him."

"Is he right?" Erestor turned to Mithrandir, but the wizard could do no more than offer a half-hearted shrug. Erestor was stunned to see how careworn and shrivelled the Istar looked, more an old man than ever he had seemed before.

"We have tried everything else," added Fearfaron. "Even if it fails, you must attempt it."

"Not with this audience, I won't," Erestor snorted and shoved his way past them to the landing which led to the next level. "Get them out of here," he threw the order over his shoulder and struggled to pull himself up, panting as he slid off into Elrohir's arms, unable to draw even one leg up over the rim of the upper ledge. He groaned, embarrassed and furious, and made to shake off the helping hands. "Leave me be!"

"Fine," Elrohir was equally abashed but did not step aside until Fearfaron took his place. He and Elladan descended to the clearing, catching Aragorn's eye and silently ordering him along. Gladhadithen tugged at Mithrandir's robe and reluctantly the wizard allowed himself to be led away. Thranduil and Fearfaron remained.

"Out," Erestor demanded, pointing at the imposing Sindarin monarch. Thranduil opened his mouth to retort, but the stricken expression in the seneschal's eyes prohibited any rebuke. Indeed, Erestor alone had right to be in this talan and he bowed his head in acknowledgment as he quietly ducked through the trap door, pulling it to behind him. The thud as the boards connected preceded a reedy wail from the platform above; Fearfaron and Erestor both startled, eyes meeting in gloomy dread. "I don't know if I can," the seneschal whispered. Abruptly, a spine rattling shriek assaulted their ears and a ponderous rapping and pounding against the wooden boards followed.

The carpenter shoved his law-son over the edge and leaped up after him, repeating the manoeuvre for Legolas was on the uppermost platform. They found him jerking in grotesque spasms, heels and elbows beating the floor as he struggled mightily against some unseen foe, hands clawing at his neck, the noises emitted from his throat those of strangulation. Even as they watched, it ended as suddenly as it began, the ailing ellon limp and still once more. Seconds passed and the two stood frozen, unable to move as though fearful any action might precipitate another fit. Then a tremendous, rasping intake of air moved the Tawarwaith's chest and they understood he had only just resumed respiration.

"Elbereth, spare him," groaned Fearfaron. He knelt at the bed and found Erestor beside him, the expression on the seneschal's face indicative of revulsion and horror as his sight tracked over the many marks of abuse. "Help me," the spirit-hunter ordered, disturbed by this reaction and unable to hide it.

"Of course, but whatI justI didn't think" Erestor stammered, desperate to explain. "Fearfaron, I fear to touch him much less anything else."

The carpenter heaved an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "Nothing we do can affect him, for good or ill it seems. He has not worsened; he has not improved. Somehow, this foul magic keeps him in stasis; so the healers assure me and Mithrandir concurs. Still, we have to clean the wounds, or try to, and force water down his throat, or he will die from wasting. This is our gravest fear now and I admit that I am desperate, for how long can his strength last?"

"Aye," Erestor whispered and together they did what they could to make him clean and keep him from dying of thirst. The seneschal found the answer for his weak condition lay before him, for if Legolas was not fading he was dying nonetheless. He gathered the stricken ellon into his arms and quietly began to weep. He could not become aroused by the broken body before him and felt guilt seize his heart. "Pen-rhovan, can you hear me? Please, open your eyes." There was no response and he softly stroked the shorn head, wincing at an unhealed gash where a knife had cut too close. This, he thought, must be how he'd looked at the Judgement. His eyes lifted to find Fearfaron watching him. "He does not deserve this."

"No, but it has happened, so why waste talk lamenting it now?" he remarked irritably. "He is still your mate and you must try, Erestor. Do you not love him still? He was willing to do this for you and suffered terribly for it. After that, when he could not wake you, he went seeking death and tried to force Thranduil to deal it to him. I do not want you to succumb to the same misery should you fail. I have another idea if he does not waken after you join with him."

"What is it?"

"I will dunk him briefly in the Enchanted River. Then he will forget all this and awaken in due time."

They sat staring at one another in pained silence for several seconds, each realising fully the result of such a course. The seneschal did not doubt the carpenter would do as he said and knew he'd been told to frighten him into action. Then Erestor impulsively grabbed his mate's hand, the one bearing the bonding band, and as the rings touched one another a dark red spark flared between them. Legolas twitched, crying out weakly, and for an instant his eyes opened and fixed on Erestor's, pleading and frightened, then fell shut anew as a tremor ran through his body.

"Valar!" Fearfaron exclaimed. "What was that?"

"This is not Analdir's ring," announced Erestor, eyeing it closely and warily. He noticed now how deeply it bit into the skin, how the finger looked almost burnt around the edges of the metal, how an almost palpable sense of evil lifted from it. "This is not the bonding ring I gave him." Without hesitation, he laid Legolas down and began at once trying to work the counterfeit loose, but it was too tight. He recalled the spell that had fit Analdir's ring to Pen-rhovan's finger on the day they renewed their bond and lifted furious eyes to the carpenter. "Get Mithrandir."

## ~~_I do wish I could bind you to me so_~~

  


_'Submit.'_

The words mote his mind and brought him to consciousness with a sharp cry. He covered his ears but the sound was inside his head, not outside, and it rolled back and forth, now louder, now softer, repeating like an echo, first diminishing then strengthening as no echo ever did. "No!" he shouted and was stunned to hear his own voice reduced to a scratchy whisper. But the word evaporated, leaving behind it menace interlaced with devotion. He felt hungry, thirsty, and nauseous all at once and groaned, rolling to his side and rocking himself lightly, arms wrapped round his middle, eyes closed.

_'You cannot escape.'_

The voice was a coy whisper, a breathy sigh exhaled over the tip of his ear, and he jerked away, sitting up to identify his tormenter at last, but there was no one there. There was never anyone there, though once he had surprised a pair of hard, dark, hunter's eyes glaring at him through the eternal white. They had disappeared instantly, a faint expression of intrigued approval passing through them ere they did. He tried to recall when that had happened, then wondered if it had happened at all. A painful contraction rippled through his stomach and he rubbed his belly, unable to recall when he had last eaten anything. Immediately his thirst became unbearable and his tongue seemed to swell within his mouth. He must find water.

He stood carefully, wobbling on unsteady limbs, wondering that he could do so, vaguely recalling there was something wrong with his leg. It did not grieve him, though, and so he tentatively took a step forward, then another. The floor, white, solid, and continuous, supported him. A low, drifting haze of white smoke or vapour boiled lazily round his ankles, cold like the stone in the vaults.

_What is this place?_

He wondered if he was dreaming; yet no reverie's landscape had ever been so empty. He listened and heard silence; sniffed and smelled only his own odour, reached out and pushed against a vacuum. He could detect his presence, nothing more. He kept moving, a strange sensation of immobility accompanying each step as the seamless, featureless emptiness provided no reference points to indicate progress. He swallowed with difficulty and drew a heavy breath, feeling an unnatural weight to the air around him. He raised a hand to his throat and coughed, gagging, struggling with every inhalation. Just as he believed he would pass out, the sensation cleared and he breathed freely, deeply, shutting his eyes in grateful relief.

A light brush of fingers drifted over his buttocks and he leaped away, a cry upon his lips, whirling about to face his assailant; no one was there. Slowly he revolved, straining his senses to his limits, but detected nothing.

"Show yourself!" he shouted, his voice muffled and distorted as though he was underwater.

A deep-throated laugh resounded around him. Arms wrapped round his chest, a body pressed against his back, its long hard cock shoved into the cleft of his arse. He jumped away and slammed into something solid, the corner of a white, formless wall, and fell back upon the colourless floor with a whimper.

_'Submit, my love.'_

The voice buffeted him from all directions as before, confounding his thoughts and draining strength from his limbs. "No," his lips formed the negation, but no sound came forth.

Hands touched him, coddled his balls, pulled at his nipples, tweaked his ear's tips. In vain he twitched and twisted to evade the invisible fingers, but wherever he moved, they were waiting there for him. The unseen body draped its weight atop him as an acrid breath caressed his face and lips claimed his mouth. Legolas struggled futilely to get free, fists flailing through the void and striking nothing, knees trapped beneath the persistent weight. The tongue lapped at his clenched teeth and he denied it entry past them. Piercing, icy agony shot through his breast, knife or fire he could not tell, and he screamed; the tongue entered and the punishment ceased. The wet muscle probed and explored him fully and in the aftermath of the furious pain he trembled, moaning as the kiss deepened, moving against the solid erection pressed against his groin, feeling his ardour rise and encouraging it.

"Legolas!"

He jerked and went rigidly still; the kiss ended and the spectral lover left him. He was alone again and lay staring at the blank expanse of the white void panting, trying to pinpoint that voice. He knew it and wanted desperately to find its source, for he was sure it came from outside this place. He wanted to call out, to shout that he was here, here in this strange pit of empty nothingthis cloud world, but his mouth would not co-operate and he felt himself slipping, the solid floor dissolving like quicksand beneath him, burying him in suffocating white oblivion. He tried to scream but consciousness deserted him and Legolas remembered nothing.

_'You cannot escape my love.'_

He was alert instantly, heart racing and lungs straining, terror coursing through his veins with every pulse. The voice was filled with red filth, with death and hatred, with corruption and desecration. The offal of a thousand rotting corpses could not be more vile. He turned aside and propped himself up on an elbow, vomiting in noisy heaves, his hair pooling all round him on the floor. The thin rivulets of acidic bile meandered toward his hands and he moved so not to touch the egestion. A startled incoherent noise escaped him as his gaze focused on his fingers, a cry part astonishment and part hacking cough. He sat up and held his hands before him, gazing at nails curled over into long, yellowed claws, at knuckles bulbous and gnarled.

"What in Mordor?" he croaked and gasped at the frail sound emitted, the voice of a relic with thin, brittle vocal chords.

His eyes tracked from the twisted talons to legs reduced to emaciated sticks, wasted and fragile as an ancient's, the knob-kneed legs of someone who had not walked more than a few shambling steps in ages of time. He was decrepit and decaying like a mortal, older than the Elder in the woodsmen's village. He shook his head and the motion carried his attention to a great swath of dull, dry grey and golden hair, yards and yards of it spread all round him. He touched his sunken stomach with the nails and shuddered. How long had he been captive here? "Nay, nay." But he could remember nothing of how he came to be in the strange place and panic gripped his heart. "Is this Mandos?"

Laughter flowed into his ear, melodious, inviting, but it made him cringe. _'It is time, Legolas. You cannot escape my love. Submit.'_

"No! Who are you?" he demanded, struggling to his feet, turning in a circle. No one was there.

"Legolas!"

The frantic voice yelled his name and instantly the years dropped from his frame and he was healthy and young again. "Here!" he shouted back, trusting that voice; it came from somewhere beyond the colourless void. He started to run. "I am here!" A burning sensation began to worry his hand, but he ignored it, fleeing, desperate to escape, longing to hear that voice call to him again. He ploughed into an invisible barrier at full speed and staggered backward. His leg erupted in raging excruciation and buckled, bringing him down with a sharp cry. Before he could gather his wits the presence returned, heavy, paralysing, and he felt the heat of an erect penis throbbing against his belly.

_'Submit.'_"

"No!"

He beat at the unseen body with his fists but one hand caught fire and he screamed. His captor laughed, the sound cruel and gloating; the sharp black eyes winked open and aimed their malice upon his naked soul. Someone grabbed the burning hand and pulled it away, bore down upon it with a sharp tool, sawed at it. A whisper of garbled words reached him, holy words or demonic incantations he could not tell. Spasms rocked him but he could not draw air sufficient to scream anymore. The glittering eyes glared and a word of power froze him. Hands parted his legs wide.

"Daro!"

Fingernails dug into his hips and he looked up, suddenly seeing his captor fully. A brutal mouth leered; a long fall of white and jet hair fell from a high white brow and brushed over his abdomen; a hard cock split him open, and the wizard's hand worked his erection, only the hand was a white snake swallowing his shaft.

"Pen-rhovan!"

The name dropped upon him like an avalanche, a mountain collapsing in a hail of boulders tearing away the unblemished white void, a thunderous fulmination of black smog and orange flame replete with the stink of burning flesh and the excruciating sensation of being skinned alive. He was being rent asunder body and soul and welcomed it; the wizard winked out of existence; the unclean lust dissipated, and the colourless void ripped open. 

## ~~_There is a grace about you, Pen-rhovan_~~

  
He found his eyes trained upon a face he knew and loved, tear-stained and pale; his heart broke to see the anguish and sorrow there. He wanted to lift his hand and brush away those tears but it was held fast. Confused, he turned and saw the bloody, pulpy mass of flesh and bone atop the sheets.

"Berenaur," he whispered, and then his eyes closed.

TBC

* * *

NOTE: OK, he's still alive. Everybody OK with what happened and who trapped him behind that white door? Let me know if not and I'll expound in the next instalment.

This chapter is dedicated to Shadowess and the Legolas in Chains group she started so long ago. Feud debuted there and I'll always be grateful to her for giving me a place to post my first ever fan-fiction, this dark tale of angst and torment. Some of you were there at the beginning and I guess it seemed this tale would never end. It should be clear now that it will, and soon. My thanks to those who have given me friendship, support, and encouragement through all these years.


	108. Chapter 108

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

###  **Abauth (After the Battle)**

"Legolas! Pen-rhovan!"

Erestor shouted, lips nearly pressed to the wild elf's ear, but received no further sign that Legolas' soul was free of captivity. The Tawarwaith lay just as limp and lifeless as before, exhibiting the same faint and feeble respiration, deeply buried in an oblivion so enveloping that he never felt the pain caused by the seneschal's vigourous shaking. But there had been that one word, Berenaur, the name only Legolas knew to call him, the one only he dared to use or had the right to use. Erestor had heard it clearly, had seen recognition in those tormented eyes ere they shuttered down once again.

_It was not my imagination; was it?_

He shook Legolas anew, sickened to see the shorn head wobble back and forth, the dry, cracked lips lax and open, eyes sunken behind shields of thin, dark and oily lids. A hand settled on his shoulder and stopped his frantic efforts. He looked to find Gladhadithen's fearful face imploring him and he sat back on his heels, shocked and confused.

"No need for that," she said. "He still lives."

A long tense moment followed filled with expectant silence, dread and hope alternating for primacy, the Tawarwaith's hodgepodge circle of friends and family huddled close, frozen in anticipation of a sign of victory, none of them genuinely certain whether that entailed Legolas' recovery or his death. They peered at the motionless form, scarcely daring to breathe as they watched his chest rise and drop, the motion so shallow it was barely perceptible. After so many days of trying to find the key to his strange mental state, the actions taken to finally retrieve Legolas' captive soul had required only minutes. The magnitude of those small bits of time, however, resonated in a stalled instant of compressed eternity and the gathered witnesses were subdued by the gravity of the possible outcomes.

Erestor's discovery of the false ring had initiated a chaotic frenzy of activity as everyone who had just left the talan piled back inside, shoving Mithrandir bodily up to the highest platform where he had to concentrate to make sense of the combined explanations and demands from the carpenter and the seneschal. All stood back as he examined the golden band and announced that it was of unknown origin, but definitely a crude example of the great ring-making of the Second Age which had caused so much trouble in the world since. It was, he decided, much like the rings of the Nazgûl and this disturbed him; he kept silent on that, deciding there was enough manic distress as it was.

All nine of the rings given to mortal men were accounted for, worn on the fingers of the Wraiths themselves. The dwarven rings were also documented, though perhaps he was the only one to know the whereabouts of them all. This object attached to Legolas was the first of its kind the wizard had ever seen. Had Sauron crafted binding rings for Elf-kind as he had for Men and Dwarves? No lore told of such, but Mithrandir could not think of anything else to explain this mysterious specimen.

"Is he free?" Elladan asked quietly, eyes trained upon the bloody hand at the end of the arm he still held fast against the mattress, the index finger scorched and torn, bone showing through the pulpy red mass. Sight hastily moved on to the shards of the blasted ring on the floor just there, mere centimetres from his foot. It, too, looked as though it had been through a furnace, streaked black, the golden varnish gone, the base metal beneath misshapen and warped, the foul characters and runes visible on the inner side. He lifted his gaze to find Aragorn considering him grimly; the Man nodded as he returned to the work of saving the archer's index finger.

"Free," grunted Mithrandir, cynical tones imbuing the word with contempt. "A relative concept at best. He is no longer trapped in that nightmare place, whatever it was. Who can guess the implications of such enslavement?"

"What do you mean?" Erestor's voice shook with fear. "Mithrandir, what makes you say this? Did you learn something of the nature of the hold, the person responsible? Was it" and he found he could not speak what they all thought must be true.

"Yes, I think it was," Mithrandir murmured, rubbing at his forehead, tired. He sighed. "I do not mean that to upset you, for he is free, Erestor. He is free."

The wizard was done in; the struggle had been arduous and he had known at once the power against which he contended was beyond his own. His spells and exhortations were broken, warped, or turned into weapons against him, or against Legolas. When the ring ignited and the archer's flesh began to burn, he stopped using the might of the Istari. His opponent was of his own order; recognition of that fact was immediate, but the turncoat Maia at once shielded his personal identity from Mithrandir's inner sight.

_A futile effort, that. Who but Sauron would want to do this thing?_

Even so, there was a nagging doubt in his mind, something intangible, something reminiscent of that day in the black water fen when he'd pulled Legolas from a similar mental hell, the scent of sea-salt on his matted hair. Or was it something else, something he'd heard Galadriel remark upon regarding her knowledge of Sauron's current state? _'A lidless eye wreathed in fire, piercing but still blinded by Nenya's strength.'_ What Mithrandir had detected had not been like that at all. There had been no eyes nor face nor form, yet the impression of the being was familiar to him. What had precipitated that sensation of recognition? He could not now recall it, for he'd been thrown into confusion as his nemesis dodged behind a screen of false personas that shifted and melted into one another, a kaleidoscope of personalities and faces fading in and out, voices couched in tones to trick and tease, to confound and disorient him, some well known and loved, others strange and bizarre.

The question remained: if not Sauron, who? It was not a Wraith, for the Nazgûl possessed no power in that degree, confined to leeching the energy for their shadowy existence from the living things near them, and from their Master. Besides, they were human at the core and the human being simply did not have the capacity to generate and manipulate energy in that manner. It occurred to Mithrandir that no news had returned from the east of Alatar and Palando, the Blue wizards. Had they become corrupt, servants of Sauron? Could one, or both, be here in Mirkwood?

He could not discard the possibility, yet had insufficient evidence to make a reasonable guess, and thus did not broach the topic with Thranduil. The final battle for Legolas had been brief though brutal, and the other Istar had simply let go. Nothing Gandalf the Grey attempted had brought about the release of the damaged feä. The renegade just let Legolas go as though suddenly bored with it all.

_It was Erestor calling him that achieved victory. That and removal of the false bonding ring. Would he have heard Erestor's call but for that, I wonder?_

The remnants lay upon the floor and he stretched out a hand, gathered them into his palm, nudged them about with his finger. The weight of the tainted metal was greater than that of ordinary gold but it was base, a kind of iron alloy he could not identify, and the thin overlay of true gold had flaked away into dust as soon as the ring began to glow orange with heat. He stared at the runes, now distorted and mostly unrecognisable, but did not need to see every character to know they contained a powerful binding spell. Abruptly he thrust the fragments away from sight into his pocket and noted their gravity there, both a burden to bear and a prisoner to mind. These would have to be dealt with as the gates of the vault and Thranduil's dark dagger.

His eyes found the file on the floor, red-stained and in places a bit warped as though melted from extreme heat. It was Legolas', part of the tool set given by Fearfaron so long ago, a basic implement of the carpenter's trade. What had prompted the craftsman to fetch it Mithrandir could not fathom, but employing this crude method, scraping and sawing at the band, had proved the only means of finally prying the thing off. The flesh of the archer's finger was equally ripped and torn, but fortunately, while the metal of the ring was hard, it was also brittle and had suddenly burst into three segments under the pressure, a hideous, groaning scream escaping as it fell from Legolas' hand. Part object, part living thing, its irregular pieces jangled together in the wizard's pocket with the slightest movement, but the nature of it was obscured from him even now.

_Or am I simply unwilling to acknowledge the facts?_

"Mithrandir! Answer me, by Varda!" Erestor was shouting again and stood before the wizard, barely able to restrain himself from physically assaulting him.

"What? Sit down, Erestor!" Mithrandir boomed, irritated and resentful. Had he not just risked all to salvage the wild elf? But they did not know, he remembered, and groaned aloud. "Give me room, for the battle has not left me unscathed."

"Ai, Mithrandir, what was done to you? Is there aught we may do to heal you?" Elrohir spoke softly and reached to touch the Istar's arm. He had watched in disbelief as the wizard failed time and again to wrench the wounded elf from the control of the Shadow. The moment when the hand caught fire had been the breaking point and the younger twin had despaired then, believing they had lost Legolas for ever. The old Maia hadn't any inkling what to do next and simply stopped everything, stood staring, defeated and helpless. _If not for that carpenter's idea_ His brother's eyes joined his for an instant in silent communion.

"Nay, nay, I just need time and quiet and to be treated with the same courtesy every other person receives in this world," Mithrandir grumbled, pointing his sharp-eyed scowl at Erestor.

"Forgive me," the seneschal dipped his head formally and resumed his place beside Pen-rhovan, took up the good hand and cradled it in his. "I would have your answer, though, even if it is the one I most dread to hear."

"And I must ask your indulgence, Erestor, for I was lost in thought and missed this portentous question," Mithrandir sighed and peered at the noble ellon, so pale and drawn and frail-looking now that he hardly recognised him.

"I need to know if he is still my mate," Erestor repeated softly.

"Well, of course he is." It was Fearfaron, quietly indignant. He offered a subdued smile, aware his law-son was distressed and thus prone to question everything, even the one thing he never should. "The bond is true and I'd bet my life that is what kept him alive through this ordeal, Erestor. Now let him rest a bit, for he is here, right here for true, body and soul rejoined." The carpenter's grin grew huge. "A mighty warrior is our Tawarwaith!" he exclaimed in awe-tinged pride. "Who else could endure such and live?"

Erestor stared at him in horror and pulled away. It was disgusting to glorify such atrocities thus; these Wood Elves had become tainted with Shadow, their laws and their customs brutal and unforgiving, revelling in the struggle against their enemies instead of removing themselves from such bitter and inevitable destruction by degrees. He slumped down and covered his eyes as tears gathered there. Could he be sure Legolas was still his mate?

"Can you not feel the bond between you anymore?" queried Gladhadithen, as concerned by the seneschal's question as the carpenter.

"Yes, perhaps. I think so, but it feels faint and distant, as though he is far away"

"So he is, in many ways," Aragorn inserted and presented an encouraging smile. "Now he has a chance to return to you."

"Aye," Erestor smiled wanly. "But the bonding band I gave was taken from him, even though Mithrandir enchanted it."

"Indeed, the person who did that employed a strong power," the wizard agreed gruffly, "but keep in mind I did not place an unbreakable spell upon the bonding ring. It was just a gift, you see, from me to him; a way to say I wanted only happiness and joy to follow." All eyes observed how far from that wish Legolas had been taken and a long silence coiled into the tree and spread out beyond the clearing. The old oak creaked and groaned in sympathy; the talan swayed gently.

"Is his soul irreparably harmed?" Erestor asked, unable to let it go, not really directing the question to anyone in particular, not really expecting any reply, but he was answered boldly.

"No, he is not going to fade now if he did not fade before now," Thranduil announced with confidence.

He was perched high on an over-hanging branch, one of the screens having been folded away to allow fresh air and the light of the dawn inside the talan. Erestor's wild shouting had drawn him back, but once the spell-casting began he'd quickly realised he was in the way and took refuge in the limbs. Watching from above, he seemed to be the only one to perceive the strange and filmy grey mist coalesce about Legolas. It arose from inside him the moment the ring was broken and vanished in an eye-blink, but Thranduil had seen it clearly and knew it for what it was: an unhoused fëa. _Or a fragment of one._ Thinking fast, he'd attempted to cast it into the heart of the one of the surrounding trees, bound there until he could remove it to a more permanent repository, but someone else claimed it before he could complete the commands of thaumaturgy.

Now he met the doubtful faces and their dubious expressions and repeated his prognosis. "Legolas will not fade, Erestor, though the recovery may be slow."

"Slow!" Elladan scoffed and shook his head. He had seen his mother struggle to overcome the terrors which had ripped her soul to shreds. Her torment had been severe, but nothing like the tortures on display before him here. "Do not make him try too long, Erestor," he cautioned. "Let him know you will go willingly to Aman should he need the healing of the Powers to survive this."

"You will take him over sea?" Gladhadithen asked, pausing in her painstaking work of stitching the torn flesh of the finger back together.

"If I must, of course," Erestor agreed. He trained his aggrieved eyes upon her. "Do you think we should go right away?"

"No!" barked Thranduil. "His whole purpose for living is here in Greenwood."

"Nay, you must delay for a time," Aragorn insisted firmly, disapproving eye flickering to the King and away. Thranduil's motives were suspect, as far as he was concerned, but his warning was valid. "Legolas is too weak for such a journey. We must first attempt to heal his body before we can begin to examine the state of his soul."

"How can one be favoured over the other?" Erestor complained. "If his soul is compromised, it will affect his natural ability to heal. If the body is damaged beyond repair, even the strongest spirit must flee to Mandos."

"He is not mortally wounded. None of these injuries alone would grieve him more than a few days, given the proper care," stated Aragorn, but then appended his judgement: "Yet, this is not like the torture inflicted by Rochendil. Infection has already set in, held in check by that evil hold upon his soul. Now that he is free"

"What?" demanded Erestor, unconsciously squeezing the wild elf's hand tight.

"We fear the putrefaction may become systemic. The work to cure these infections is not easy," said Gladhadithen, "but he has survived such horrors before."

"Aye, but with aid, as I recall it. Now would be the time to attempt infusing some of your power into him," Thranduil's words were directed to the wizard and spoken in a commanding tone. Everyone turned outraged glares upon him, including Mithrandir, who stood and moved to stand beneath the branch as a chorus of rebukes filled the flet.

"Don't be absurd; you can see he's exhausted!"

"Give him time to recover his strength."

"He is not Vala, Aran Thranduil."

"What insufferable insolence!"

"Enough!" shouted Thranduil, red-faced, and leaped lightly down to face his detractors. "Hear this now and remember it well: Legolas is my own, my first-born son taken from me assuredly as if he'd been abducted and spirited away to a foreign land. He is reclaimed and will be exalted; nothing and no person will be spared to salvage him. Mithrandir, you made a vow and I will hold you to it." The King paused and glanced at Legolas' inert form before continuing. "That being said, I thank you for your efforts on his behalf thus far. If you are not strong enough to help him further then by all means take measures to renew yourself. My home and all I possess are at your disposal."

"It is fortunate for you that I left my staff in my quarters," the Maia fumed, his fury rather suddenly converted into confusion upon hearing the King's thanks. "I am not a servant you may order about at will, Thranduil. And I take offence to that reference to a vow, for once given my word is never withdrawn. I am glad to aid Legolas and wish I could do more."

"I apologise for the affront; you are right and it was an unworthy remark," Thranduil's shoulders twitched as he offered a half-bow; several mouths dropped open.

"Fine, granted," the wizard had no idea how to respond to such uncharacteristic behaviour. His eyes fell on Legolas and he sighed; his heart ached and he wasn't sure how much longer he could bear to remain near him knowing it was Erestor who had called him back. The Tawarwaith did not even seem to perceive his existence anymore. "Granted, think no more upon it," he finally said and sat again on the edge of the mattress.

"What is the next step?" Erestor asked. "Should we attempt to make him awaken?"

"Not yet," Aragorn cautioned. "This is not a trance controlled by another but his body's response to the pain and sickness assailing him. Let him be for a time."

"How long?" Elrohir was uneasy with this advice, preferring to have the archer open his eyes and see that he was safe.

"Impossible to say," Gladhadithen warned, "and it is unwise to set such expectations now. It could be many days before he regains consciousness; it could be mere hours. He is very ill and weak; fever will mount as he fights the sickness. That will be our challenge: keeping the body at a sufficient temperature to burn out the infection yet not so high that he perishes. If we get him through that"

"_When_ we get him through that," Fearfaron corrected sternly.

"Then the more difficult struggle begins," she continued. "He has been tortured in ways few can imagine. I have no experience in such cures; none have ever returned from captivity among the Wraiths."

"Lord Elrond has such knowledge," Aragorn stated and flinched at the dark glower Elladan bent upon him.

"Absolutely not!" snapped Thranduil. "He is under my doom and not to go anywhere near Legolas."

"Nay, if he can help I would not object," argued Erestor.

"Mayhap you'd best consult with him then," offered Elrohir, "though I agree it would not be advisable to have Adar come here."

"His advice is inconsequential. Love is the key," insisted the carpenter. "Erestor loves him and their bond has not been broken, else Legolas would not have responded to his call. He loves Erestor and wants to be with him. I love him; he is my adopted child and the saviour who sent my Annaldir home to Mandos. Mithrandir loves him and while that is a strange bond, Legolas will need it. The rest of you are his friends and that is another kind of love. We will surround him in many layers of love and refuse to relent until all the darkness in him is driven out."

"There is no darkness in him," assured Thranduil, irritated by the suggestion. How could this carpenter have such a portentous name and know nothing of the inner life of the fëa?

"I pray you are right, but I did not mean it as you may suppose," replied Fearfaron. "I know he is not possessed by Shadow; I was referring to the things done to him, darker and fouler than any of us can appreciate. How can we turn him from the memory of these atrocities except with abundant love?"

"What you say is true, yet it is likely to be a trying experience," Elladan cautioned, recalling some of the things he'd witnessed as Celebrian fought for her sanity. She was not less loved than Legolas, yet had not managed to pull free of the poison afflicting her heart and soul. Elrond had become her favourite target, but no one was immune to her bitterness and the caustic, vile curses that fell from her tongue. Love was not always enough, but these were words he had no desire to speak.

"Yes," Erestor felt coldness creep into his heart, reliving one such episode, "I remember." His gaze fell upon Legolas again and he shuddered; could he endure such harangues from his beloved? Even at their most contentious, Legolas had never done more than utter a few justified profanities and insults. Indeed, Legolas had been quick to identify and expound upon the positive qualities the seneschal possessed. To listen as he enumerated and elaborated the negative ones, was his heart strong enough to bear it? Unbidden, the carpenter's earlier suggestion presented itself. Why must Legolas be forced to remember any of it? Wouldn't immersion in the Enchanted River erase these events forever? He shuddered again, lacking the courage to attempt that course yet.

"None of you understand him," announced Fearfaron. "He will not turn his rage on anyone he loves. Legolas always blames himself for whatever befalls him and those under his protection."

"Aye," Aragorn agreed. "He has been trained since childhood to believe he is the cause for whatever misery he suffers as well as that which others in contact with him endure. Even when we were barely acquainted he exhibited this trait on my behalf. Because of this early conditioning, he is sure to blame himself for the loss of Lindalcon." He glared at the King and resumed his work, carefully bandaging and immobilising the finger, wrapping it and the second finger together.

"Yes, it is unconscionable," agreed Thranduil openly, no embarrassment or defensiveness in his defiant expression. "I threw him away, believing him sprouted from another's seed. I do not hide from my errors, echil, and plan to amend the harm I have done. Legolas will be restored to his rightful place in Greenwood."

"Assuming he can be healed," appended Gladhadithen.

"Assuming he wants that place," added Elladan. He was not intimidated when Thranduil confronted him.

"Legolas belongs to Greenwood," said the monarch archly. "He is Tawarwaith."

"Perhaps that is what he was," countered Elrohir, "but who can say what he is now?"

"Broken," whispered Gladhadithen.

"No." Thranduil and Erestor shouted together and in a glance shared their intractable determination to make Legolas whole. Their allegiance was enjoined with unprecedented immediacy and bore out the truism that hardship produced uncommon kin-folk. The King continued. "How can you even suggest it, healer? I thought it unwise to speak this way near him for fear he would take your words for fact and believe himself doomed."

"True, if he was in a healing trance, but he is not, Aranen. He is completely oblivious to everything," answered Gladhadithen. "See, he does not feel what we are doing to his finger and I assure you it is not pleasant." Thranduil looked as though he might dispute her, but he, too, had been under her care more than once and could not gainsay her skill and experience.

"I agree partially with everyone; he is not broken beyond repair, yet the struggle to heal him will be difficult. We must not falter in our efforts to help him reclaim his life, no matter how long or arduous the task," sighed Mithrandir and heaved himself up again, finding he had no heart for this discussion any longer. Abruptly, a hand took hold of his elbow and he turned to find Elrohir beside him, intent upon assisting his climb down. He smiled wryly; he must look terribly frail. Yet he was grateful and allowed the aid. "I will find Aiwendil; there is much he can do to speed my own recovery. Send for me if there is need."

He gave them all a speculative glance. What could any of them give, even Erestor, that would compensate for the wild elf's horrific experiences and make an eternity of such memories bearable? What, indeed, could he himself do for Legolas? He recalled a day, such a short number of years ago, when he'd decided the Tawarwaith had a great purpose to achieve, an important part to play in the struggle yet to come, and must be preserved. He had not acted to ensure that preservation, as he had once imagined, but sent him into greater danger and made him the special target of the Wraiths. How could he know Legolas would go so far beyond defending the scattered woodsmen's villages?

_Yet the fault is mine for not knowing it; his character would demand no lesser level of dedication than eradication of the Wraiths. Is it any wonder he despises the thought of me? Why didn't I take him from here then? Indeed, why didn't I listen to my misgivings and carry him off from Erebor with me the day I saw him on the ridge? Or even later, after the Judgement. Thranduil could not have stopped me, would not have wished to._

The wizard shook his head, finding his eyes once again on the senseless Wood Elf, bloody and battered so much worse than he had been that fateful day. "Vala valuvar, penneth. Na haryalyë raine ar sére ar envinyatië." (The will of the Valar be done. May you have peace and rest and healing.)

With this blessing he shuffled from the flet, guided and assisted by Elrohir as he climbed down and finally out of the tree altogether. At the base of the oak he paused, gazing at the surrounding ring of mighty beeches defining the clearing and thought the distance a daunting space to traverse. Elrohir called for the horse Thranduil had ridden into the croft and boosted him upon it, watching him so closely the wizard had to smile and laid a gnarled hand against the Twin's cheek. "I will be well again soon enough, mellon."

"Will you look in on Adar?" Elrohir had not abandoned his father to fate as had his brother. "When you are stronger, of course."

"Yes, I will have a talk with him. Do not fear; I think this war has drained away Thranduil's hunger for misery and pain. He will let your father go home."

"I hope so, yet I want Ada to be renewed before he leaves from here and I believe he needs a penance to fulfil before that will be possible. Thranduil is not so haughty as I thought him and rumour reported; surely the punishment will be just and appropriate."

"No, he was exactly so: proud and defiant, powerful and cruel in the use of that power. Rumour did not exaggerate his personality; a great change has come upon Thranduil, the reason for which I have not the energy to contemplate at the moment. Were I not so exhausted I might be able to say more; it will have to wait. But I will carry your good thoughts to your father, I am sure Elrond will welcome them, Elrohir. You are a good son." Mithrandir withdrew his hand and clucked his tongue to set the steed on its course.


	109. Chapter 109

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

###  **Said Duir a Cyfn (Dark and Empty Spaces)**

"It was Antala Ajan Ek-tâ," (Giving the Holy Stab - a ritual of sacrifice) Haldir said solemnly, hunched forward in his chair beside the fire, slowly rolling the stem of a goblet between his palms, watching the blood-coloured liquid billow and quake, shimmering as the firelight bounced from its fluid surface.

He did not raise his eyes even when he heard Celeborn's sharp intake of breath. He had not yet washed the grime of battle from him, unable to move a muscle beyond this hypnotic rotation of the glass back and forth within his hands. Here he had hastened as soon as he'd arrived, so to make his report, but Celeborn knew him well and was prepared. Into this chair he'd been thrust, the goblet pressed into his hands, a calming hand upon his shoulder as he described the battle in the mountain tunnels, gaining ground by inches, the brave sylvans storming forward again and again, ancient and battered shields held forth to ward off arrows and swords and axes and clubs, common woodsmen beside them, all of them, men and elves, shrieking and bellowing incoherent shouts that were no longer battle slogans but feral howls of mad, wild, animal fury.

It was contagious.

Haldir shut his eyes against the images of the things he'd done, atrocities even when the targets were detestable Orcs. What base instinct had compelled him? These were not honourable tactics: hacking the wounded and dying to pieces, disembowelling and beheading and dismembering with a ferocious delight that was disgusting to him now. He'd seen others do the same or worse and he fought off these visions with a low groan. The hand on his shoulder tightened and was joined by the other as Celeborn massaged his tense muscles.

"Continue, mellon," Celeborn prompted.

"The losses were great; I brought back four fewer warriors than I took into battle. Thandir, Beldhram, Limgrist, and Tarias are dead. (Trusty One, Strong Blow, Swift Sword, Toughness) Among the men, I doubt that many more than four or five survived the fighting. As for the sylvans, they will be many days retrieving and burying the dead and many centuries mourning them." He took an automatic swallow of the wine to wet his dry mouth and tasted nothing, resumed his moody revolution of the glass.

Celeborn stared into the flames dancing behind the grate, disturbed not by his March Warden's confessions but the casual reference to this obscure and ancient ritual. The blood-letting free for all he had expected and was prepared to console Haldir and reassure him this was no reflection on his character. But Antala Ajan Ek-tâ was something so remote in the history of the sylvan people that few west of the Misty Mountains knew of it. Among the Galadhrim, the practise had disappeared early, long before Celeborn and Galadriel ventured to the Golden Wood, and that being the case he had assumed the same was true for Greenwood, since originally they were one people.

There was no point in asking if Haldir was mistaken; there was nothing else like Antala Ajan Ek-tâ, a ritual killing once practised to appease and please the hidden Powers far away who would not come to aid the beleaguered woodland folk. The use of a venerable dagger and its placement in the throat, severing the carotid artery, was conclusive. Celeborn swallowed. "You believe it was Legolas' hand that"

"No other," Haldir interrupted sharply, shaking his head, eyes finally meeting his Lord's, fury, fear, and intense frustration warring for dominance. "Why is obvious and the Wood Elves did not seem to respond with anything other than terrible sorrow, veneration of the victim, mournful compassion for the executioner."

"They accept this?" Celeborn was relieved for that much if a bit perplexed. "How is that, I wonder, when he was condemned for the deaths of three warriors during battle?"

"Valar! Who can understand them?" Haldir got up abruptly and moved away, casting aside his muddy, bloody cloak in the corner of the room. "I need to wash, Hiren," he said tiredly and did not wait for permission to leave, stomping into Celeborn's bathing chamber. There he found the usual tall earthen ewers wrapped in their woollen coats to keep the water inside from cooling too quickly. His arrival had obviously been anticipated. The Greenwood, he decided wryly, had a very efficient communications system.

He stripped down mechanically, stepped into the copper basin, and scrubbed himself until his skin burned. It did not help; he could not rub out the memory of Lindalcon's bloated, decaying body from his mind, the emerald encrusted dagger protruding from the neck. _This place! It leaves its taint on everyone. I feel diseased, as though the darkness has got into my very blood._ He towelled off, took a clean woollen robe from the cupboard against the wall, and belted it round his body, realising with surprise that he did feel a little better. _Or at least less like the mad elves in this vile and blighted forest._ He re-entered the inviting study to find Celeborn calmly waiting for him, a tray of light victuals set upon the table, and Haldir smiled.

"Sit and eat, renew your strength," the Lord of Lorien enjoined and held out a small silver goblet. "Miruvor. I think you need it, mellon." He watched as Haldir threw him a soul-weary look and took the cup, draining it hastily before dropping in the chair again. Celeborn took a seat beside him. "So, whatever the reason, this ritual has changed over time and become something else here, something the Wood Elves respect or revere. We will need to know the particulars in order to know how to address the issue with Legolas."

"I do not believe he will want to have it addressed," announced Haldir, shaking his head as he picked at a golden loaf smothered in sweet honey. It was good and suddenly he was famished. As soon as the first taste touched his tongue, his appetite awoke and he devoured everything on the plate: bread, fruit, and dried venison.

Celeborn waited for him to finish and handed him another goblet, this time filled with more of the dark Dorwinion. "I understand why you feel that way, yet it will have to be addressed for that very reason. Legolas, from all accounts we have heard thus far, loved Lindalcon like a brother. We know the young one felt the same way. What they shared in those final moments is going to mark Legolas for whatever remains of his life."

"Aye, if he survives," Haldir agreed, his face contorted in a bitter grimace. "It would be better for him not to survive and while I grieve, Lindalcon had the easier fate. I fear only madness awaits if he ever awakens to comprehension of what has happened to him, what he was forced to do. I wonder if they had any chance to discuss it?"

"Eru! What a conversation that would be." Celeborn pressed fingers against his eyes a moment, for such things were not beyond his personal knowledge. He had seen horrors he preferred not to recall and found his mind bringing up faces of comrades he had not thought upon in Ages of time, warriors and friends he had released from the slow horror of being dismembered and eaten alive, others lethally poisoned, still other elves broken and twisted into traitors who cursed him and called him kin-slayer when he was forced to dispatch them to spare the lives of those they were killing and trying to kill. These were things he could only speak of with Galadriel, for she had shared similar experiences and knew the weight of guilt and responsibility such acts left behind.

"Aye," Haldir sighed. "Who can tell us about the ritual? Thranduil?"

"Nay, not he. Iarwain will know, yet I hesitate to go to him as it might give him the impression I am favouring him over my cousin. I do not want to do anything to upset the new balance of power here."

They sat in silence and sipped their wine, pondering the catastrophic events that had rocked this besieged kingdom. Yet for the moment Celeborn was more interested in aiding Haldir through the aftermath of this tragic war. He already knew the March Warden blamed himself for letting Lindalcon slip away from him. It was not so hard to imagine Haldir shouldering the burden of the young one's death as well. He observed the defeated posture: shoulders slumped, head bowed, mouth drawn in a dour scowl, eyes searching through memories for the moments when he had failed to see Lindalcon's dire fate looming, drawing comparisons where there were really none to find.

"He is not Rumil," Celeborn said softly and watched the proud face contract in pain as Haldir turned away. "Lindalcon was never your responsibility."

"Was he not? I alone understood what he was feeling." Haldir gulped down his wine but it left a sour taste and he set it aside.

"Really?" Celeborn let just a touch of scorn limn the word. "That is truly arrogant. These people here, they understand far better than you or I ever could. Indeed, we assume the young one felt as we would feel under such circumstances, yet neither of us has ever faced circumstances similar to the one that marked his entire life, from its very conception."

"I did not mean it that way," Haldir defended his thoughts. "I meant the way he wanted to avenge his father; this I understood well and might have aided him, prevented him from leaving the stronghold."

"You are entirely wrong," Celeborn shook his head slowly. "When Lindalcon left here, it was not merely to avenge his father. He intended to achieve the Warrior's Release that meant his Adar's spirit would be free to fly to Mandos. He left here knowing what his mother had done; what he was to her. He left here seeking his death and if we did not understand that it is because we are not part of this culture. Those who are let him go. They let him go, Haldir, these barbaric Wood Elves just let him go, one more sacrifice to salve their own consciences."

"Valar!" Haldir seethed, gripping the arms of his chair fiercely. "How could they allow it? He was a child still!"

"Who are we to judge them?" Celeborn immediately reversed himself, issuing this stern rebuke, and saw the swift reaction of shock sweep through Haldir's eyes. "We do not have to exist in these conditions; we are protected. And Lindalcon was a child no longer. He made his decision based on customs we do not even now fully comprehend. Perhaps the shame was too much. Perhaps the grief was overwhelming and he preferred to die as a warrior rather than endure the agony of fading he had observed as Gildin expired."

Haldir stared, dumbstruck for several seconds. He could not have heard correctly and shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "You cannot be condoning this appalling and unnecessary sacrifice. I am certain if I had taken the time to talk to him I could have convinced Lindalcon that there was another way."

"Why do you think that?" Celeborn challenged and set his own goblet aside, leaning forward. He pointed at Haldir's chest. "You are making assumptions without considering evidence that supports an entirely different conclusion. Everything we have seen here thus far would indicate that there was no other course for Lindalcon. Do you think he would have wanted Legolas to take up the Judgement again, after hearing his outspoken words in the Council Chamber?"

"Nay, perhaps not, but"

"Do you think he would really want his siblings to lose their mother? Would he really want to see her brought before the Council and condemned, publicly banished and cast out from the city? Nay, surely not, for he loved her, but in a moment of bitter and unbearable hurt he struck out and hurt her irrevocably, as she had done to him. Once delivered, his accusation could not be withdrawn. What do you think he felt about that as soon as it was over with?"

"II cannot imagine it."

"I can," Celeborn said seriously. "He would not be able to even allow himself to acknowledge it, but underneath his spirit would be writhing in an agony of guilt and horror. For he is not like his mother and he would hate himself for doing this thing, whether she deserved it or not. Nor would he forgive himself for sealing her fate and also endangering his siblings' lives because of her loss. Do you see?"

"Ai Valar," Haldir breathed, pale and shaken. It was all so much worse than he had really envisioned it and he silently chastised himself, seeing that he was avoiding the truth because it was so terrible to bear it.

"Indeed," Celeborn shook his head sadly. "I think Legolas also understood all of this, whether he could admit it to himself or not. He has endured so much to protect those young ones and I can imagine he was not pleased with Lindalcon for naming their mother a kin-slayer."

"You are saying he meant to execute Lindalcon?" Haldir croaked, face contorted in dismay over such an unspeakable set of circumstances.

"No, I do not believe he would have been able to do it but for the fact of Lindalcon's capture. I do not think Legolas has ever been able to stomach the idea of drawing elven blood. He has suffered incredible hardship without retaliating very often. His explosion in the Council Chamber was a long, long time fermenting before the vessel blew," Celeborn explained. He was silent a time, considering the personality his unique kinsman had evolved over the course of his life. "I think, because he sees himself as a burden and hated by almost everyone, that he cannot condemn those in whom he sees flaws and faults and errors, even grievous ones. He has to believe, you see, that everyone is worthy of love and respect, no matter what they have done in their past, else there is no hope at all for him."

"That is completely perverse," Haldir announced, disgusted, but he could not dispute his Lord's reasoning. He stood and returned to the bathing chamber to fetch a comb, settling closer to the fire to work the tangles out of his mane as it dried. He glanced at Celeborn. "If he survives, what can we do to help him?"

"He has already survived," reminded Celeborn with a grim smile, "and there is much we may do to help him. First and foremost, we need to support Thranduil as he seeks the path to reconciliation with his son. After that, we need to minimise this ugly business with Elrond. Legolas is not going to want to relive everything through another soul-racking trial. Finally, we must learn about this death ritual. If there is some ceremony to honour the two of them, victim and executioner, we must make sure to be part of it. The Twins will also participate, for they have been forced to take elven life, too, and feel for him keenly. I want Legolas to know that other realms do not condemn him for this mercy killing."

"Hiren," Haldir intoned, "that is quite a lot more than I entertained. How long do you mean to stay here?"

"Does it matter?" Celeborn shrugged. "Galadriel will maintain Lorien, as she has done for all this time already. She instructed me to save Legolas if at all possible, for she saw my heart and knew he would become a burden on my soul if I did not at least try. So. We shall try, yes?"

"Aye, Hiren. We will try to make him whole again," Haldir agreed, smiling, but then he frowned. "Although, I do not believe he has ever been whole."

Thranduil stood outside the cell in the dark, the dark of empty places filled with ancient malice and crowded with fear and anger and remnants of minds, fragments of deathly thoughts, memories of final moments before hroa and fëa were riven. Old places like this barren abyss filled with such detrital energy as surely as a well drilled into the ground drew water. The lost found their way here; the forgotten and rejected drifted into these holes to mourn the life taken from them, the banished and condemned fled and sought refuge in foul pits and cracks and crevices where Eru would not bother to look for them. In the dark underbelly of the world they were swallowed up and slowly digested, nevermore to be disgorged, housed in the absolute pitch of the lowest halls of hell.

Thranduil was familiar with such shattered shards of extinguished light and feared them not. The impression of vitality was false; they were no longer sentient. These were but the echoes of spirits trapped by their own sins, terrors, or mistakes. The bottom-most caverns of his stronghold were a fitting place for their final transformations. Indeed, he often syphoned off small quantities of this end product of life and used it to bolster the wards he employed throughout the fortress. He felt them like a thick, sluggish current moving through the stagnant air, twisting and writhing about him, desire to be near, terror to be discovered powering the convection. He carried no lighted candle, no lamp or lantern, no torch to illuminate the long dusty hallway between the dungeon's tiny chambers. In the glow of his aura he could see his own person and nothing more, but that was more than enough. He stirred.

_How long have I been standing here? _

Instantly he knew he would stand in this place again and again and again over the Ages that passed and saw the wreck he would become because of it. Just as quickly he banished that future and gathered his courage close; he had children who needed him, a people who depended upon his strength, a son to reclaim.

He faced the door without seeing it, envisioned it in his mind, beheld it as clearly as if he held a blazing brand aloft in his hand. The barrier was solid oak braced with bands of iron and set into the rock wall on heavy hinges. A ponderous lock adorned the outer surface, snapped through ornamented hasps engraved with runes of such confining power that any who sought to break through would be caught and crushed with such fear that they would cower frozen upon the floor, no action possible beyond the wild beating of their hearts as visions of horrific torments passed through their thoughts. Beyond the door, beyond it, there inside the empty space filled with the cold boil of raw quintessence, she was in there. Thranduil stirred, jerking out of his funk to prevent his brain from wounding him by producing her face and form. He drew breath and spoke.

"I have news for you. Have you a mind still? Can you reason and think and comprehend my words, Gwarth?" (Betrayer)

No answer came, no sign of movement or of life, but he did not open the door nor summon light to check on the prisoner. He could not bear to look upon her, whether she was alive or dead, and did not know which would be easier for him to face. He waited; if she was dead he need not waste his breath here, but if she still breathed then he must deliver her to her just punishment.

Judgement was a duty laid upon the ruler of the people in ancient days, something his Adar inherited from Iarwain and passed along to him, but enforcing the sentence was wholly the right of the wronged, or the surviving loved ones such as he: a betrayed husband, an outraged father. Even had custom not been so, his participation was required under the agreement reached with his brothers' spirits and, Thranduil was convinced, with the Powers. Now, after he endured this last devastating perfidy, this loss, this abandonment, now the curse would be removed and his children would thrive; their futures assured, their happiness guaranteed. He had to believe; what more could he give? What more could he lose? Hastily he turned from such thoughts for he had so much that was precious to him.

And still he waited, face close to the door, forehead almost touching the wood, breath fogging the metal of the steel and mithril lock. He felt her in there, a weighty presence, a bulky, blobby, foul excrescence, base and adulterated, all that remained after anything pure, anything essential to the spirit of elf-kind was stripped off, a living and breathing mass of offal too repellent to be exposed to light and air. Yes, he felt her and his heart contracted so sharply he lost his bearings and almost unlocked the door. Yet he refrained, hands trembling as they clasped together and held one to another, the mighty King and the forlorn inner child finally joined in this unbearable grief. The painful spasm passed; he inhaled and filled his lungs; the forlorn child hid himself behind the mighty King.

"Answer if you live."

"I hear," a faint voice sounded, whispery, tense and wary.

Frightened.

Fragile.

Helpless.

_False._

"Ahhhhh," Thranduil sighed long and low and pressed his palm against the stony wall to support his weary frame. He heard them now, the shadow sounds woven within her once endearing voice. The unspoken words they formed were cunning, cruel, cold. Why did it have to be like this? "I could have forgiven anything save the child's fate," he said.

"Your child's fate you determined before his birth," Meril hissed. "Do not saddle me with his woes; I am not Ningloriel."

"Nay, assuredly you are not and only now do I see the foolishness of my stubborn pride. Ningloriel was fair and noble, descended of wise and courageous people, worthy to be Greenwood's Queen. If not the best naneth, at least she would never have done Legolas harm purposefully. As best she knew how, she loved him, and Legolas is likely the only other person beside herself for whom she had true feelings."

"So you regret sending her away? What of the love you professed to me? How fickle is your heart!"

"You speak justly, for I was ready to be rid of her without ever attempting to learn if she spoke truth to me or not. I used her and she allowed it for the sake of her people, yet even then I was jealous and would not permit her to be happy even in a minor way. I did not love her nor she me and what she gained from our union was robbed from her by the lover she trusted. Was the solace that lover provided her too much to ask of me in return for the heir she bore?"

"Apparently so," sneered Meril. "You need not have burdened yourself with her in the first place, but you were so arrogant, Thranduil, so haughty! A simple sylvan maid was not fit for you. Thus, extraordinary measures were required to return Greenwood to the rule of her own people."

"Do not speak my name for I shall not say yours, and there is nothing simple about you, Gwarth. A more twisted mind, a more perverted heart I have never known. Legolas is sylvan, as well you know and I have learned, and but for what has been done to him would be a fine successor to rule here. No interference from you was required."

"What gall! You have done worse and the name you give me now should belong to you! Those things _were_ done to Legolas and it is you who sanctioned them. You made certain we had no one to replace you; I simply could not accept that."

"I have not done anything like your sin," Thranduil said, both stern and sad, for he did not understand how she had come to be this warped. What terrible thing was done to her to make her so? "What sins my soul bears I do not attempt to justify but admit them freely and state the reasons I undertook such actions. At least be honest with yourself now that all has been laid bare."

"Where are your brothers, mighty King?" she scoffed, laughing again, but it died away when he did not answer her, transformed into a gasp of shock. "Nay! Nay!" she keened, realising at last that the spirits were in the cell with her. She ran to the door and pounded on it desperately, threw herself against the boards. "Please! Let me out! Make them go!" She shrieked, a piercing screech of misery that died away into whimpering snivelling.

"You are in no danger; they have no wish to inhabit such a person's flesh," advised the King.

A long silence filtered away into the stale air as Thranduil relived his days with her, bewildered and hurt that he could love her, really love her, only to learn she was so vile his stomach churned over the intimate scenes and tender moments. Why was it his fate always to be thwarted? _She bore my children; are they tainted now?_ At once he knew this was not so, for Lindalcon had been nothing like her. He gathered himself and stood tall in the caliginous corridor between the ranks of cloistered cells.

"This is all spurious, our carping words of blame and fault and sin. It is not my child I meant," he announced. Behind the door, he heard her scrambling to her feet, felt the pressure of her hand where she set it softly against the door. If he really listened, he could hear her heart; it was racing. "Does your heart still feel, Gwarth? Did it ever?"

"Not Legolas? What is wrong with my children? Is it Taurant? Is he grieving for me? Will you sacrifice our precious princeling on account of that disgraced bastard?" she demanded. "Let me go to my children or their deaths are on your hands!" She pounded on the door again when he did not answer. "Thranduil! Let me go to them! Do you not care if they perish from grief? Free me! Free me and let them live!"

"Mordor take you," he hissed, stunned to hear her exclude Lindalcon as though he had never lived. "My children are well, though frightened and confused about where you have gone. Taurant has a fine nurse who cherishes him and I fear will spoil him, save that her mate is so stern a guardian and takes his duty so seriously he will not permit it. Taurant thrives with the three of us doting on him and Gwilwileth clinging to him. She is sad and misses you, but no longer asks about you, for she has noticed that her brother left the same time you did. She is old enough to understand the gossip the servants share."

"Lindalcon?" she spat, trying to summon rage while her voice quaked with terror.

"So you do recall your first-born."

Silence followed this remark, unfolding into an immense choking cloud, clogging the vast emptiness of Meril's cell with the unspoken voice of Valtamar's son: the boastful, proud, loving quotes of childhood, the fiery anger and outrage of disillusioned youth, the unrelenting integrity of a devoted son and brother grown to maturity too soon, the resigned and mortified words of despair inked across a pale parchment.

"Lindalcon?" she whispered, shivering, scarcely able to draw air, and thought she heard him answer. But it was Thranduil speaking.

"What have you to say about your first-born? Have you no worries for his health in light of all that has come to pass?"

"Lindalcon? Nay, what shall I say of him? He has betrayed me, his own naneth," she said with dark petulance. "Why did he do this? It was the influence of the immoral ellon your cast off child became. I was wrong to let my son near that kin-slayer. He would not have said those things of me otherwise. Lies! All lies! He accepted the rambling fantasies of a fading soldier over the word of his own naneth. He shames me and his father. He is"

"Dead," Thranduil interrupted her tirade, voice steady and quiet, neither rage nor disgust nor shock within it, but only the solemn tone of Judgement. "He is dead, Meril."

"Dead? Nay," she denied with a shaky laugh. "Nay, you are saying this to punish me for my part in Legolas' fall from grace, though that part was so small compared to others' influences on his life."

"How telling are your denials. Lindalcon is dead and you are the cause of his death, even as you intended from the moment the thought of making him entered your mind. Tell me now my sins equal yours, Gwarth. Can there be a worse betrayal than to generate life only to condemn it in the same moment?"

"I do say it!" she shouted, beating the door again. "What did you do to Legolas but condemn him?"

"I wanted him and made him with the desire to raise up a potent heir for my Adar's lineage, not to sacrifice him for a chance at wealth and position."

"Didn't you?" her mocking voice rang out. "What more were you striving for than to be the great King of the Woodland Realm, a monarch in the manner of Thingol, mightiest of all the Kings of old! Yes, you made an heir instead of a son."

"I made both and both were stolen from me by others, a number in which you belong for you meant for him to die," Thranduil countered, inwardly marvelling at the dispassionate manner he maintained as he addressed her. He did not feel anything just now, neither wrath nor sorrow, and he hoped this would continue until he was finished. "I would have loved him dearly but for the interference of outsiders, and my own hubris. For that I owe him a debt it will take eternity to repay, yet I will remit it in full. There is much in him to admire, much to engender pride and cause me to marvel that I am his sire."

"Oh, duplicitous King! Can you not acknowledge your own self-serving falsehoods? Coward! As fine as a hair is this distinction between me and thee. Ai! Listen to your rationalisations! An heir for your father's House? A son to carry on the noble bloodline?" She howled with laughter and went on for some seconds before abruptly stopping short. He heard her shuffle close and lean upon the door and the malice in her seeped round the edges of the barrier, poisoning the air so that he stepped back. "Yet it shall not be. You shall not rewrite this tale to suit your conscience and cover your crimes. I tell you now that you and all your line are"

A horrific scream of agony replaced her words, the curse aborted as the unhoused Princes of the Woodland Realm came to the defence of their kin, niece and nephews innocent of ill-deeds who deserved no further invocation of evil upon them. Before her they paraded the befouled garments with which she had chosen to clothe herself: a cloak of unwarranted discontent and false indignation to obscure a gown of covetous hunger for position and power, skirts comprised of esurient desire to control, manipulate, and possess. Unveiled at last, her eyes beheld these inglorious robes as they were, rotten rags mouldering in her malignant self-pity, ill-made and ill-suited for elvish form, revealing beneath them the monster she had become. When at last the brothers relented, she was near to madness and they relinquished her soul only on the brink of shattering her mind. Through it all Thranduil remained rigid and unmoving, hands braced against the rough stone, eyes squeezed shut though he could not see her frantic writhing.

"Meril!" he wailed in broken-hearted sorrow. He swallowed with difficulty and found his chest heaving, tears running down his face, this wound worse than all the rest and the sign he had prayed not to receive. She meant to curse them, the very children they created together in love, curse them to dark fates and ill ends solely to spite him. It was some little time before he composed himself and he was grateful for his brothers' spiritual presence, let them in without resistance and listened to their comforting words and promises of protection for the little ones, for Legolas, for him. He almost retreated and let them take over completely, but they insisted he continue, for this was part of his punishment as had been agreed.

"Now you will hear of the death of Lindalcon and the burden his loss places upon Legolas," he said and described it for her, knowing she would understand for she was sylvan. The populace whispered of the ritual killing perpetually, a sacrifice for Greenwood, and of course he had heard. The recitation did not take long and so he added the horror of the Tawarwaith's soul held captive while he remained alive to know it, easily bound by the guilt he bore. "Lindalcon died to free his father's soul, the death you crafted for him, yet it was a better end than you intended, sanctified because he accepted it and the Tawarwaith delivered it. Thus, it is your soul that bears this double stain," he concluded and then corrected himself. "Nay, the stain is so ingrained your soul must long ago have fled or suffocated, blotted out in the deluge of blood you've spilt. What is inside you I shiver to think, for I have lain with it." And he did shudder violently as revulsion rolled through him.

"What I have done is no worse than your own dark deeds," she insisted, though her voice was faint and she knew there was no hope for her now. Yet, she could not help but beg, for if she had him beside her to suffer with her, then her burden would be lessened. "You could forgive me these errors as I have overlooked yours. Together, we can cleanse the woods of the horrors that have settled upon our hearts and turned them inside out. You love me still and I am your devoted mate, the naneth of your prince and princess. Salvage me and in so doing gain remission for your wrongs, Thranduil. Take me from here and all will be forgot in a sun's round."

He was amazed at her ability to still bargain after the ordeal of recognising her utter ruin. In the quiet that followed, Thranduil was surprised to learn that he was not tempted to do as she said. His love for her had become an ulcerous lesion on his heart and he knew the pain of it would plague him forever. The joy that had once underlain that love was stripped away, eroded as surely as acid etches stone, and all his memories of their time together would become nothing but a bitter torment to endure until the end of days.

"Nasan," he said again and sentence the burden willingly that his children might be spared and their futures cleansed.

He sighed heavily and reached in his pocket for a key, set it into the lock and turned it. At once the door was pulled open by Meril's eager hands, her gloating, exultant expression revealed in the mingled gleam of their elvish light. He hardened against her, grasped her at the arms to prevent her stepping over the threshold.

"No," he commanded and pushed her in, followed. "You are not leaving here, never. I declare you abandoned and nameless, a kin-slayer; no elven realm will grant you refuge. Neither shall you sail from the Grey Havens to Valinor, nor pass through death to Mandos' Halls. What family you spring from will know you no more. You are less than an Orc, for even as low as they are they would spurn you. Man pídiel, sen boe cared." [What has been said, this must be done.]

"No! The children!" she screeched and thrashed to get free of him in vain.

"Be still!" he ordered sternly and his voice was so cold she instantly obeyed, all triumph vanished from her staring eyes.

"You would do this?"

"The doing was yours," he stated. "Yet I am not without pity. See what I have brought and mayhap you will understand that once I loved you." He reached into his tunic and removed a small white candle newly made, faintly emitting a sweet perfume. He heard her gasp and saw her flinch from it, covering her mouth. "Flint I have here and a striker you may find useful." So saying he retrieved from his waist a dagger, ornate and finely wrought, almost a work of art with rubies in the handle and mithril inlaid upon the blade, runes written there. Again she cringed, falling back against the wall as she dropped to the floor in stricken disbelief, unable to speak. "Will you take this blade?" Thranduil held it forth, but she hid her face against the rock and whimpered. "Nasan. Light the candle and as it burns contemplate the fate you have crafted for yourself. I will not strike the blow, for you are unwilling and I must go to our children from here. How can I touch them if I have their Nana's blood on my hands?"

There was nothing more to say. He set the candle and the blade on the crude cot and stepped out, locking the door behind him. He did not stay, turning and ascending, yet he spoke once more ere he reached the narrow stairwell to the vestibule of the three doors: "Echado calad!" (Make light!)

In the dungeon, Meril wept, watching the candle's form wax and wane in its softly pulsing glow, lungs inhaling the delicate odour of the perfumed smoke with every sob. Abruptly, she lunged forward and snuffed it out with her hand, laughed uneasily, wiping her eyes. "Úechado calad!" she mocked. Before the sting faded from her palm, the wick bloomed bright with orange light and her mirth died. There in the unsteady glow she saw a figure coalesce upon the bed, a warrior she did not know, the handle of a dagger protruding from his throat. He smiled at her and picked up the ruby studded blade.


	110. Chapter 110

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) | This Chapter UnBeta'd

###  **Echui (Awakening)**

Days rolled by, dawn melting into dusk, crimson sunsets replaced by golden, glinting mornings; Ithil grew, diminished, and vanished then waxed toward fulness again. Snow showers filtered through the air and coated the brown earth white, weighed down the branches of evergreens as ice clothed the spidery limbs and twigs of the naked trees. Tawar slept in the dense, immobile silence of flinty winter nights beneath skies embedded with hard, clear sparks, minute and cold and distant. The Wood Elves brought forth fur cloaks and sturdy fleece-lined boots; every talan was shrouded in layers of silk and wool. Hidden behind these woven barriers, braziers exhaled heat, light, and thin, vermiform ribbons of grey-blue smoke, a thousand thuribles perfuming the heavens to beg the strength of Tawar for Tirno and peace for Greenwood. The Solstice arrived unacknowledged; Winter claimed the Woodland Realm. To all Legolas was insensible.

Erestor soothed a cool cloth over Pen-rhovan's feverish face, the Tawarwaith so pale he resembled nothing so much as a taper diminished by constant use, a transparent, waxy quality to his skin, lips dark maroon and cheeks sunken and stained with blotchy vermilion circles. The sound of his affliction was quieter today, Erestor thought, less punctuated by piercing screams and convulsive flailing than by shuddering gasps, hoarse and grating moans of sullen and plaintive tones, strained attempts at speech that came forth broken and unintelligible or profane. Legolas was rattled by a continuous, faint twitching of the limbs and often presented a truly grotesque expression of wretchedness, a mask sufficiently repugnant to rival those sported by dwarven soldiers of the First Age. He drifted in shallower seas of suffering, buffeted by fewer gales, tossed by gentler swells, but remained unable to raise his consciousness above this tide of torment and misery.

_But he is quieter today._

The seneschal had not left his mate's side since Thranduil's summoning and remained adamant that complete recovery was possible, having come to an internal decision to accept no other option. He would not allow anyone to speak in negative terms, insisting Legolas was able to hear them now and would be influenced by whatever was said. Discussion of his state of health was relegated to the healers alone. All others must find some other topic on which to expound and he demanded they address Legolas as though he was conscious and could respond to them. If they could not do this, then song or silence were the only other options permitted. Tears and mournful recollections were forbidden.

"You are resting easier today, Pen-rhovan," he murmured softly and dipped the cloth again, swabbing over the long neck and bony shoulders, carefully, lightly soothing an ugly, ragged gouge that nearly circled the left nipple. "You are healing here, too." He forced his voice into a steady, even tone, for this injury always brought him near to tears, though there were many made by claws and teeth. The skin surrounding the enflamed node was crusted and sealed at last, and he offered yet another silent prayer that this would leave no scar. He soaked the rag and squeezed out the excess, softly dabbing at fading bruises left by stones or other blunt weapons. Never had he known contusions to heal so slowly. He gingerly patted at a nasty lash that still fought against their efforts to purify it. The contact made Legolas groan feebly and he began trembling. Erestor shushed him. "Nay, do not fear; it is just me trying to cool the fever all these infections have let loose upon your body."

The wild-elf calmed a bit and a heavy sigh worked through his chest; his hand clutched convulsively at the bedding beneath him. His eyelids fluttered briefly but did not open.

When the fever was high, he raved incoherently and fought invisible foes with feeble and abortive motions; every contraction of a muscle unleashing a torrent of excruciating pain. These episodes left him whimpering and trembling, though these were not the atrocities endured within the white void or the black pits, but ordinary nightmares wrought by illness. Only minimally less horrendous for that, the sickness seared him until sweat ran from his body, mixing with the oozing pus of the worst of the lashes and lacerations from whips and claws and teeth. The fluid stank of decay and stained the pallet on which he lay. The mattress had been removed and burned after the third day for it was adding to the unclean environment and abetting the recalcitrant infections. Gladhadithen had reverted to simple pallets of soft moss beneath plain cotton sheets, layering blankets atop that when the ague seized him; these could be easily replaced as needed.

Erestor completed the gentle washing, pleased to note that the disgusting scratches at the tip of the penis were completely healed, the new skin still pink. He cautiously wiped the lax genitals and inner thighs, sighing in relief that this provoked no noticeable reaction. Legolas had not endured another sexual fantasy since the removal of the false ring and the seneschal was convinced this was because Legolas knew his mate was near, watching over him and protecting him. The broken leg he barely touched, leaving this to Aragorn or Gladhadithen for they had impressed upon him how serious the threat was. He might yet lose it.

_That would be terrible. I will take him over sea before I let them take his leg._

He drove the idea out of his thoughts immediately and carried away the basin, dumping it over the side, shivering as a blast of icy air hit him when the curtains parted. He returned to Legolas side, scanned the naked body and its many wounds, sighed and forced a smile. "You are certainly better today and you must be thirsty," Erestor avowed. This was his other regular chore: force feeding his ailing mate life-sustaining fluids. He gathered a ewer of clear water and a clean reed and settled beside Legolas, carefully gathering his head onto his lap. Another gulping groan exhaled from the Wood Elf's lungs and he struggled against Erestor's careful hands.

"Nay, be still, Pen-rhovan, be still," the seneschal exhorted gently, trying to get Legolas to ingest more than one swallow. "The water will soothe your throat and ease your thirst; drink. Come now, another sip or two for me," he cajoled and pushed the tube between Legolas' lips, thumb firmly sealing the upper end. He trickled a few drops onto his tongue. Legolas grew still and gave a convulsive swallow and Erestor let more of the water flow; smiling to see the throat working rapidly to take it in.

All the water in the tube was gone and Erestor praised the wild elf. "Well done, well done. Another would help you tremendously. Once more, then." He sucked cold water into the thin reed from the carafe at his side, sealed it with his thumb, and worked it between the dry lips, watched the fluid disappear. "That's fine, Legolas, excellent," he encouraged, certain Pen-rhovan listened to him. "If we keep this up, it will all start coming back out soon," he joked lightly, though it was not really funny.

Legolas' body was not functioning well and Gladhadithen had produced a second tube to be used for emptying the bladder when it filled. That was seldom, for the stricken patient was sweating away nearly every drop he swallowed. Erestor filled the conduit a third time and inhaled a sharp breath when Legolas sucked it up greedily and sounded a satisfied grunt. The waxy eyelids fluttered, lashes parting for a second. "Oh!" the seneschal cried and quickly offered a fourth drink. Again it was consumed avidly and this was repeated several more times. Legolas stirred, hand half lifting as his head jerked, eyes rolling behind their covers. Erestor was nearly beside himself, soothed eager fingers over the feverish cheek, clasped the hand tight.

"Legolas, do you hear me? I know you do, Pen-rhovan, and that was wonderful, wonderful. I am here, right here beside you. We're home in the talan in the clearing. Do you think you could open your eyes for a moment and"

"What is happening, Erestor?" Aragorn was on the lower platform and scrambled up in seconds. He hunkered down beside the patient and ran a critical eye over the emaciated form. He thought there might be a hint of change and raised a cautiously inquisitive expression to Erestor.

"He drank at least seven tubes of water, sucked it up himself!" Erestor announced. "He almost spoke; I am sure he was trying and his eyes almost opened. And he reached for me, Aragorn! He hasn't done that before, has he?"

Seeing his unbridled joy, Aragorn hated to dampen such happiness, but he had witnessed this phenomenon, too. "Aye, he has," he admitted, settling a comforting hand on his old tutor's shoulder. "It is just reflex, Erestor, not necessarily a sign of healing."

"Ah, a reflex. Of course." Erestor felt as though he'd been kicked and sighed heavily. He ran a tender caress over the stubbly golden hair, trying to gather hope from the slick skin that had replaced the cuts on the scalp. There were several bald patches there but he could feel a downy soft fuzz growing in. _Like a new-born babe's hair._ No elf ever looked less like an elfling and suddenly the seneschal gasped out a noisy sob. He snatched Legolas up and held him close, hid his streaming eyes against a bony shoulder and wept in long, convulsive heaves. "Please," he wailed. "Ai Elbereth, please!"

It had been so long since Legolas left him to find Lindalcon and the seneschal was beyond his breaking point. How much longer could Legolas hold on? The fevers rose and fell, nightmares and hallucinations plagued Pen-rhovan, infections were battled into submission only to flare up anew and set back all the hard work done. The Tawarwaith was reduced to skeletal dimensions though all his friends took turns dripping nourishing broth, water, and milk with honey down his throat. They bathed him often and the stench of decay had finally relented. Yet, there was little to distinguish between the earlier state of captivity and this intractable wasting illness. Erestor had begun to wonder if his mate realised he was free or if all their efforts had failed, if he would remain trapped in that mental hell, slowly fading into death.

_Should I try the enchanted waters? Am I being cruel to ask him to keep fighting?_

"Lay him down, Erestor, lay him back down," Aragorn was trying to pry the Noldo's arms off his patient for Legolas was clearly in agony from this abrupt shifting and the tight compression against ghastly wounds, no matter the genuine love behind it. "You are hurting him, mellon; can't you hear him?"

Erestor froze, stunned and horrified to register the thin whistling cries escaping from Legolas' clenched jaws. "Ai, forgive me, Pen-rhovan!" he whispered and softly kissed the tear-streaked shoulder as he carefully settled his mate upon the pallet. "Is he all right? Have I done harm?" His anguished countenance beseeched Aragorn.

"Nay, nothing major," consoled the Man, working quickly. "Roll him toward you; one of the lashes has broken open again." He was actually pleased to see and smell clean crimson blood instead of the rank, yellow pus of earlier days. While he was at it, he cleaned and dressed all the sores, changed the bandaging on the hand where the finger was pink and swollen but not putrid, and examined the damaged leg. He was still concerned about it, but Legolas was able to move it and the archer's blood still made it all the way to his toes, which were healthy if somewhat cracked and scaly. _There has been improvement._

"Eru's arse, how can I be such an imbecile?" Erestor berated himself and actually struck his thigh quite hard with his fist.

"Nay, be kinder to yourself, mellon vrûn. You are holding up well and need not resort to physical punishment. And you are not wrong; there has been a change. The fever has not broken yet, but I think he may have turned a corner today." Aragorn smiled and held up the cloth he'd used to blot up the blood. "See this? There is no odour of putrefaction in it, no rotted flesh upon it. And look: the wound has clotted on its own and sealed, just as is normal for the elven folk."

"Aye, you're right," Erestor let a grain of relief seep into his heart and felt an uncertain smile fleet across his face. He bent low and kissed the forehead damp with sweat. "Did you hear that, Legolas? Soon you will have to leave this long sleep behind you and look upon the world. I am waiting here beside you and I grow impatient for my mate to return to me." He stroked the downy yellow fluff and his mouth worked in worry. He bent toward the pointed ear and whispered: "Not really. I am patient, Beloved. I will wait as long as necessary and when you are ready, when you are strong enough, know that I will be here when you wake."

Aragorn patted his shoulder kindly; he felt terrible for Erestor and wished he could do something to relieve the suffering husband's anxiety. All he could manage was a distraction. "We might as well change this bedding now."

This achieved two goals: providing a clean environment for Legolas and a chance for Erestor to hold his mate for a few minutes. Aragorn waited until he was established against the little cupboard near the thick trunk and then gathered Legolas up and laid him in the seneschal's open arms. Subdued groans protested the movement and the long legs twitched, but the unconscious elf fell quiet once his ear settled against Erestor's chest. A shuddering breath lifted his ribs and emptied his lungs and the uninjured hand jerked to touch the long black hair, latching tight to the inky tresses. Aragorn and Erestor's eyes met, both faces beaming.

"Did you see?"

"Aye!"

"He's not done that before."

"Nay, nay he has not and that is no reflex, Erestor."

"Let me hold him a while, Aragorn."

"Yes, he is easier in your arms. Listen to his breathing."

They exchanged these words in whispers and paused in breathless delight to hear a semblance of more normal respiration commence.

"I think he might be cooler, too," Erestor ventured and watched avidly as Aragorn tested the idea, his palm burrowing into Legolas' underarm for a moment.

"Perhaps a little," the Man would not concede more at this stage, but was really quite pleased. They had saved the finger, both he and Gladhadithen agreed on that, and it had been a great victory. Perhaps that had been the precursor of a more general cure. The infections had not invaded his blood or bone and that was an even greater triumph, though individual wounds remained stubbornly putrid. _Definitely turned a corner._ "Legolas is incredibly tenacious," he chuckled. "He intends to recover his strength and then relieve those 'Shadow-slaves' of their rings, just as he promised."

"Ai! Don't bring that up in my hearing," admonished Erestor, "especially those rings. I do not want him returning to patrol those woods again. He is to be Greenwood's prince and that is more than enough of a job for any elf."

"Erestor, your mate is a warrior," reminded Aragorn.

"Aye, but he has earned a rest, don't you agree?"

"I do, but it depends on what he wants." Aragorn had thought this before, that Legolas and Erestor were fundamentally ill-suited as mates: one a rugged, durable warrior accustomed to extreme conditions, the other a statesman and counsellor in a protected realm eternally at peace. How would Legolas fit into Erestor's life; how could the seneschal adapt to the ways of the Wood Elves?

"He has a husband now and these things will be determined together," Erestor announced as he smiled down at the archer's placid face, the lines of pain erased for the first time he could recall. "Isn't that the way it should be, Pen-rhovan?" He sighed and raised his gaze to the Man's. "He is so beautiful to be such a ferocious warrior!" he exclaimed and joined in when Aragorn laughed.

"Valar! There is the proof of your devotion, if I required it," he said. "Beautiful is not the word I would use today, or for many days to come."

"But he is beautiful, Aragorn, and that is exactly why the day will dawn when his outward form will exemplify that truth. Even the oldest scars will diminish to nothing under the balm of our love," Erestor insisted, scowling darkly for this bordered on the kind of negative talk he did not permit. He cocked a cautionary brow at his former pupil and saw realisation spread through the Man's eyes.

"Aye, you are right, Erestor. Do not pay any attention to me," Aragorn smiled. "Besides, I agree with you; he is worthy and true-hearted. I am fortunate to have his friendship." The Man busied himself discarding the old bedding, which was immediately carried off and burned by Thôngolf [Pine-branch], one of the loyal silvan soldiers who never left the ring of beeches defining the glade.

Since the war's end, all the warriors who had attacked the King during the debacle in the Council Chamber had gathered themselves into a cohesive unit and assigned themselves to their prince. Thranduil had seen fit to officially commission these ellyn as his son's personal guard, citing their exemplary service in the Battle of the Elf Path and their spontaneous affirmation of loyalty to their King. The decree endeared him to the citizens who were now engaged in continuous cycles of prayer on the Tawarwaith's behalf and every day that he lived was counted a victory, precipitating much gladness and inspiring fresh hope. Legolas would awaken to find a large contingent of Greenwood's best defenders, silvan, Sindarin, and hybrid alike at his command and every elf in the realm staunchly supportive of his cause. A new era was coming to flower in the ancient forest though spring was months from unfurling its slender shoots and bursting buds.

Aragorn stuffed dry moss into a fresh pallet as Erestor sat softly singing, gently rocking to and fro as he held Legolas, the words enveloping them both in serenity, the notes filled with the essence of Erestor's devotion, a protective shield of Music to shelter them. It was the best medicine he could imagine and he felt real hope for the first time since rescuing Legolas. Elladan arrived to relieve the Man and they shared smiles at the sight of their old tutor so tenderly cradling the invalid archer. Aragorn informed his brother of the changes and left to enjoy a break from the harrowing duty of care-giver, for the Tawarwaith's unique family had agreed to work in shifts just as one stood the watch during battle: at least one on hand in addition to Erestor, who refused to leave Legolas' side. Even Thranduil took a turn. Aragorn passed Fearfaron on the path to the glade, a brace of grouse slung over his shoulder, and spread the good word, eliciting a joyous shout of triumph from the carpenter.

Fearfaron hurried inside to see for himself and could not help feeling somewhat disappointed, for to his eyes there was no visible difference since last he'd been here the day before. Erestor, however, was radiant and related the tale in words packed with love and certitude: his mate would awaken before the next day's dawn. A swift glance passed between Fearfaron and Elladan, confirming mutual scepticism and unwillingness to dispute their friend. Together they re-established Legolas on the pallet, the seneschal once more taking up the soaked cloth to wipe the Tawarwaith's perspiring brow, singing sweet and low. With a faint sigh, the Spirit Hunter retired to the tiny kitchen to prepare another batch of broth from the fowl, listening as Erestor's singing gradually became erratic and garbled. Elladan's quiet voice interrupted.

"You need sleep, Erestor. Lie beside him and rest."

"Nay, I do not want to be asleep when he wakes." But he did not really resist when Elladan eased him down on the pallet next to Pen-rhovan. He sighed and turned on his side so to peer at the wild elf's wan face, gently stroked the sunken cheek, remembering the first time he had done so on the talan in the southern woods. That had been a cruel trick to play on a lonely, isolated ellon suffering grief and privation. "I'm sorry for that, Beloved, but you stole my heart that night. I am so sorry, but so glad I came here, so glad."

He leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss against the feverish face, dismayed to feel the unnatural heat still radiating from the pale skin. He cautiously snuggled closer and leaned his forehead against the Tawarwaith's temple, entwining his fingers in those of the uninjured hand. He started another song, only humming, and though he had not meant to, Erestor sang himself to sleep, too exhausted to remain conscious a moment longer now that he was convinced recovery was imminent.

Elladan watched them, two drained and diminishing elves slowly dwindling into nothing, slowly and with intense and unrelenting anguish. Though he tried to stifle such thoughts he could not. It was difficult to look upon them; indeed, it had become physically and mentally painful to observe what was happening to them all: he and his brothers, the carpenter and the healer, the wizard, and even the King, all dragged down into this suffocating mire of despair with Legolas, on account of Legolas.

_Adaren's doing, the whole of it from the very beginning. Did Nana know about the unhappy fate to which her husband doomed Legolas? I wonder, did that figure in to her decision to sail?_

It was not something he had ever considered before, but she certainly she knew Ningloriel's claims, for Celebrian was often in Lorien and her mother would tell her all. What painful knowledge to hold in her heart. Elrohir's romantic notions of rescuing his 'muindor dithen' no longer seemed so farfetched._Did she share them?_ Celebrian was gentle hearted and would not want a child to suffer and now Elladan wondered if his negative denial of this extra brother had affected his mother's decision. Would she have demanded Elrond claim the babe as his own? Had they argued about it at all? There was no means of finding out, for only Elrond would know and Elladan no longer trusted anything his father might tell him. He sighed and shoved such futile considerations aside.

_I must concentrate on the future. What can I do to amend the harm Adar has wrought?_

Legolas twitched and uttered an abbreviated complaint, shifted nearer to Erestor and stilled anew. Elladan reached over and covered them over with a light blanket, for the sickly ellon was shivering, but also because it was so hard to look upon that battered body. The elder Twin had seen much in his lifetime, all the atrocities rampant on the marred world, all the sorrow and pain and misery and death wrought by evil in every form let loose by Melkor. These two, the Tawarwaith and the Counsellor, he found to be the hardest to gaze upon. Erestor was not only an old friend and tutor but a kinsman, someone he respected and loved. To see him struggling against the grief that had taken hold of him, to watch his efforts to summon words of love and comfort whenever Legolas was wracked by nightmares, was second only to the agony of watching his mother slowly lose her mind.

_How many days has it been now?_

He no longer knew for certain; grey mornings blurred into icy nights that blazed into frigid dawns, cycles unending. More than once, Elladan had felt on the verge of fleeing the scene and held himself tightly in check for fear of dishonouring himself by doing so. As long as Erestor was determined, he could not abandon his kinsman, though the outcome appeared inevitable. The long decline, this approach to death in minute increments of monumental aguish, was taking its toll on them all, but Erestor would not budge. If he could sustain hope then Elladan was compelled to stand beside him to the bitter end, and he did not doubt the end would be more bitter than gall, the seneschal's assertions notwithstanding. Yet Elladan did doubt it. Legolas was doggedly hanging onto life against impossible odds.

_Why does he still live? If he would just expire, he would be free to go to Mandos and all this would be over for everyone._

Yet that meant Erestor would follow, and there he admitted the futility of his judgements, for if Elladan was unwilling to contemplate seeing his kinsman perish, so much more must the seneschal be prepared to deny the demise of his mate. Besides, Elladan knew the answer to his question. Few people could endure this kind of sickness and he believed Legolas refused to die because he feared Mandos.

_Or, more accurately, he fears what would happen to his spirit if he could not find Mandos._

As long as he fought, Erestor would encourage him. As long as the care-givers fed the archer's ailing body, Legolas would continue fighting. Thranduil was not so far from the truth; if he had not died by now, Legolas was likely to survive. This was partly the province of nature, the way Eru had designed the First-born: durable and endurable, as strong as the stuff of the world itself.

_Yet even the mountains wear away and rivers dry up. And what if he does defeat this illness and the body heals? What of his mind?_

What they were asking of Legolas was cruel; what was demanded of Erestor was a punishment none deserved. Who, he wondered, was behind these unholy measures to sustain lives that should have been set free long ago? Didn't they deserve the peace and rest promised by Námo? None deserved it more and he was as much a part of denying them that rest as anyone. He could not pretend, not to himself, that he didn't want Legolas to live, no matter his morbid internal ramblings. The archer's death must fall upon the House of Eärendil, and he did not want to shoulder such a burden. Yet more than that, Elladan so keenly wanted to know Legolas, to befriend him, to hear his voice and the bold, brash, defiant laugh Erestor had described, to gaze into 'eyes that are both gentle and piercingly perceptive', to meet this Tawarwaith who might have been his brother and was now his kinsman-by-bond.

Legolas jerked suddenly, a faint and pathetic whine escaping him as his eyes popped wide, bright with terror, staring at the snug canvas cover high above him. A convulsive swallow worked his throat and the eyes snapped shut, long lashes crinkled into crooked grooves. Elladan blinked, not sure the eyes had really opened, then moved closer, reached out his hand, gently touched the bare shoulder, dipped a cloth in cool water with the other. "Legolas? Be still; you are safe at home now. Erestor, or Berenaur as you call him, lies beside you." He blotted the pinched face and furrowed brow carefully and saw the tension slowly relent. The rigid muscles relaxed and a deep, shaky breath moved the archer's ribcage. Another swallow and then a dark red tongue poked out and dabbed at dry lips. Elladan frowned and filled a reed with water, fed it into a mouth that sucked it down with desperate greed. A plaintive moan followed and then Elladan had the shock of his life when the eyes opened again and trained that piercing blue gaze upon him.

"Elrohir?"

The word was so faint he almost did not believe he had heard it, but then it repeated. He could not say how much time elapsed before he managed to respond, but he drew a hoarse breath and answered:

"Nay, I am Elladan. Legolas, do you see me truly? Do you know where you are?"

"Know?" the word was laced with horror and violent trembling broke out, the eyes darting around the talan frantically. "Please, not that, notno"

"Nay, nay!" Elladan quickly reassured him and tightened his grip on the shuddering shoulder. "Be at peace, you truly are home now. This is your own home, Legolas, and your mate lies there beside you." He took hold of the arm attached to the hand Erestor still gripped and raised it to show the wild elf.

Legolas' eyes scanned the connection between them and he gasped out the painful breath he'd held, seeing his grandfather's bonding band there on Berenaur's finger where he had placed it. "My ring," he rasped and made an effort to return the hold, tugging so faintly that at first Elladan did not sense it, but then he understood and helped bring the clasped hands to Legolas' lips, felt his heart twinge as the Tawarwaith kissed the golden band. "My Berenaur," Legolas whispered, too weak for tears, and promptly lost consciousness again.


	111. Chapter 111

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

### **Na Bar ned Talan Nedhlant (At Home in the Talan in the Clearing)**

Legolas shivered, so cold his teeth and bones ached, frigid though the room was hot and the water nearly scalding. Liquid fire ran down his back and stung, sharp needles and pins dancing down his spine, drilling in and out like a thousand biting insects with daggers for snouts. He tensed, eyes wide and unseeing, and a grating cry burst forth that did not register above the pain. Then the water and the jabbing quills lost their searing edge and he sagged against Berenaur, sucking in ragged gulps of air. The soft press of lips against his exposed ear and a whispered word soothed him; he closed his eyes again and tried to control the shaking, but pyretic chills continued to race over his body.

He shifted, adjusting to pull closer to the comforting warmth of the seneschal's broad, bare chest, cheek against a shoulder, one hand dangling limp at his side, the other clasped tight to Berenaur's hand. It was impossible to get closer; they knelt in a copper tub, water lapping at their knees as Berenaur carefully bathed him. Another cascade of steaming water ran down his shoulders and he caught his breath, stiffened under the eruption of red-hot prickles that drove the cold from his mind for a few instants. He did not know which sensation was worse.

"Berenaur," he moaned. "Ai! Berenaur."

"Sîdh, (Peace) I'm sorry. We're almost done. Gladhadithen says the hot water stimulates the new skin, increases circulation, and should help with the chilling cold you feel." Erestor answered clinically, remorse in his voice as he extracted his hand from the crushing grip to hug the suffering ellon. He felt the sigh of resignation more than heard it and his chest compressed in a painful spasm.

The seneschal's minor discomfort was insignificant compared to what Legolas endured under the regimen designed to heal him. That treatment was as nothing against the horrors that made the cure necessary, but it caused pain nonetheless and generated a corresponding, agonising grief that had plagued Erestor since his mate's captivity. His distress doubled knowing his actions, however requisite, added to Legolas' misery. Reluctantly, he held him away a little, just enough to reach between them, and resumed the bath at a quicker pace, hastily wiping under each arm and down the torso. He dipped the sponge anew and passed it between trembling legs. The Tawarwaith's next gasp was audible.

"Gohenach nin, Pen-Rhovan." (Forgive me)

"Nay, alnad díheno," (nothing to forgive) Legolas groaned, jolted by the soft, sudden sensation of the frothy sponge against his scrotum and perineum. He shook all the more, aware for the first time how enjoyable this experience would be under normal circumstances, wondering if anything in his life would ever fit that description. Was it so much to ask, to simply live? "Aniron cuio; aniron mín cuil." (I want to live; I want our life.)

"You will; we will claim it together." Erestor smiled and gently pulled him close again, murmuring in his ear. "Almost done, Pen-Rhovan." Then he carefully washed shoulders, back, buttocks and the crevice dividing them. Every muscle in the Tawarwaith's body went rigid and he sighed. "Sîdh; I would spare you any hurt."

Legolas gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, not because the touch was harsh but exactly the opposite. Almost every hideous torture behind the White Door began this way, seducing him with softness, luring him into aroused participation. He snatched Berenaur's hand to hold, squeezing too hard but unable to prevent it, and ran his thumb over the golden band, his grandfather's bonding band, secured there on Berenaur's finger just where he had placed it. It was the only reassurance he had that this was no illusion.

_This is Berenaur; this is real. It is happening now._

Only Berenaur had never been in either prison with him and Legolas was terrified that somehow his efforts to shield this one, vital piece of his soul would be breached at last. That he could not endure. Almost everyone else of substance in his life had become a player in that ghastly pageant of delight and degradation. Suddenly he raised their clasped hands and kissed the ring, examining the fingers he knew so well, careful, strong, gentle fingers that had never hurt him, and the fear evaporated. He exhaled a thin and wispy sigh. "Avach harno nin aluir," (You will never hurt me) he murmured and let their hands fall back beside them, but did not let go.

"Nay, never, Pen-Rhovan, never," Erestor rejoined quietly, emphatically, and cinched his free arm tighter round the trembling frame propped against him, held on hard, held on with aching heart and constricted throat. Legolas made a small, complaining whimper and he relented, apologising again for irritating tender skin stretched thin over newly-healed wounds, and resumed laving the hot water over the archer's quaking body. Despite all efforts to the contrary, the Tawarwaith still trembled.

It was the deep of winter, but the talan in the clearing was barricaded from the elements by no less than three layers of silk, even the branches overhead snugly draped with the tightly woven cloth, an extravagance unknown among the people of the city and even beyond the norm for the lavish furnishings in the King's private rooms. It was rumoured Thranduil had stripped every chamber in the stronghold, save his children's nursery, of tapestries, curtains, and hangings; even his own bed now stood barren, its canopy and quilts removed to provide a means to insulate the Tawarwaith's abode.

Here the uppermost flet, the sleeping platform, was transformed into a brightly coloured cocoon kept hot as an oven by two braziers which burned night and day unending. A large vat of water was kept filled and hung from a tripod above one of the stoves; gyres of steam lifted from it and bathed the space in opaque and misty air. The burners themselves were situated a half-metre from the edges as custom and safety demanded, a fine mesh of metal suspended above to hinder sparks and burning ash from igniting the curtains or the branches.

In the centre nearest the sturdy trunk, the elaborate bonding hammock, hung up without a fuss by the Twins, Aragorn, and Fearfaron, held a thick feather-stuffed mattress and an abundance of downy duvets, pillows, furs, wool blankets, silken sheets, and soft bolsters. Legolas had worked it all into a deep, comfortable nest in which he lay curled and covered most of the time. He had not reacted to the fact of the bed being there, did not seem to recall that he and Berenaur had not completed this traditional task together, and simply accepted it with silent gratitude. He did not leave it often, still too weak to manage navigating up and down the platforms, the healing wounds too tender to permit such pressure and stress. Nor did he wish to leave it, for here he was safe. This bed, this room, this talan in the clearing, these had never been settings used during the term of his soul's tenancy in hell.

Legolas ground his teeth, the grating sound underscored with a low note of plaintive distress, shifting as though to evade what he could not escape, longing for the bath to be done, yearning for the soft warm nest and Berenaur curled round him. "Ringe," (Cold) he complained. "Get me out, please."

"Aye, soon." Erestor hastily lathered the shorn scalp and washed the bristly new hair, knowing it upset Legolas to be reminded of his lost mane, his degradation by the Wraith. The soap ran down and made a frothy film upon the water; Erestor dropped the sponge and carefully lifted the weary face from his shoulder. Blue eyes blinked and stared at him, a questioning plea within them. The seneschal offered his gentlest rogue's grin and kissed the pale lips. "All finished, Melethen. Ready?"

Legolas nodded and struggled to straighten up and support his own weight, eager to leave the cooling water, clasping the rim of the tub in his free hand, and his vision fell upon the scarred finger where his bonding ring had been. It was not there, the false one he had been forced to wear, but sometimes he felt it still. His face contorted in revulsion and he shut his eyes; a violent shudder racking his frame so that Berenaur had to steady him.

"It's all right, Pen-Rhovan; it's gone, destroyed, nevermore to enslave you. I'll give you a new ring as soon as Gladhadithen says it is safe to do so," promised Erestor, saddened by Legolas' reaction to the sight of newly regenerated flesh on the healing index finger.

Everything reminded him of his ordeal, even signs of progress, and the seneschal wondered if there was enough time left in Arda to ever banish the memories of his captivity. He forced the morbid thought from his mind and offered another smile. "Let me lift you out; I know you're cold." Legolas said nothing but let go Berenaur's hand and circled his neck with both arms. Erestor held him securely and stood, easily raising the Tawarwaith up and over the rim, and set his feet on the floor. "Come, it's just a few steps to the bench," he coaxed.

"Nay, nay, can't," Legolas grumbled, leaning against Berenaur wearily as though he'd already walked a thousand leagues. The broken bone was still restrained within splints that held the knitting ends fast and he was forbidden to put weight upon it. Diminished by the lengthy convalescence, his sound leg trembled with the effort to hold him upright and he trained imploring eyes upon Berenaur, but while the seneschal was sympathetic, he was intractable on this point. Gladhadithen had ordered her patient to begin moving again; the muscles were wasting.

"You can, Legolas; you did it yesterday and I'll help. It will be warmer by the brazier. Come, it's just a few steps," Erestor encouraged, recalling how adamant Legolas once would have been in his refusal for aid. A heavy sigh announced capitulation and they lurched slowly to a small bench pulled close to the radiant stove, Legolas clutching to him desperately and panting with the effort. He almost tripped on a wrinkle in the rug, but they made it and all but collapsed upon the seat. The Tawarwaith folded up atop his knees, arms crossed tight over his heart, huffing noisily, quivering as goose-flesh rose all over his wet body.

"Well done, Beloved, well done," Erestor praised quietly. The seneschal reached for a robe and helped Legolas into it before donning his own, then grabbed a towel and began vigourously rubbing the spiky, wet hair. It did not take long to dry and he tossed the damp cloth away, framed the haggard face between his hands and again pressed a quick kiss to wan and wintery lips.

"So cold," whispered Legolas.

"I need to rebind the splints and then I'll warm you." Erestor did so quickly, finding fresh, dry wood and gauze readily to hand in a basket beneath the seat. Chore completed, he straddled the bench, shifted Legolas into the same orientation and drew him against his chest securely, kissed the soft, silky new hair. Retrieving a brush meant for babe's from the basket, he began working it lightly through the slowly rejuvenating locks. There were no tangles to comb out but the grooming soothed Legolas. Truly, it calmed them both and Erestor felt his mate relax against him; the incessant quaking lessened a bit.

He began to sing soft and low, rocking Legolas with the rhythm of the melody. It was the same song he'd sung in the baths after their bonding: Erestor's soul song, his recount of the lengthy years of isolation his heart had endured, longing for a partner, his exultation over the love he'd found at long last, his unbounded gratitude, his promise to cherish and preserve the gift of their union.

Legolas listened, losing himself in the flowing notes, Berenaur's love a vibrant current of vitality, warm and limitless; his heart a safe shelter now and always, promising a jubilant future to be shared. He felt his mind slip away from the memory of the Wraith's false bond, the humiliation of the pits, and the infinite confinement of his soul behind the White Door. The bitter and biting chills left him and he inhaled a deep and easy breath, tension seeping out of him as the air left his lungs and the steamy heat of the talan seeped in.

Unconsciously, he began to sing as well, his own soul-song a separate motif yet compatible with Berenaur's, sprung from the same hope that somehow hope was not false and fate would find some minute corner of his life to furnish with joy. For all the grief and pain Legolas had known, the Music of his inner heart was not mired in misery but rose clear and bright and full of promise, burgeoning with astonished delight and unbridled optimism, gratitude, and contentment. Instantly, a sense of familiarity overwhelmed him and Legolas' voice faltered as he gazed in confusion upon the cosy, colourful cocoon awash in hazy mist. How could that be, for this was all new, this place, this home? Then he remembered and all his joy evaporated, snow upon embers, and he cried aloud, body and soul contorting in the sharp stab of agony that speared his heart.

"Legolas? Nay, nay Beloved!" Alarmed, Erestor held him fast and tried to soothe his mate, uncomprehending the cause for this sudden attack of the chronic grieving sickness that had afflicted the Wood Elf so long.

"Lindalcon!"

"Ai, Legolas, be at peace, be at peace!" Erestor exhorted, helpless and frustrated in his desire to vanquish this internal torment. What could he say? That bold, brash young ellon, the very author of their union, their happiness, had perished in unspeakable violence, and the hand that wrought this end was clasped tight in his even now. "Legolas, beloved Pen-Rhovan, be at peace."

His words were more for himself, for the truth disturbed and worried him. Could Legolas come to terms with what he had done? Erestor could not guess and Legolas could not answer, gripped in the rending jaws of guilt and sorrow. He convulsed in rigid spasms and thrashed, legs kicking out toward the stove; eyes and mouth opened wide but there was no breath for the scream the attack demanded. Erestor dragged him from the bench for fear the brazier would be toppled over and set the talan afire, laid him flat on the floor and immobilised the broken leg. "Aragorn!" he shouted, panic stricken for the Tawarwaith did not seem able to draw air. "Faerfaron!"

Aid was already on the way, but it was neither the Dúnedan nor the carpenter. Elladan levered himself up the platforms rapidly and was beside the beleaguered couple at once, bringing with him the small vial of elixir Aragorn had found so effective for Legolas' grieving when first they'd met. The healers had employed it often in recent days. The elder twin wasted no time, uncorking the bottle and forcing the contents past the archer's clenched jaws. Together, he and Erestor held him still as the potion worked, fighting the seizure's powerful contractions.

"Easy, muindor dithen, breathe, breathe," he crooned and the calm strength of his voice, the speaking of this kindly endearment, drew the afflicted eyes to his. Legolas sucked in a tremendous and noisy lungful of air and coughed out a grinding groan, but kept his sight locked with Elladan's, wary but curious. Elladan made a short nod and presented a melancholy smile. "I am here truly, my brother and I; this is no mirage." He turned to Erestor. "What triggered it this time?"

"What always triggers it," snapped Erestor. "Lindalcon's death." The fit was passing and he released his hold on the archer's twitching legs to restore a modicum of modesty to his mate, pulling the fabric of the loose robe over him. He didn't like it, having Legolas on open display, the evidence of all the atrocities done to him bared for any who wished to gawk and stare. It didn't matter that this was Elladan who had rescued him and seen everything; it made it worse. He took up the Tawarwaith's limp hand between both of his. "Better now, Pen-Rhovan?" His question received only a weary nod and the wild elf's eyes remained fixed on Elladan.

"Let the past be, penneth, for none can change it. Lindalcon's fate was not yours to design, though you played your part." Elladan intoned.

"I killed him," Legolas mourned, the broken syllables hard to discern through tears and remnant convulsions. "He was with us when last we were like this; he will never be again."

"Nae, Legolas," Erestor whispered quietly, uncertain what the wild elf was talking about, thinking he must be alluding to the morning they left the bonding talan. In seconds his thoughts journeyed through that day: stolen clothes, an assault with snowballs, the proud, eager joy in Lindalcon's eyes as he watched Legolas during the party.

"What do you mean, muindor dithen?" Elladan pressed, knowing nothing of those events. "Are you talking about the time of bondage? Was Lindalcon there?" He understood acutely the staggering guilt Legolas must be feeling and likewise knew to draw it out into the open. In the dark and secret places of the hidden heart, that's where such sensations wrought their damage, inflicting wounds to the psyche that were nigh untreatable. Madness resulted and he had endured that lapse into derangement himself. Without Elrohir, he doubted he would have survived it. He set a firm hand on the pale cheek, not quite a slap but near enough. "Speak!"

The command in his voice and the sudden sensation of the heavy palm made Legolas jump and catch his breath, eyes scanning the grim and serious face confronting him. It was not an angry or accusing expression and he wondered at the compassion and real comprehension visible in the warrior's troubled grey eyes. "You know."

"I do," Elladan confirmed and nodded agreement. He moved his hand to the Tawarwaith's shoulder, gently pulling the damp robe up over the bared skin. It was so hard to look at the ravaged body, so hard not to.

"Let me get him into bed," Erestor said, uneasy over this conversation and vaguely jealous that it was Elladan to whom Legolas responded.

"Nay, let him speak, Erestor, he has need to do it. Trust me, mellon vrûn," Elladan reassured, easily reading his kinsman's discomfort and its cause. "This is not a cure you can affect."

"You are wrong. I am the only one who can heal him. I did so before," snarled Erestor and caught Legolas up, prepared to rise.

"When we were bound, Berenaur and I, afterward I showed Lindalcon my happy heart, my deepest joy, for he was its agent and I could not think of any other way to thank him," Legolas suddenly stated. He clutched at his mate's hair and their eyes met. "When we were in the baths and you sang to me; I let him see."

"Yes? That is well, Legolas, that was good and right." Erestor smiled sadly. "He was worried, you know, that I would not be able to craft a true bond to you, that I would just use you."

"He loved me," Legolas rasped as tears welled up.

Erestor wiped them away carefully then tended his own eyes. "You loved him, too, as did I."

"I killed him."

"Aye, you killed him," Elladan interjected seriously. "This cannot be changed, but neither can that moment you shared with him be changed. You gave him a glimpse of the vital, intrinsic value contained within his existence, his being. Few of us ever see that."

"I gave him death."

"An honourable, clean death. Have you not yearned for the same innumerable times?"

_'A clean death, then, for all of us.'_ Legolas uttered an inarticulate protest and flinched, hand half lifting to ward off such a vile parallel between present and past, tore his sight from the noble countenance regarding him, and burrowed into Berenaur's neck. "Berenaur."

"I am here, Legolas."

"I fear him," he whispered softly and shivered.

"What?" Erestor pried the hidden face from his shoulder, tried to see what expression filled his mate's eyes, but they were shut tight. "Who do you fear?"

"What if his soul did not escape?" Legolas sought his mate's ring hand and entwined their fingers, rubbed his thumb over the solid band on Berenaur's index finger. "I don't know where he is."

"He is in Mandos," insisted Elladan.

"So I thought, yet he was with me there, behind the White Door."

"What about the White Door?" asked Erestor, a cold chill rattling his heart. This was the first time Legolas had spoken those words while conscious and rational, but not the first time he had uttered them. _Screamed them, screamed in desperate horror._ He hugged Legolas to him, wishing his arms could become a barricade against this sorrow, kissed the worried brow.

"That was not real," Elladan explained calmly, emphatically. "I have dreamt such things also: the dead returning to castigate and blame me for the death I delivered. It is your own heart's grief that paints such ugly scenes, Legolas."

"He was not there?"

"Nay, I tell you he is in Mandos."

For a long moment the two warrior's vision fused, each sharing the memories of the grotesque, obscene necessity the other had encountered, the scent of elvish blood, the sight of it, the rent bodies and the harrowed, terrified faces trained upon them in that instant when life gave way in a violent, vermillion flood. Legolas saw what Elladan had done and instantly realised it was not the same thing at all, for he had killed in the heat of battle to free a comrade being devoured or dismembered alive, or poisoned, or already captured, but never had he destroyed someone beloved. Legolas shut his eyes and heaved a heavy breath.

"You do not know," he mumbled.

Elladan did not contradict him, for the sights he'd seen left him bereft of words, lost in a sea of such agony he refused to comprehend it. He lowered his head and gently squeezed the shoulder under his fingers, rose to his feet and turned away. "Get him into bed; stay near him, Erestor, stay near." _And keep anything sharp far from his reach._

Elladan retreated to the lower chambers, shaken, and descended to the snow clad clearing, his mind confounded with desolate despair. He had not understood, though he had seen it with his own eyes, how far from the reach of light and love the wild elf had been taken. Legolas had permitted him a glimpse behind that door he was always raving about in his dreams, and Lindalcon had been there. Elladan had never considered that any living soul could be immured in such an unholy abyss of torment and not perish. He took himself into the silent, sleeping woods and wandered long, finding his thoughts carried him down to the sluggish, ice-bound flow of the Enchanted River.

"So, the time has come," Thranduil sat in his war room behind the mighty teak-wood desk cluttered as it generally was with charts and reports and various inventories describing the goods of the realm and the contents of the armoury and the numbers of warriors housed in the barracks. An elegant and lethal dagger, poised as a weight to keep a particularly thick stack of parchments stable, occupied a prominent place on the surface, its bejewelled handle alight with a cool, green sheen. The blade pointed outward while the grip was angled to make taking it up in an instant effortless. The blade was aimed in accusing precision at one seat in particular and its occupant; there also the King's piercing stare remained and studied his prisoner: Elrond of Imladris.

"Indeed, muindor, now let us settle this dispute and find a way to ally our separate realms against the darkness so fast approaching," spoke Celeborn the Wise, eager to deflect the King's just wrath enough to prevent a permanent breach between Greenwood and Rivendell.

"Alliance?" Thranduil scoffed and spared his noble cousin a grim and sneering scowl. "Here sits one who has plotted to destroy my world and you speak of clasping hands with him?"

"It has not been showed that he sought to undermine Greenwood or her people," Celeborn insisted, knowing well how weak an argument it was. The proof would not be difficult to produce.

Behind him, Haldir shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other and exhaled the faintest snort of protest. In this he and his Lord disagreed and their words had become heated at times, for he could not justify pardoning Elrond while Celeborn claimed that it must be done. Across the room, in his customary place at Thranduil's shoulder, Talagan met his eyes with equivalent disgust and Haldir frowned. It did not feel right to be in agreement with the policies of the Woodland Realm instead of his own.

Elrond said nothing, his face downcast and his eyes trained on the rug beneath his feet, hands clasped together loosely in his lap.

"We will hear the truth from his own mouth," stated Thranduil. "He will not refuse to speak." It was a challenge spoken directly to his adversary and elicited only a listless shake of the Noldorin Lord's head.

"What purpose does it serve to hear admissions of guilt?" asked Celeborn. "You have decided upon his culpability no matter what he may say or reasons he may present."

Now Thranduil looked in cool and censorious amazement upon his cousin. "You will take his part? This is for the sake of your grandchildren, I suppose."

"Nay," Celeborn denied, "I take the part of reason and practicality. The time of elf-kind draws ever nearer to its end and those few of us left here must combine our strengths if we are to survive the trials to come. What has been done to Legolas cannot be undone, but"

"Who dares say it cannot be undone?" Thranduil's voice reverberated in the small room and he half rose, pressing his palms against the surface of the desk to lean forward toward his kinsman. The assorted maps and charts crackled under the pressure.

Celeborn held up his hand and frowned. "Peace! You know I meant no slight upon him or upon the skill of those involved in effecting his cure. I refer to the inevitable impact these dire events must have on anyone. If it is possible to heal and remain sane without sailing to Aman, I doubt not that Legolas is the one to achieve it, for great is his strength of character and his love for Greenwood."

"His Tawar," mumbled Elrond faintly.

"What of it?" snapped Talagan abruptly. "Is it anymore foolish to believe in a Spirit inherent among this ancient forest than to pray to unseen Valar who cower behind their magic shields in a hidden realm?"

"Enough!" Thranduil silenced his oldest friend brusquely. "This is not to the point."

"Truly said," intoned Celeborn. "Speak, then, of the redress your son's abasement demands of Imladris."

"That will be determined during the trial," said Thranduil. "This conference is solely to define the course of that hearing and decide what need not be revealed publicly."

"Surely there is no need for another lengthy proceeding in the Chamber of Starlight? What good does that serve?" Celeborn argued. "Here we may analyse the pertinent facts and the degree to which they have injured Greenwood. Here we may negotiate the terms of expiating these errors."

"It is Legolas who has been injured," Haldir said quietly, unable to hold his tongue. His Lord turned to stare at him, but he did not retract his words and Celeborn capitulated with a gentle smile.

"Speak your heart, Haldir; no reproofs will arise from me now or ever," he said.

"My thanks, Hiren," Haldir covered his heart with his hand and bowed his head. "I do feel strongly about this. Between these two powerful rulers, Legolas was caught and nearly ripped asunder beneath the violence of their feud. Yet, I deem the Lord of Imladris bears the greater part of the burden for causing that unbearable situation, for he undertook to interfere in the child's life in the most negative way possible, even before he was born. Thranduil's reaction to the deception was beyond regrettable, but more understandable. It would have been better to put the child and his mother aside; such hatred and contempt were spewed upon that innocent that Legolas became irrevocably warped."

 

 

"What say you?" thundered Thranduil, coming full to his feet and almost reaching for the dagger. "Out!" he shouted and flung his pointing finger at the door. "You have neither right nor reason to presume to stand in judgement of me!"

"I do not judge you," countered Haldir boldly and stood firm, for he did not fear the Sindarin monarch. Celeborn made to rise in his defence but he set a firm hand upon his Lord's shoulder to forestall it. "Such is not my place, indeed. These are my opinions only, though many others of your people may share them, should you care to ask. If you are truly so great a person as legend pretends, then set aside pride and seek real correction of the circumstances that have marred your elder son's life. That is what I would see take place. Let Greenwood shed some of the Darkness imposed upon her from afar."

For a lengthy moment Thranduil glared at the imposing March Warden, the ellon's disdainful and imperious stare, devoid of fear, lacking the false and mincing words many reckoned diplomacy, and thought him like unto his own manner. He could not but admire the forthright honesty and audacity of the Galadhrim warrior and did not wonder that his folk were akin to the Sindar if only remotely. Here was a person he would gladly have as an ally and he laughed, the tension disappearing as he held forth his hand. "Well said, Haldir O Lorien! If ever the day comes that you would desire a change of scene, you are welcome here at my side in Greenwood. I am pleased my eldest child has so staunch a friend."

Haldir moved closer and took his arm readily and their clasp sealed an understanding between them. "You honour me," murmured the March Warden. "I would be greatly pleased to become Legolas' friend in truth." A glance at Celeborn as he stepped back revealed the Lord of Lorien's approval and admiration for the result of his speech.

"What can be done to alleviate such an evil? What difference can it make, for him, to recompense Greenwood and her King? Legolas will remain twisted forever more, even should everyone in this room, nay, this entire nation, wish differently." These morose, monotone words issued from Elrond, whose face remained down-turned, his shoulders drooping and his spirit numb. It was almost as though he had not spoken, so still he sat, defeated and defenceless in his misery.

Thranduil resumed his seat and his study of the Noldorin reprobate in his keeping. "So, you have an opinion, too. I am not surprised it includes a lack of any accounting for your misdeeds. My wish is to have you stand before the people of Greenwood and admit your wrongs, Peredhel. What have you to say to that course?"

Elrond stirred at the ugly pejorative and lifted lacklustre eyes to his foe, blinking as he took in the comely visage, the strong spirit peering out from the emerald eyes. _Or 'spirits', more likely._ An involuntary frisson passed through him and he shook his head to dispel the notion. "I will do as you deem best, Aran Thranduil. I did not come here to dispute the charges but to answer them fully."

He meant it, finally heeding the warning of Glorfindel and the rebukes of his friends and his sons. Even so, he had no hope that any action of his could suffice to either redeem himself or aid Legolas. No less motivating was the memory of the scenes the Spirits forced him to witness, images gleaned from the Tawarwaith's mind when once they had inhabited him. This knowledge only reinforced his belief that Legolas was beyond salvation, at least on this side of the Sundering Sea.

His shoulders twitched again, overcome with revulsion, returning his sight to the floor, uneasy with what he saw behind Thranduil's eyes. It made his flesh creep, this notion of souls infecting bodies, carrying the remnants of one life into another's, spreading them like disease from person to person. He could never be free of Legolas' reality now; those events were part of his mental framework and would henceforth colour all his thoughts, directly and indirectly, consciously and unconsciously._Disease of the fëa, more harmful to elf-kind than any sickness propagated among men is to the Second-born._

"Properly spoken," commented Celeborn, addressing his fallen law-son, but Elrond would not meet his eyes and he frowned. The Lord of Imladris was behaving peculiarly to say the least, and he turned to his kinsman. "Consider carefully what we have all said: does this need for punishment, for public disgrace and dishonour, for absolution in this manner, does this aid Legolas or compound the harm already done?"

Hearing these remarks in his law-father's voice, Elrond winced and instinctively averted his face. He could not look upon this noble person, this esteemed and ancient ellon and acknowledge the disappointment and disgust embodied there. "I do not want to add to his injuries," he mumbled and flicked a glance up at Thranduil. The King was watching him avidly, enjoying his mortification in the presence of Celeborn.

"Nor do I," stated the King and leaned back, the gloating gaze instantly purged, and drummed his fingers amid the mass of papers. He peered over his shoulder at Talagan. "Would it be worse for him to know Elrond is on trial or worse thinking his enemy was not subjected to the same travail as he?"

Talagan grimaced, shrugging, a strangely apologetic expression. "I feel it is no more detrimental to have his debasement at this person's hands reiterated than it was to admit to it himself before all his people."

"That was necessary," insisted the King. "Folk were ready to assign the blame to him, accusing him of a base and profligate character lacking compunction even against incest."

"Ai Valar," sighed Haldir, shaking his head. He had learned all about this but it still astounded him that these people could permit such bizarre views and barbaric customs to flourish. He met the King's eye with staunch disapprobation.

"You have more you would say?" asked Thranduil, liking this March Warden more and more. His lips twitched against a burgeoning smile. "Speak. Being fully as powerful as the legends claim, I have no fear to hear your honest evaluation and amend any flaw it may reveal to me."

Then Haldir laughed in spite of himself, for he saw how pompous and arrogant his manner was. "Truly, I think you have found means to work that correction without my aid, but I cannot deny the ways of the sylvan folk of Greenwood seem primitive at best and are repugnant to me."

"You might not be so repulsed if you dwelled here a coronar," retorted Talagan. "Try living in a constant state of war and see how long your lofty laws and customs remain intact. Try living without the protection of the Lady's magic and"

"Nay, Talagan, do not defend Greenwood's citizens thus," exhorted Celeborn, "for they do not need it. We are not here to point fingers or to present ourselves as perfect. Forgive your counterpart's natural aversion, for he has been adapted to different ways and manners. No offence was meant."

"That is so," said Haldir, but he bowed in apology anyway, "yet it was not perhaps polite to speak so plainly."

"Polite indeed," growled Talagan. "The Tawarwaith has suffered and we all must bear a share of it, myself more than most. Even so, he is Greenwood's and Greenwood's people will affect his recovery and plead his forgiveness, exalt him, pledge fealty and undying gratitude to him."

Celeborn and Haldir stared at the warrior in unhidden, incredulous disdain. Among all those who had dealt the afflicted prince injustice, few had held so clear a choice of actions as Talagan. His words and brutal rejection on the field of battle influenced Thranduil's decision to invoke Judgement. But for that, would any have dared implicate the lone archer for those deaths? Talagan alone seemed to be exempt from an accounting and they were not pleased with that notion no matter how genuine his support was now.

"I will not comment on Greenwood's citizens and their changes of heart, nor yours," said Celeborn, "beyond admitting that if you were mine to command, Talagan, I would banish you forthwith." He ignored the warrior's sharp gasp and crimson face, turning to his kinsman once more. "Why have you not, Thranduil? Here is a soldier who betrayed one of the best archers Greenwood has and your own flesh and blood to boot."

"Perhaps your suggestion holds merit, yet that discussion will have to wait until another day." The King turned and silently dismissed his old friend. It cannot be denied that Talagan left with dread in his heart, for the powerful friend he'd known so long seemed much changed of late. Thranduil continued as soon as the door shut: "This conference is not really about Legolas and that is where you two err. It is about the Half-Elf who seduced my wife, poisoned her against me, turned me against my own son by convincing evidence that he was not mine at all, encouraged Ningloriel to leave me, invaded my lands with dubious intent, and then made every effort to destroy Legolas."

"Nay, nay this is not so!" Elrond finally cried out in his own defence, but monarch and Lord both gazed at him with open scorn.

"Is it not?" asked Celeborn. "I confess, never would I have given merit to any of the complaints Thranduil has made concerning you and your interference in his life. It did not seem plausible based on what I knew of you, Elrond. Yet here you sit. Can you elaborate on any of it? What turned you on this destructive path?"

Elrond gaped at him dumbly, sight travelling to Thranduil to behold his complacent smirk. He found his thoughts completely scattered and his tongue thick, unresponsive, and tasting of bile. He swallowed and wiped his hand against his brow, discovered sweat there and stared at his oily fingers mutely.

"You must answer," said Celeborn softly, the words girded in righteous resolution to see the harm undone, Greenwood salvaged, Thranduil's rule upheld, and Legolas restored to the place in his father's House that was his by right. If he could come to occupy a place in the King's heart and soul, so much the better. Yet withal that should come to pass, he would have Elrond redeemed, too, for he was the Keeper of the most powerful of the Three and his realm stood at the gateway to the west.

"Indeed, an explanation is the least you owe me," growled Thranduil.

"It was not planned out as you state it," Elrond began, unable to hold the King's gaze and finding his boots an easier place to rest his eyes. "It did not start out that way at all, and Ningloriel came after me. I never seduced her."

"Oh, that is too fine a distinction," scoffed Haldir.

"Haldir is right," nodded Thranduil, watching the deposed Lord worry the pockets of his tunic. "What difference does it make who initiated the affair? Whatever happened between you need not have gone further than that. Why attack the child she bore me?"

Elrond dropped his head into his hands, fingers reaching up to cover his ears, and he groaned aloud. "I will speak, but I want my sons. Must I endure this trial without any to take my part? There is naught I can say that will make my actions and the events they propagated acceptable, but let me not undergo this interrogation without the comfort of my kin near me."

"Comfort?" Thranduil sneered. "You do not know where your sons are right now?"

Now Elrond's head came up, for he did know, and he met his adversary's cold glare with a cringing heart.

"I know," he whispered hoarsely. "Aye, they have forsaken me, renounced me, and rightly so."

"If it is right, then why can you not explain yourself without them?" demanded Thranduil, his tone contemptuous.

Elrond straightened in his chair and met the cold fury in the King's glare, seeing genuine bewilderment there, too. Thranduil really did not understand why any of this had come to pass, complacent in his ignorance and isolation. Elrond inhaled a long breath and as he let it out looked upon his hand where once he had worn the Ring of Air. It was no matter of convenience that made him bear it on the index finger where his bonding band should have been. He had thought of it, since first receiving it, from the moment he first slipped it over the knuckle, as his bonding band to Gil-Galad. Celebrian had questioned him about it just once, early in their marriage, her calm eyes showing a hint of hurt to see her ring had not supplanted this other, her voice just betraying a tremble of emotion. The excuse he gave told her all, though he'd said nothing of relevance or even of rationality.

He had no wish to disclose any of this to Thranduil or Celeborn, and certainly not in front of Haldir, an ellon beneath him in both lineage and station. He shifted uneasily, seeing that this is exactly what the King would have. He sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.

"My sons are good-hearted and want more than anything to aid the healing of Legolas, for through me they feel the burden of all his wounds as though they had a hand in inflicting them. They would restore the honour and esteem of their House. Even more do they desire to include Legolas in their concept of family, though no blood do they share with him. It is a bond of a different sort they feel; a debt binds them, though it was not incurred by them. I will answer, yet I ask that I speak these things only to you and to Celeborn."

"Well, that is a start," sighed Celeborn, wondering over his old friend's resistance to claim his wrongs openly and explain himself. Like Thranduil, he believed that was essential if these two realms were ever to be on friendly terms again. He signed Haldir to leave and the March Warden departed, but not without a sneering snort of scornful disrespect.

"He thinks you craven," observed Thranduil, "and he is likely correct. If you cannot admit these things before him, how will you do so before the gathered populace of Greenwood? I am thinking this is all just a way to delay the inevitable, and hence I deem we should save additional questions for the trial. These are legitimate charges against you, Peredhel, and must be addressed. Perhaps the informality of this setting prevents you from comprehending the dire nature of your situation. Mithrandir and Aiwendil will officiate as in the previous tribunals."

"Thranduil, what purpose does it serve to hold this hearing?" Celeborn opposed his kinsman. "As I said before, we here in this room can come to an understanding and determine the best way for Elrond to make amends. What would you have? Is it payment in goods and gold you seek? Should he remain here in Greenwood in some capacity of service for a time?"

Hearing this, Elrond squirmed in anxious dismay, for he did not want to be held prisoner in this place any longer than had already passed. As long as he was in the stronghold, he was subject to the will of the ghosts of Thranduil's brothers. He had learned his lesson and amended his views; staying here could not increase the depth of his remorse. In addition to this, he was torn over whether it was best to meet with Legolas and express his remorse or not, deferring this decision to others as he felt his motives too convoluted to trust.

The King noticed his captive's silent discontent and smiled. "It would not please you to remain here, would it, Peredhel? I admit it; I've no wish to have you about longer than it takes to thoroughly reveal your dissipation and achieve your complete humiliation, but that it disturbs you so much is most enticing. Even so, Legolas would not be comfortable with it. Yet, his recovery is slow and he need not be made aware that you are here."

"What duty would you have him perform?" Celeborn inquired. He did not really believe his kinsman would keep the Lord of Imladris as his prisoner, deeming he only hoped to frighten Elrond. If so, it was working.

"Duty?" Thranduil leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, evaluating the ellon before him. "Greenwood always has need of skilled warriors to defend her. Yet, the Peredhel is a swordsman, if I am not mistaken. Such ability is of little use here where we must use stealth and cunning to pursue and defeat our foes." He paused as though in thought and a cold gleam lit his eyes. "I have received reports of a series of traps our Tawarwaith devised in defence of our holdings in the central and southern regions of the woods. Perhaps Elrond could be employed maintaining and manning them, even as Legolas did."

"You decree my death if you demand this," Elrond said and lifted a defiant chin.

"Yet my warriors see to it even now, even after this bloody battle has been fought and won. Why should you not risk your life as they do? Why should your punishment for destroying Legolas' life be any different than the sentence he was required to carry out?" As he spoke, Thranduil's heart filled with anger, thinking on the deprivation and constant danger Legolas had faced through all the long years of his exile, realising how that came to be reality, and blaming Elrond for it. He rose abruptly and slammed his fists on the parchment littering the desk and shoved them roughly aside, a bellow of outrage echoing in the small chamber. He leaned forward and pointed at Elrond. "You took something precious from me, Peredhel, as surely as if you came here and spirited him away in the dark!"

Celeborn rose, too, and moved to get between Thranduil and the Lord of Imladris, hastening to calm his kinsman. "Your wrath is just, muindor, yet what good can more violence serve? It will not make Legolas well and whole again. You cannot give him back his innocence."

"And why not?" demanded Elrond of the King, suddenly unable to hold his tongue. "You have an enchantment here that would wipe away all that has passed in his life. He would awaken from that watery sleep with his soul rid of the tragedies he has seen, done, and borne." His outburst stifled Thranduil's fury as candle snuffed out by the wind and the silence that followed was taut with the conflicted opinions yanking the four elves' consciences to and fro.

Then Thranduil sat heavily in his chair and passed his hand over his eyes, waiting as the others took their seats. After a time, he spoke: "I do not deny I have considered that cure, but you do not know the nature of this enchantment. It is no gentle thing, Peredhel. The longer submerged, the greater the peril, and not from drowning. It is not a mild deterrent meant to discourage unwanted visitors, but a curse designed to reduce a person to madness and despair such that he would rather die than live in the void the water creates. It is among the punishments I have considered for you. Can you imagine awakening one day with the sensation that your soul has been dissolved?"

Elrond stared in revulsion and shook his head. "I have only heard rumours"

"They are nothing compared to the truth," intoned Thranduil. "We cannot subject him to that, though I have debated with myself whether small doses might ease his distress somewhat. The healer is against it."

"I do not understand why you don't simply take him to Mithlond and send him over sea," rejoined Elrond, for as a healer he knew how unlikely a true cure was.

"He would not go," said Celeborn sadly.

"Not even if Erestor insists?"

"No, not even then," Thranduil denied. "Yet, he is strong and resilient. He has lived this long beyond all hope and expectation. I believe he lives for his brother and sister, his devotion to Tawar, and Greenwood herself."

"You discount the bond with Erestor?" queried Celeborn.

"Nay, but even if he did not have Erestor he would struggle to live. I doubt he would win that battle were the seneschal not bound to him," opined Thranduil. He breathed an exasperated sough and his green eyes pierced Elrond. "That makes this conundrum even more maddening, for had you not come here covertly and brought your kinsman with you, Legolas would not have found the love he so desperately needs to survive. For this cause I know he would just want you to go away and bother him no more, in his memories or in his life.

"For this cause, I, too, would have you go from here. The sight of you is repugnant, the thought of you infuriating. Even so, I will not let you go, Elrond Peredhel, though I want it dearly and Legolas would wish it." The King stood and glared down upon his prisoner. "You will stand before the Council of Greenwood and admit your wrongs before all assembled therein. Your punishment shall be ratified by that Council, but I will be the one to announce it to you, for I stand for the abused ellon your hatred chose to victimise. Until that day, you will be confined to the dungeons beneath these halls."

With this speech completed, Thranduil pushed past Celeborn, ignoring his protestations, and summoned Talagan, who stood ready just outside the door. With him were the same two sturdy warriors who had taken Elrond into custody on his arrival in the realm, and they took him at the arms and raised him from the chair. They led him away without trouble or fuss, for Elrond had expected nothing less. He resigned himself to death.

"Lindalcon!" he cried aloud and bounded from the bed, arm reaching out into empty air, eyes trained not upon the fair face of his deceased brother but upon Elrohir's astonished countenance. Instantly, the damaged leg buckled and the next noise extracted from the Tawarwaith was a howl of agony. He collapsed, expecting to feel the bright, sharp explosion of nerves protesting his impact upon the floor boards, glad for the blank oblivion that must follow, but his fall was interrupted.

"Ai! I have you, Legolas," Elrohir reassured, hoisting the frail figure into his arms and settling him back in the mass of pillows and blankets lining the hammock.

"Daro, nay," Legolas moaned, protesting the hands that shifted him about and bundled cushions and coverlets round him, pushing them away though he knew they were not meant to hurt and also that it was impossible for them to avoid that outcome, no matter how careful, how gentle the touch.

"All right, be at peace." Elrohir straightened, smiling kindly upon the anguished eyes peering at him uneasily. "Do you thirst?" A slight nod of assent caused him to pour water from a carafe nearby and he was glad to see Legolas gulp it down without fighting his efforts to assist. The water was laced with potent herbs to dull the pain and worked rapidly, the patient melting into a lax heap amid the pillows. Blue eyes blinked at him sluggishly. "I will just get my chair and we will have a little visit now," Elrohir said and turned to drag the footstool close, sat upon it and crossed a knee over a thigh, clasped his hands atop it, and offered another smile. "It is good to see you conscious. Do you know me, Legolas?"

"Elrohir." The word was a but whisper.

"Aye, but how do you know this? Few can distinguish me from my brother."

Legolas gazed upon this legendary warrior, incredulous. Did this person really intend to hold conversation with him? He wished only to retreat into the black void where there was no agony, no memory, and no spectres gathered to ravage him in malicious glee. "Where is Berenaur?"

"Do not be alarmed; he is on the lower platform, sleeping as only one drugged heavily will sleep. Gladhadithen decided it was necessary, for he has weakened himself by refusing food and rest to care for you."

"He is ill?" Legolas struggled to sit up, eyes filled with the enormity of his need to get to his mate. His kindly minder prevented all his efforts quite easily. "Let me go to him!" He managed to infuse the demand with some of his former power as Greenwood's Protector, but Elrohir was not moved.

"Nay, listen to me now. He is not ill but he grieves and this is not something to take lightly. Hard as it is for me to say it, I must tell you that your need for him and his need to heal you is retarding his recovery. That can only result in your recuperation being delayed even more, at best. At the worst, well, we can all imagine it and thus I will not give these fears life with the breath of my voice. I know you would not have him fall into decline even to aid you, Legolas, and Gladhadithen knows it even better than I. Be at peace, then, and let him sleep until the morrow."

"He will be all right?"

"He will. Erestor is strong and his love for you a redeeming faculty that he has long needed to repair his damaged soul." Elrohir smiled at the worried countenance regarding him. "I never thought he would be anything other than the clever, carefree rogue I have known all my life, yet my mother often mourned the emptiness she sensed within him. I think I begin to understand what she meant, for once he was a wily and cunning hunter, a formidable opponent, my father's closest companion and his right hand, and my mentor, but alone, always, despite the much exaggerated number of his conquests. Now Erestor has become wise and brave, caring and compassionate, and so obviously in love that he is like a different person entirely. You have given his life purpose and meaning, Legolas."

Legolas had no words to offer in response but could not deny the warmth these proofs of the bond he shared with Berenaur gave. The knowledge that it was apparent to all, when he had feared the bond destroyed by the Wraith, soothed him and he closed his eyes, loosing a quiet sigh that was his beloved's name.

Elrohir cleared his throat and the blue eyes peered at him in curiosity, but before he could begin his speech, one which he had agonised about all these many days, Legolas spoke:

"Why are you here?"

"Why?" Elrohir was taken aback and felt his cheeks grow warm, for he'd assumed that much to be understood. Now he must speak the hated words. "I am here because of my father. My brother and I are here representing both Imladris and our House in this dreadful mess. Elrond has been deposed; we are the Lords of Imladris now."

"Ah." Legolas wished he had not asked, having forgot that Elrond was meant to come here; he did not want to think about Elrond or his careful, caustic healer's touch. He shifted in his nest, tension gathering in his limbs and anguish in his heart. "Don't want to see him," he whispered in plaintive tones laced with real revulsion and fear. "Thought he was there, not here."

"Be calm, you need never look upon him if you so choose," assured Elrohir, leaning forward to try and help the languishing ellon. "We could not leave him behind for the charges demanded his appearance before Thranduil's court. To refuse would add greater insult to those already tendered."

"Nay, the doors, the White Doors," Legolas cried, twitching anxiously. "Is it here? Are we there? Why do you torment me; I do not know you!"

He was fast becoming irrational and Elrohir regretted the effect of his words, but he was not lacking in determination and believed he knew how to break through the Wood Elf's debilitating confusion. "Listen to me, Legolas, listen!" He exhorted and set a hand upon the quivery shoulder. This raised a loud gasp of fear and fury and he was brusquely shoved away. "All right, I will not touch you, only listen to me now, muindor dithen." To his dismay, this well-meant familiarity elicited a wail of such hopeless desperation that Elrohir's blood ran cold. He saw that Legolas intended to drag himself from the nest and flee, and fearing he would do himself harm grasped his arms and held him down. "Nay, you must not try to rise; you will aggravate your injuries. Be still and hear me!"

"Ai, youyounot you! Not here! This is home; it cannot be there!"

"Nay, Legolas! This is home and here you are safe. You are!" He shook him faintly and the terrified eyes opened and locked with his, such misery in them that Elrohir almost lost heart. "I am not a phantom player in those horrors you have known; you are no longer captive," he spoke quietly in the sudden silence. He had anticipated this might result and was prepared to dispel the fog enveloping Legolas' clouded mind, having guessed the one thing that would never enter into the tortures devised to break this battered warrior. Soft and clear, his voice filed the talan with song, a simple tune from his childhood that his mother was wont to sing, a merry little melody used to teach him the letters and their names, their sounds, and the meanings within them. He hoped Legolas' naneth, also a sylvan, would have used this same song during that brief time of innocence allotted to her child.

The plan worked and to his absolute relief Legolas began to sing along and they finished two rounds together, ending with Elrohir smiling, Legolas sighing as the terror evaporated from his heart. The younger Twin let go and resettled him in the nest before resuming his seat. "So," remarked Elrohir proudly, "now you have the means to test reality, yes? There was no singing in that bleak place; I know."

"No song," Legolas murmured, unexpected tears filling his eyes and running over. "Even I could not sing there." Instinctively, he reached out for Elrohir's hand and clutched it tight, heaving in a deep breath that left him calmer, amazed at the strength and comfort transmitted through the firm grip.

"It is over. You have all of time to sing now." He dragged his stool a little closer,still holding tight to the slender fingers, pleased by the strength evident in those lethal digits.

"All of time," whispered Legolas and felt cold. He wanted Berenaur. Elrohir went on speaking.

"I cannot begin to tell you how often you have been in my thoughts, all the fantasies I indulged of meeting you. For a very long time, I hoped you would come to live in Imladris and I would have a little brother to badger and bedevil even as my twin harasses me." Elrohir swept his long, loose tresses behind him, chuckling over the astonishment visible in the Wood Elf's eyes. "Aye, we knew about you." As he watched, a tremor overtook the ailing ellon and Legolas shut his eyes, withdrew, shrinking into the mounded bedding with a weary plea, a half-spoken gasp of negation and alarm. Elrohir became serious at once.

"Nay, be at peace, I am not here to cause you distress. I will stop if you wish it. My hope was only to have you realise you have long been loved, though from a great distance and by folk you never imagined. I am deeply mortified by the things my father did, Legolas. I cannot undo them, but I can offer you true friendship, true kinship such as I, and Elladan too, have felt for you all these long years."

"Kinship," Legolas sighed; he thought that was not a thing to decline lightly and faced his benefactor. "It was you that came for me there."

"Aye, Elladan and I, Aragorn, Haldir, all of the woodsmen in the village south of the Forest Road, uncounted numbers of your people; we came for you, Legolas."

"Thranduil?"

"Oh!" Elrohir was surprised by this query and his discomfort showed, answering for him, so he sought to apologise for the absent father. "There was fire and an incursion along the Elf Path. He was needed there, for none but he can command that element so well, and his kinsman went with him also."

"Lord Celeborn."

"That is right; he is here, too, and waits only for you to grow stronger before presenting himself. The trees have told him all about you, Tawarwaith."

"Yes? Then we will heal this Greenwood," Legolas mumbled, feeling tired and heavy. The effort to hold this conversation was exhausting him. His eyelids drooped.

"Yes, that I do believe," smiled Elrohir, watching as sleep crept upon Legolas, for it was real sleep and he meant to insure it was not disrupted by horrific memories. "We will be friends, you and I, and despite his rough manner even Elladan will win your trust. Be at peace and sleep, mellon." So promising, Elrohir again gave voice to song, choosing a bright, easy tune for a burdened heart to hear, a jubilant laud to ethuil. Simultaneously, he subtly tugged upon the net upholding the voluminous bedding, setting it to swaying.

"Friends," The Tawarwaith echoed, the word a prayer of supplication and thanksgiving, and lapsed into slumber almost instantly.

It was a strange place to be and Legolas wondered what had brought him here, for he avoided the stronghold at all costs. Indeed, the last time he was here he'd been carried in unconscious, so near to death he'd heard Námo call his name. He stood in the lengthy corridor and an involuntary shudder worked through his muscles and made his skin crawl; the memories he'd stored of this place were none of them fair, and they were many. He hugged his arms tight round his body to forestall another shiver and looked first one way then the other; not a soul breathed by and the place exuded an atmosphere of yawning desolation. He was in the centre of the passage at the top of the servant's stairs; the way he'd preferred as a child for never would Thranduil venture that path.

All the doors were closed; the broad corridor stretching out in either direction dimly lighted and smelling faintly of decay, as though he'd come upon a ruin long abandoned by its inhabitants, preserved with all the accoutrements of daily life intact. The tapestries seemed a little tattered; the paintings darkened by smudges of soot from torch light, the carpets worn and faded down the middle where too many feet had passed. The passage stood empty, forsaken, crammed with reflections of lives once lived, peopled with fragmented and fleeting recollections, devoid even of ghosts.

This was a place Legolas knew well and the signs of desertion were unsettling, for here was the one part of the fortress that had felt safe, his home for his earliest years before he learned to escape into the garden maze and from there to the trees. It was the level dedicated to his mother's rooms and at the uttermost end of the hall was his own suite, the chambers that adjoined Malthen's. That door both repulsed and beckoned him. Unbidden, a swift series of graphically obscene images flew by, Malthen's handsome features made ugly in his lust, his voice contorted and jarring like the discordant cries of warring jays and grackles, his words cruel. Legolas shut his eyes, refused to look, banished the hurtful scenes. Had he really believed that was love? An answer would demand a closer scrutiny and he had no wish for one. He knew the answer anyway.

Opening his eyes again, he stared down the carpeted tunnel the opposite way, glancing on the portals one by one: there the entrance to the study with its massive shelves for scrolls and books, its long table with the tall, round wooden stool where he took lessons. There on his right hand were the plain pine planks sealing the music room; the harps would be shrouded, the flutes closed up in their leather cases, all hibernating through an endless winter of silent centuries and that made him sad, for besides his bow these were the instruments he enjoyed most. Two small rooms faced him across the hall, space solely for storage where Ningloriel kept various furnishings with which she had grown bored. Finally, at the gallery's terminus, his mother's chambers, whose rock hewn walls were softened by tapestries and works of art created by Ningloriel's hands over the long years of her residence here. Had she hated it as much as he?

_Nay, she loved her apartment, her domain. She loved this place and the gardens where she toiled over her exotic plants and blossoms._

Legolas smiled then, for there were one or two good memories after all and he would claim them. He strode toward that ornately carved oaken barrier, intent upon visiting her rooms, thinking maybe she would be there and they could sit together for a time as once they had. It was her wish, nay, her demand, that he report to her after every tour of duty in the forest so that she might satisfy herself that he was whole and healthy. How she fussed over him then! His favourite foods were cooked and served; he donned clothes she'd had made for him while in Lorien; she played the harp and he sang for her. He knew this was as much to spite Thranduil as it was to indulge her fleeting maternal urges, but Legolas did not care. He'd enjoyed those few hours and treasured them now all the more for they were all he knew of gentleness then. Did she think on him sometimes, far away ensconced amid the splendours of the Undying Lands?

_She loved me dearly, in her own manner, and has not forgot me now. I should have gone with her and sailed._

_I am glad you did not._

The voice brought Legolas to a dead stop and he remained fixed there, terrified to turn and look, for it was a voice he recognised. Perhaps if he remained still and silent, the spectre would go away, spare him this time. He shut his eyes tight, unaware that he was shaking visibly, and prayed to every Vala he could call to mind to let this trial pass. He would go to Malthen's rooms and endure the thrilling torments initiated there; he would go to the vaults and suffer the Spirits to seize his body; he would return to the Masters of Dol Guldur and permit the atrocities that so pleased the Wraiths.

_Anything but this, I beg!_

_What do you fear? There is no harm I would visit upon you, Muindoren. Indeed, I have come to ease your burdened heart._

A long, low wail escaped the Tawarwaith's soul and his legs refused to support him; he found himself on his knees. Tears blurred his view of the hallway, but through the salty flux he locked his sight on the door marking its end. On the other side he would be safe, safe in Ningloriel's sitting room; she would not let anyone abuse him in her very presence. He began crawling toward it, but seemed to make no progress, the distance amplified and the corridor stretched, the heavy, oak door diminished. At the same time, his muscles lost their strength and he could not move. Sobbing, head low and eyes sealed, he listened for the faint press of ghostly elvish feet. There was no sound, there never was, but just as every time before Lindalcon was beside him, a gentle hand soothing his back. It always started thus, gently, softly, kindly and Legolas' heart froze in dread.

_Please, I am sorry, beyond sorrow for grief consumes me; do not do this. Anything else, any torture, any punishment you demand but this._

The hand comforting him stopped abruptly and settled on his shoulder, squeezed softly. _Legolas? Look at me._ The voice was distressed, confused.

_Nay! Go from me or kill me, but touch me not!_

_Kill you? Nay, Legolas. Touch you not? Does my touch give you pain?_

Again Legolas groaned, a sound of pure despair and resignation. _So be it. Do as you will; I have earned your wrath and submit to your just desire for vengeance._ He waited in quaking anticipation, expecting the scene to evolve into something horrifyingly familiar and wept to think he would be raped in his mother's rooms, but nothing happened. The hand on his shoulder squeezed again.

_Please look at me, Legolas. I do not know what you have endured but have feared the worst. I see it is so, yet what I can imagine must be only a faint shadow of the truth. I am not here do reap revenge or punish you. I visit you to beg forgiveness for the horrors my rash actions wrought upon you in those foul caves._

Legolas' heart stumbled and he let out a harsh gasp. _Forgiveness? Yours was the life taken, Lindalcon, by my hand. It should have been me bleeding to death in the dark._

_Nay, you know that is not what you mean, for then I would have become that vile thing's mate. Even if death was yours by right, robbing you was my fate all along. I was designed solely for the purpose of taking your place, first as Greenwood's heir and then as Adaren's saviour. The first was not of my own choosing, but the second I claimed willingly to satisfy my own conscience. I took up that destiny knowing it ultimately contained only bitterness and death._

_I have seen what my end was meant to be for I witnessed the utter destruction and desecration of Rochendil, his very soul dismembered, ingested by Orcs. That would have been little better than being bound to Nazgul for all eternity. Your dagger was as tender as new grass by comparison and my excruciation was brief, being but the fleeting fright of knowing these things would happen to me. Yours seems unending and I would not be part of that. Please, look upon me and see that there is no thirst for vengeance in my fëa._

Yet Legolas could not make himself do it and kept his lids squeezed tight against this new manifestation of his adopted brother. Never had the voice been so kind and caring, so filled with true compassion and genuine remorse. This was so much like the ellon Lindalcon would have become under the growing mantle of maturity time would weave him had he lived. In contrast, the other apparitions had only sported the young warrior's physical presence, the thing inside hideous and demented, its words and actions vicious, cold, and cunning. It was a new level of cruelty and Legolas shrank away from the phantom, shuffling ineffectually closer to the wall.

_I am not here to hurt you. Please, I have been trying to reach you for uncounted time, but your mind has been locked away. Yet you have not perished; therefore, I deem there must be hope for your spirit to be healed. Your Noldorin Lord has remained beside you, a true heart and faithful mate. You live for him._

_Aye._

Legolas despaired anew; was this new tactic meant to deprive him of that last shred of hope? Anger flared at last.

_You must not! You cannot bring him here into this madness!_

_I have no such power to command your mind that way. Beyond that, I would not again jeopardise that one source of comfort granted you. Remember? You were so angry with me then! I tell you, never have I known such joy as to feel your arms encircle me with forgiveness. Will you not consent to a second reprieve, Muindor?_

Legolas crouched low, huddled in still and silent doubt, ready for the true nature of the phantom to be revealed, surprised to find he was tensed as though to fight, amused at his instinctive need to try, no matter how futile, to escape the slow maceration of the soul inflicted by his own mind and the unholy designs of Shadow's servants. Yet, none of the previous manifestations of Lindalcon had conversed with him this way. None of them knew about Berenaur's dunking in the Enchanted River, for he had sealed off that part of himself. He struggled to suppress the hope rising in his heart, knowing full well how much more devastating the sexual assault would be if he gave in to it.

_Put aside your hurt for just a small moment, Legolas, just one small moment. I am really here, though this be only a dream to you. It is no different that the visitation by Analdir. Come, there is nothing to fear from looking upon me. I must gain your pardon, please._

The phantom voice pleaded with nearly desperate remorse; the ephemeral hand squeezed harder and shook him a bit. In the end, it was too tempting and he could not resist the desire to look upon this lost brother once more. Legolas' eyes opened and he turned them upon the spectre, expecting to see the unsightly wound gaping wide and weeping crimson, but the vision was clean. Lindalcon sat beside him, the scene changed so that they were at the top of the stairs overlooking the immense cavern that housed the kitchens. The spirit-body shimmered with undulating light, softly insubstantial but whole, as innocent and unsullied as on the day he had met Legolas at the entrance to the maze of the bonding talan. He was smiling and laughed, his hand sweeping out to indicate their location.

_Here is a place where we both have sat and contemplated the tempers of Thranduil and his chosen Queens. What children we were!_

_Is it you, Lindalcon, really?_ Legolas blinked and drew a long breath, tentatively raised a hand to the chestnut locks. There was no sensation when he touched them and he quickly drew back. Yet he was glad for it as proof that this was not taking place behind the White Door. The fair image smiled sadly and shook his head, reached out and caressed the Tawarwaith's shorn head, leaving no impression.

_So much pain is in you! Be at peace now, for it is really me, Legolas. I have no wish to hurt your mate, Muindoren, nor you. I have only the need to hear your words of expiation, for I am denied Mandos until they are given; such is the decree of Námo._

_Námo? You are denied the Halls? What manner of law is this that endangers the soul unhoused? I do not understand._

_Truly, you do not!_ Lindalcon's eyes were bright with both mirth and love and he hugged Legolas to him, though neither could feel the contact. _Legolas, it is my own need to hear your words absolve me that makes it so. The Vala cannot give entry to those whose hearts are still bound in anguish to what remains here. I am Wandering but I am not unprotected. You saw to that, remember? You released me from the abomination of bondage and despoilment amid the Wraiths and Orcs, taking this martyrdom upon yourself, trading your life for not only mine, but my father's also, one last effort to complete those Tasks unjustly imposed. Now release my soul from the guilt of bringing that choice upon you and I shall truly be free._

_Then you are freed, Muindoren, for no resentment is in me. You did only what you deemed must be done to aid your Adar._ Legolas assured, finally convinced this was no trick, eager to ease his brother's soul.

_Likewise, you did the only thing for me you could do. Be at peace, Muindoren. Do not carry my death with you nor count it among the debts you believe you must pay._ The vision began to fade and Lindalcon raised his hand in farewell. _Gather the love that surrounds you and heal; we will meet yet once more in Greenwood and then never again until you sail, Muindoren._

_Oh! Nay, do not go from me now, Lindalcon._ Legolas reached or him but the spectre dissolved even as his fingers grazed upon it. Lindalcon was gone.

  
Legolas opened his eyes, free of the heart-racing recollections of remnant panic that generally accompanied each return from oblivion, and realised he had actually been sleeping. The dream of Lindalcon replayed and he felt a fragile smile spread over his features; that had been no dream at all. Exultant with relief over his communion with his adopted brother, Legolas wished he had strength to arise and dance for joy. For the first time since leaving the talan to go after Lindalcon, he felt at peace over the conclusion of his mission to save Valtamar's son.

_I did save him. We three, Fael'ur, Valtamar, and I, saved him._

The realisation made him warm and dulled the perpetual throbbing wrench of his healing wounds. His spirit filled with serenity and his eyes stung with tears of joy, recalling Lindalcon's final words. He hallowed them and set them in a place of honour within his heart and returned to the present to find his sight trained upon a person he did not know. It startled him, but long and brutal conditioning had trained him to stillness. He peered covertly, lids half shut, and marked a noble presence, an understated elegance about the elf.

The ellon sat hunched forward in a low chair beside the brazier, hands loosely clasped between his knees, face half tuned away in profile, long, blonde mane loose about his shoulders, the colour pale as Ithil touched by a hint of Arien's gold on Autumn's first dawn. Unaware he was being observed, his countenance was unguarded and there was about his expression the strain of grievous trials, a cast as of woe long endured and as yet unrelenting about his posture. That he was reliving whatever caused this sorrow was evident and a bright sheen glinted in his eyes, which stared into the glowing embers, seeing them not.

_Whence comes this apparition?_

Yet, Legolas recognised the furnishings of his sleeping flet in the talan in the clearing and knew this was neither dream nor hallucination. The silk curtains were drawn tight and the ellon wore a cloak draped over his shoulders against the wintry weather, though it was thrown open, and his high, fur-lined boots were cast off to dry beside the flames. An empty goblet rested on the floor beside a platter on which the debris of a late repast was scattered. He remained lost in thought, his vision turned inward as the loosely laced fingers tightened and twisted slightly. Intrigued by the notion of someone in Greenwood he could not place, the Tawarwaith wondered if this might be one of the Galadhrim.

_Perhaps Lord Celeborn himself._

The notion gave him a sharp thrill; he had heard much rumour of the great Lord and his reasons for being in Greenwood. That such a noble person could be his father's kinsman seemed absurd. Legolas felt another surge of his pulse; he was also kin to the Lord of Lorien. What cause could the wise ruler have to be here in this flet keeping watch over an ailing warrior? Yet, someone had mentioned Celeborn would come to meet him.

_Elrohir, his grandson._

The encounter with the younger Twin gave credence to his guess and he wondered if he should make his presence known. Yet the grief that clothed the august visitor demanded respect and Legolas held still and kept silent vigil with him, giving himself up to attentive scrutiny, hoping to see how they might be similar, a sign of their kinship all might remark.

He was powerfully made and undoubtedly full-blooded Sindar, tall and long in the shanks, broad and majestic in frame and build. He sat as one unaccustomed to ease, a soldier for whom comforts had often been absent, and his clasped hands, elegant though they were, could only be a swordsman's. His garb was simple but well made and of fine materials, a hunter's habit rather than a uniform, yet the absence of the scabbard and hilt was keenly noticeable. A warrior come home after many years of war and strife would look the same, Legolas thought, and his fair face was taut with the effort to contain the great sorrow that threatened to overmaster him. It was as though he brought battle with him wherever he went, sword in hand or no, and was in constant internal conflict.

How many comrades had he seen perish? What kinfolk, what beloved companions had been riven from his life to create so daunting a cloud of silent, suffocating lamentation? So it must be and here was a person whose existence had spanned Ages of dire hardships. The wars of Beleriand, the kin-slayings, the bitter siege of Barad Dur at the Last Alliance, all these combined must be included in this ellon's history. Verily, here was one who could understand the tragedies of the Tawarwaith's ill-fated life. Legolas felt a surge of pity and compassion for him, wishing he could invite him to speak of this loss, yet feared anything he might say would only tend to marginalise the real agony incurred by such struggle, such enduring fortitude. For there was no hint of despair or capitulation in the set of his firm mouth. The forces shaping his world could try as they might; dignified, determined, defiant, he would continue. He would continue.

Legolas stared as though spellbound, sharing the agony filling the golden aura, admiring the undefeated courage presented here, barely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing his exalted guest. Suddenly, the ellon sighed deeply and sat back, ran fingers through his hair and hastily caught it behind him in a loose knot. His introspection completed, his features sharpened into a familiar mask of aloof arrogance as they turned upon the archer, and the mysterious warrior turned into Thranduil.

TBC


	112. Chapter 112

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

* * *

###  **Adar ah Ion (Father and Son)**

Thranduil rose, tall frame filling the Tawarwaith's field of view, and took the two steps required to carry him close to the netted bed, his motion rapid and his expression stern with sceptical scrutiny, but beneath that usual aloof remove peered an anxious eye. The archer was staring, lips parted, blue irises reduced to rims of azure round pupils dilated and filled with an expression the King could only name stunned disbelief. He was accustomed to the abject fear which accompanied Legolas' hellish nightmares, but could not imagine the thoughts provoking this strange aspect. He remained fixed on the spot, worried Legolas was again immersed in one of those ghastly phantasms and he cast in the role of tormentor. Then a sharp intake of air and a futile effort to rise and flee answered his precipitate advance, and he was sure of it.

"Legolas?" he queried but did not retreat, leaning in closer over the stricken ellon. An inarticulate cry of loathing, negation, and terror answered and Thranduil sighed, disappointed; he had not expected a relapse after the promising reports of the last several days. "I am not a spectre come to harm you. Listen; I shall prove it to you." So saying Thranduil broke into song, raising voice in a proudly mournful hymn of war expressing the woe of struggle and death under the starlit boughs of Neldoreth, for Elrohir had not kept his remedy a secret and one and all who came to the upper flet had agreed to employ it.

Legolas once more gave way to incredulous shock, hearing Thranduil burst into song, for he was not sure he had ever heard him do so. That was wrong, though he had certainly never sung for or to Legolas, and instantly he recalled the feasts the King was wont to give, events he relished when he was young for the gayety that filled the stronghold and spilled into the gardens and the surrounding city amid the mighty trees. The King had a majestic voice, bold and ringing, imbued with that stubborn and indomitable spirit he possessed, resonating with resolve to die before admitting defeat, to wrest victory from adversity by perseverance and sheer force of will. Legolas discovered the sound complimented the impressions he'd formed observing Thranduil in that unguarded moment and became still, absorbing the vitality in the song, understanding in a flash that this was his father attempting to reassure him.

"Adar nín," he murmured in wondering confusion and slowly turned to aim a wary glance over his shoulder. The singing stopped and he found his gaze met with equally circumspect scrutiny.

Thranduil was not sure he had heard that faint, evocative phrase. Had Legolas truly called him father? He decided the best course was to ignore it and focus on the result of Elrohir's clever devise. "You understand now this is no trick of your gaoler; I am really here and this is not a dream," he stated and offered a somewhat perfunctory smile. The announcement produced a sudden flood of colour to the invalid's sallow cheeks and a miserable groan as Legolas turned away again and lowered his face into the pillows, but not soon enough to hide the shame his instinctive response of fear caused him. The King exhaled a sigh of comprehension and dismay, retrieving the stool and seating himself.

"You need not be discomfited by such indications of distress upon waking, Legolas," he continued, noting with satisfaction that all the gaping gashes on his back and shoulders were closed over cleanly. Usually, Legolas was so buried in the conglomeration of pillows and blankets that little more than a portion of an arm or the crown of his head was visible. "They are normal after any violent ordeal and part of every warrior's life. Long years after it was over, I relived the moment when I watched my father cut down in battle by base Orcs in that foetid mere near the Black Gates. Indeed, I still suffer that scene when the anniversary draws nigh. Your own trials have been more gruesome than most, I warrant, and personal in a way that precludes contemplation. Even so, time will gradually give you the distance you require to develop less volatile reactions to the new reality of your waking world." Detecting no signal that he was heard, the King tried a different tactic. "I feel confident in predicting that your defiant arrogance will return soon enough."

"Arrogance!" The word erupted from Legolas' lips with incredulous wrath and he turned over, precipitating an explosion of cushions and covers from the nest, glaring in fury upon his father, high colour staining parchment pale cheeks.

"Yes, arrogance," insisted Thranduil, smirking in grim indulgence at the quick rejuvenation his insult wrought, and flicked a fringed pillow off his lap. "No need to sound so defensive; you come by it quite naturally, being my son. I do not pretend to humility of character nor respect any who do so falsely." He paused, considering his words and thought it best to qualify the point. "Not that I believe your character to be false or lacking in any manner, but a certain degree of arrogance is acceptable, even preferable, over the self-abrogation you have exhibited recently."

Legolas discovered he was thrice in the hour too stunned to manage words, his thoughts thrown into disarray by the torrent of speech flowing from the King's lips. Indeed, never in all his days had Thranduil spoken so many words to him, their bitter battles formerly waged in icy, strained silences. Now, here he sat conversing in a normal manner as he might do with Talagan, presenting a casual familiarity that was bizarre.

He could not see it as a natural progression, for it seemed an Age ago that they had faced one another in the gloomy vaults where Thranduil offered freely what Legolas most desired, bestowing not just the ring he'd sought but a tactile declaration of the words just now spoken, owning their kinship, if but awkwardly. Another shiver passed through the Tawarwaith's body and the chill made him realise that his efforts to escape and then confront the King had exposed him to open air and Thranduil's sight, revealing all the vivid red lines depicting the atrocities he had borne during his captivity. He loosed an abashed cry and began another struggle with the hopelessly tangled mass, tugging at blankets, searching for the robe he was sure he'd been wearing, desperate to cover himself.

"Sîdh," counselled the King and stood, whisking off his fur-lined cloak and draping it atop the busily stirring body with a gentleness that could not be denied. He sat and watched long fingers emerge and stroke the thick pelt of the collar appreciatively, tugging it until the cape nearly obscured the patient completely. Thranduil stared into eyes he had deliberately avoided for all of Legolas' life, seeing in them a host of conflicting emotions warring for dominance, pleased to mark among them gratitude and a fleeting glimpse of hope, replaced almost instantly by that familiar expression of rebellious, guarded vigilance.

_No doubt, he awaits some unkind and cutting remark designed to defame him._

The idea made Thranduil's stomach clench and he swallowed against the acidic flux this produced. In the long hours of the lonely night it had come to him. Standing there in the antechamber at the entrance to the lowest and most vile dungeons of the mountain fortress, fighting the urge to go and see how she faired, to hear her voice even if only used to curse him. Futilely willing his feet to be still as he inched toward that door, he had thought of it then even as his fingers squeezed upon the key to her silent cell. It had come to him in the eerie quietude of the lightless corridor and he had owned it as the one truth he should grapple with and retain foremost in his heart, and it was this: All the horrors befalling his children were not because of his disdain of the Valar, nor due to his abuse of an innate talent for gathering the drifting souls of the dead, nor even for the elvish blood he'd spilled. His children were suffering loss and grief solely because of his callous and deliberate efforts to thwart Legolas.

Thranduil cringed, for that was too sweet a word for actions that served to teach the child his complete and utter uselessness, to convince him of his unworthiness to live, to show him he was of less import and more abhorrent than the excrement of the lowest among the voiceless creatures squirming through the dirt beneath the King's feet. The magnitude of the sin he had committed with such perverse glee fell upon him again as in those times of sullen solitude beneath the mountain's bulk, and in vain Thranduil sought words to defray such an odious reality. As his soul churned in the throes of a newly awakened conscience, Legolas spoke.

"My thanks," he said quietly but clearly. "Winter assails me as it has never done."

An intense and charged silence reigned over the moment, for now the King was shocked in turn to receive so gracious a response, but Thranduil had made up his mind that he would reclaim his discarded son and decided this simple expression of courtesy was a sign that he would prevail. For Gwilith and Taurant he must succeed, and truthfully his pride demanded it to nearly the same degree as his love for his little ones. Legolas was his own and more; he displayed so close a likeness in temperament and beliefs to Oropher that Thranduil could not but castigate himself for failing to notice it in the child he had spurned. He presented a more genuine smile.

"You are more than welcome," he answered, dipping he head. "Whatever I possess that you may want or need is yours also." The lack of any means to evaluate the verity of this statement was all too clear in Legolas' eyes and Thranduil's smile turned into a grimace. "Yes, this demeanour is unlike the one I am wont to wear in your presence; I know it well. There are things that must be said to you and I ask that you suspend for a time that natural repugnance you feel when near me. A terrible".

"I am not the one forever expressing repugnance," Legolas interrupted sharply, the edge in his voice coated with hurt and sorrow; the glare trained upon the King accusing.

"Truly spoken," Thranduil acknowledged. "I was the one presenting that sense of revulsion, not you, though you learned quickly enough to return it measure for measure." He shifted on the stool, re-crossing his legs and raising his gaze to meet the astonished one watching him with guarded curiosity. "But let me speak to you openly now, Legolas, as I have never done prior." He waited, tense and stiff, anticipating another outburst, but instead Legolas shivered beneath the cloak and offered a slight motion of his hand to continue. Thranduil released the pent air from his lungs and inhaled a fresh supply, heart unaccountably jumpy with fear or hope, he knew not which.

"A terrible wrong has been done to you and to me, even to your mother. I do not say this to remove myself from fault and own it fully. In the same way I mean to undo that wrong as much as my power permits. You are my son, Legolas, and the grandson of Oropher whom I loved above all save my own children. As first-born among them, the honour and respect that should have been accorded you will be withheld no more."

Thranduil had played out this scene so often in his mind that he thought himself prepared for any reaction, ready for a violent verbal outburst, expecting to hear condemnation, to be named the author of all Legolas' trials, but the lack of any reply nearly unnerved him. It was hard to hold that piercing eye regarding him, weighing him. In the quiet minutes that followed they studied one another, each searching for what really lay hidden in the other's heart, and Legolas saw that this was his father's apology, the honest admission of his faults and his real desire to reverse the injury done, while Thranduil saw that it was not enough to fill the black void so many years of ridicule and rejection had hollowed out in his elder son's heart.

He sighed and lowered his head, first to break their communion, for it shamed him that he could not love Legolas as he should have done, even before his birth. The desolate cries of that all but abandoned babe sounded through his memory and he shuddered, recalling his anger to have to endure the shrieking, comparing that emotion with his response to Taurant's mewling during the night just passed. Oh, how he had cuddled and cajoled his little prince to ease those precious tears!

"I am sorry," Thranduil offered, the words wrung from his soul, for he could no longer deny that he had punished the innocent child, a safe target, an easy vessel in which to empty his affronted dignity and pride, instead of confronting his true enemy. It was a form of cowardice he had not expected to identify in himself and the realisation both stunned and mortified him. How insufficient his contrition sounded and he wondered that Legolas did not mock him in scorn and outrage.

_Ah, but he does, even as he has done so often, in belligerent silence._

"I do not expect such a statement will meet with acceptance and immediate absolution, far from it," he went on, feeling the absurdity of such a proviso, for Legolas needed no validation of his just contempt nor required any speech to express it. Thranduil twisted uneasily in the continuing absence of any answer and clasped his hands together tight, bent his forehead atop them a moment. "Ai! These are paltry declarations, unfit to relate the truth of what I feel, yet I must speak lest you think I mean to pretend no fault."

"As you have ever done," remarked Legolas drily.

"Exactly so," Thranduil looked up quickly to show he would not hide from his son's remonstrance, actually glad for it, and discovered Legolas attentive though dubious. He counted that a promising omen and went on. "While it may seem ridiculous to say it in light of what you have suffered, I claim to be the one more injured by our early division, for while you have been deprived of a boastful and haughty father, demanding and inflexible, I have been dispossessed of a gallant and courageous son for whom I should have enjoyed that pride and warm affection only a father can know and express."

A harsh gasp was the only response to this unexpected profession of paternal regret. What words could explain the pain these admissions evinced in Legolas' beleaguered soul? To hear them now, so long after he had ceased longing for them to be spoken, was in itself another cruel and hurtful assault on defences too much abridged to prevent overthrowing his composure. He shut his eyes and uttered a strangled sob. "Bring her back!"

"I cannot," admitted Thranduil, eyes to the floor, hushed voice stricken with remorse, and awaited the breaking of the storm that must be fairly bursting from Legolas' breast. He had decided that he would make no resistance to it but admit any crime, permit any impeachment, any imputation of wrongdoing. It was right for Legolas to have the opportunity to speak openly of the atrocities made possible because of his father's base behaviour. Yet, he had not expected this plea for Ningloriel to be the foremost charge hurled upon him.

"Nay, you cannot," mourned Legolas. "No more can you reverse the years already passed and return me to childhood, there to teach me this affection you mention." The plaintive words were uttered in low tones of misery, the wrath behind them finding the depleted body unable to sustain it so that sorrow had the greater potency. "It is too late."

"No," insisted Thranduil, raising his countenance to contradict this morose assertion, matching the weary and woebegone manner with contumacious denial. "As many years as have already passed, so that many and countless more besides lie ahead. Let me but try and I will convince you," he promised fervently.

Legolas looked, doubting nothing in the statements but seeing too that what was offered would always be less than he needed. It hurt the more to be forced to own that he still felt the lack so keenly. Titles and honours were meaningless while to be addressed with a sort of courtly courtesy and respectful mien would only underscore the absence of any deeper feeling for him. "Why?" he suddenly wailed, unable to suppress the demands of the child's heart. "Was I so abhorrent? Am I still?" He shut his eyes tight, ashamed and angry to find them filling with tears, and tugged the cloak over his face.

"Peace!" Thranduil stood, disturbed and helpless in the face of such raw despair, raised a hand toward the huddled figure quaking beneath the coat, dropped it. "That is not the word I would use to describe what I think of you, Legolas, though I know it was so in the past."

"Go! Ai, go from me!" Legolas cried, losing all hold on his shattered emotions and sickened to have Thranduil witness it. He clutched at the old scar beneath his heart and moaned, writhing under this assault on wounds that would never close. "Berenaur, Berenaur!"

"Ai! Be calm; it is not to trouble you that I say such things," Thranduil insisted, glancing over his shoulder anxiously to learn if the seneschal had heard that desperate cry. What Erestor might think to see Legolas so overwrought he could well imagine. Indeed, he was of half a mind to go and rouse the sleeping husband, for this reaction of distraught grief was not what he'd anticipated, having prepared to be berated and damned in vile terms he fully deserved. Even so, he refused to budge, deeming that should he obey he would but give credence to Legolas' negative thoughts. "I do not expect you to believe my views have changed. Time, again, shall be our ally and abet my goal of winning your trust."

"Trust! I trust you to be self-serving and cold," Legolas sobbed and then gnashed his teeth in fury to have let the sound escape him.

"I am neither," disputed Thranduil calmly and now he set his hand carefully on the heaving mass, hoped the compassion and remorse he felt were transmitted through the fabric. Legolas became as still as stone. "Yet how could you know anything of me besides that cruelty to which you were subjected? It is no surprise that you cannot comprehend my motives."

"Those are plain to all."

"I would hope so. I serve Greenwood," Thranduil said simply, "for love of my father, who wished above all things to preserve this place for the sylvan people, for all elf-kind. I serve Greenwood for love of my children, whom you also love. Do they not deserve a home free of war and death? This is a motive we share and a goal we may work toward jointly. It is the place where we begin, you and I, to construct those bonds that should come naturally. The blame for that being entirely mine, the effort to build that trust is also mine. You need only wait and watch and you will perceive the change. I have every confidence, knowing your character to be honourable, that you will respond as befits my effort."

Legolas heard truth in these words and detected in the solemn tones that unending sorrow he had seen draped like a shadowy veil over the aristocratic features. In vain he tried to banish the impression. "You are not" he stopped, unable to offer a sentence he knew to be a lie, for Thranduil was indeed capable of love, just not love for him.

"I," prompted Thranduil quietly, bending closer, his voice hardly above a whisper, "have been a colossal fool, as easily duped as a child deceived by older and more clever enemies than he can comprehend. You were mine and I rejected you, believing the ugly message in malicious gifts from a cruel and cunning mind. Why did I believe him?" Abruptly he stopped, for he knew it was Ningloriel's infidelity that influenced his response. That was not a topic to vent before Legolas, especially now when he was unstrung and vulnerable. Their eyes connected and the truth passed between them; Thranduil hastily averted his eyes, red-faced. "Fool that I am, it could not happen otherwise, as my enemy knew."

"Enough," groaned Legolas, for this was just too much, too difficult and drastic a change to encompass. He began to hum softly, fingering the cloak anew, and found his spirit heavy, weighted under the stress of such an unprecedented conversation. This new Thranduil, so contrite yet still so arrogant as to deliver his little speech because he wished it, because he deemed the time perfect, right now, whether Legolas wanted to hear it or not, was an enigma he had no strength to unravel. The tears slowed under the press of exhaustion and he breathed deeply, attempting to gather his scattered thoughts and wrenched emotions. Could he not make him leave? What did he want, really? _Absolution._ Where was Berenaur? _Drugged and sleeping._ "You came here, disturbed my rest just to tell me these things?"

It visibly startled Thranduil to hear the accusation attached to the query. "Yes, but nay; I waited for you to waken, Legolas. I had not the intention to disturb your rest, but it was important for you to hear me. What I have spoken you know to be true. Besides, I came here not just for that; I have been here often," announced the King, a self-deprecating smile adorning his lips. "A novel concept for you, I realise, but your father, your true father, myself in fact, has been among your staunchest advocates throughout this unholy ordeal you've endured. Now that you are aware of me; I mean for you to understand this clearly if you have not yet grasped it: I will not abandon you again. You are my son and Greenwood's right born prince; my heir should you wish the title. You will become accustomed to my presence, Legolas. There is benefit in it for you, for your brother and sister, for Greenwood. For me."

These statements fell upon Legolas like a tumble of rocks and stones, ponderous and pitiless, relentlessly piling up and bruising his heart. Never had he imagined an outcome to all his trials which included Thranduil as part of his daily life. Those days were over; he was no longer a child. _Then why do I feel like one?_ He peered with confusion at the King. "Nay."

"Aye. You cannot escape my new and attentive demeanour without leaving Greenwood, which I doubt you will do."

"Nay, Inever wouldAttentive? What do you mean?"

"What, indeed," snorted Thranduil and he smiled, catching sight of the worried eye bright with the sheen of fresh tears peeking from the cover of the cape. "Nothing you need fear, I promise you. I leave you now for already I hear Lord Erestor coming to your rescue. Ah, and here he is." He stepped back with a grin and offered a bow to his law-son, chuckling over the crackling menace exuding from the Noldo's aura.

"Berenaur." The word contained all: relief and love and complaint and bewildered hope.

"I am here, Pen-rhovan." Erestor got between the King and his mate, his scowl ferocious as he reached a hand behind him for Legolas to clasp, felt the heightened anxiety in the frantic grip. He was disoriented and unable to collect his thoughts, befuddled to come awake suddenly, heart pounding and soul filled with nagging terror, to find himself stretched on the small settee instead of in the hammock with his mate where he belonged. The discord flowing down from the upper platform spurred him into action and he was alarmed to find Thranduil hovering over Pen-rhovan, the two clearly at odds, and his shame was great to have left Legolas alone to endure this confrontation.

"I will leave you," Thranduil repeated, bending to pull on his boots, "for now. Expect me on the morrow at my usual time, Erestor, and I will be bringing some new garments for my son." He stood tall and faced them, arms crossing over his chest, brows drawn down in censure. "Really, he is suffering the cold terribly and should have nothing but fur-lined clothing against his skin. All these tangled blankets and stuff," here he waved a dismissive hand at the pile spilling out of the hammock, "are not sufficient protection for someone in his depleted state. I am shocked that you have permitted this neglect of your mate's comfort."

"What?" Erestor actually startled upon hearing this speech and flushed crimson. "I have not neglected him!"

"Well, say then that you have been ill advised in his proper care," soothed Thranduil in condescending accents, enjoying his ability to needle the legendary statesman. He grinned at the utterly confounded expressions on both faces watching at him and departed, leaving the cloak behind.

The smile remained as Thranduil strode through the snow-clad clearing, energy renewed and heart nearly exultant, gazing upon the ring of majestic beeches defining the glen with reverent admiration mingled with a sort of conspiratorial pleasure; the trees would aid him in this work and all of the forest would rejoice in the task. From the pathway beneath his feet, cleared of drifts by the continuous passage of the Tawarwaith's family and friends, arose an agreeable crinkling crunch with every compression of the frosty crystals, light though his tread was. Thranduil absorbed the quiet splendour of winter-frozen limbs dusted with white and draped with pendulous icicles, the dark brown bark of the bolls, stark against the colourless gleam of frigid blanket covering the earth, arranged in rigid ranks of concentric rings extending in endless perfection in every direction. He was transported for a moment to a time long past and a place that no longer existed.

He was but a child among many, the younglings of the woodlands cherished and protected by the benevolent trees of Neldoreth, and ran in gleeful laughter amid the throng racing between the trunks, each armed with provision of varying sort to suit the many kinds of birds and beasts that shared this abode with the Sindarin folk. The crowd dispersed quickly and singly or paired the children darted in every direction with their gifts, scampering through the woods, snatches of song and giggling mirth trailing in their wake.

Thranduil was burdened with a huge mound of barley hay and wore a pack crammed with dried fruits, thin strips of cured meat, seeds, and nuts. In seconds he tossed his fragrant offering beneath a stand of slender poplars and turned to find a sturdier tree, clambering up into the branches. There he carefully deposited his other gifts, spying a trio of still and silent birds observing his actions, their bright black eyes and yellow beaks all that defined the heads of these chilly balls of grey and white fluff. He gave them a note or two of their own call, which made each head pop up comically and he grinned, retreating, pleased at his charity. A glance back showed the beasts and birds emerging to accept his gifts and he gave a leap that mimicked the strong surge of pride that filed his heart.

Alone in the woods, he did not feel isolated and instead recognised that omnipresent spirit of the forest, even now in the depths of the cold and dark months. He loved the silent serenity of the sleeping trees and hibernating creatures, the way elk and wolf alike passed through the snow-bound landscape in quiet, respectful solemnity. It was as though all things recognised the need for Tawar to rest and gather fresh power from the bosom of the earth, storing it up for the necessity of spring and the new life the turn of the seasons must bring. It was certain every living thing beneath the boughs understood what was owed to the home that sheltered and sustained them, Thranduil no less aware.

He paused to watch the slow dignity of a procession of deer passing by in loose file, nostrils snuffling the air, following the scent of the fodder he'd left, and bowed to them, grinning. He did not imitate their stately stride, but leaped again and gave a shout of joy, breaking into a speedy chase over the snow, breaking into song, lauding the inherent goodness of this place, this Tawar. His jubilant chorus echoed through the woods, providing a herald for his approach, and he raced headlong into an ambush, a barrage of icy bombs raining upon him from above and either side of the way. He shouted in mock outrage, promising doom and revenge through his laughter, and wrapped his arms over his head as he ran, passing through the fusillade and clambering up amid the naked branches, showering the path with icicles and crystals dislodged in his haste. He had a supply of ammunition of his own ready and waiting.

"Declare yourselves! Who dares trespass on the realm of Thranduil the Defiant, son of Oropher the Mighty? Say your names that I may send word to your kin of your demise and its cause!"

A round of giggles answered his challenge and then a second voice rang out. "Your realm? Nay, you are the trespasser, Oropherion, for now you have crossed the border, unbidden and without brevet, and trod upon the country of Celeborn the Bold, son of Galadhon the Wise. Say what tribute you will offer to earn safe passage!"

"I shall give you tribute, indeed!" laughed Thranduil and lobbed a well-aimed wad of glistening snow upon his cousin.

Celeborn easily dodged it, a cry of surprise escaping his lips, and bent to gather a clot of snow himself. His target was weaving in and out among the bolls, laughing, and his shot missed, but he gave chase, gathering fresh rounds as he went, dipping and bobbing to duck the assault of his foe, wondering over his kinsman's light heart but not displeased to encourage it. There could be only one cause for such joy upon leaving that little talan in the clearing and Celeborn had high hopes that Thranduil and Legolas were reconciled. He suddenly caught up with the King, all mirth vanishing form his countenance as he saw the reason for the game's ending. Elladan had Thranduil pinned to the frosty ground and the glint of a dagger gleamed against his cousin's neck.

"Elladan!"

"Stay back! He's put Adar in that foul dungeon even as he swore he would not do!" Elladan growled. "You will bring him out, Wood Elf, and if I find his mind altered you will pay for it in like manner!"

"Elladan, beware! Come away from him; let him up!" Celeborn exhorted with quiet dread, for he was cognisant of the ring of archers above them and the two warriors fast approaching on foot, all with bows armed and aimed upon his grandson. He hurried forward with the intent of hauling the elder Twin off Thranduil when the King freed himself neatly, risking an ugly cut to do it, and Elladan was tossed aside, the blade now in Thranduil's grasp. Celeborn reached his grandson and bent over him, each one's face expressive of astonishment, though likely for different causes. Then he held out his hand to Elladan and helped him up. "You are not hurt?"

"Nay, it is but a faint scratch," intoned Thranduil drily, realising this concern was not for him, and wiped the blood from a long gash upon his cheek. His adversary and his kinsman both turned to him, Celeborn somewhat sheepish, Elladan wary but indignant.

"I don't know how you did that," he admitted, "and perhaps when this business is settled you will teach it to me. Yet you will release my father from that vile place or I swear you will suffer."

"I have suffered quite enough," snapped Thranduil, anger rising. "I and all my family have suffered unbearably due to the interference of your father in our lives. I did not seek to harm him or any he holds dear, never. Now you say to me I shall suffer if his just punishment is not suspended? Your fealty may be admirable in other matters, in other places, but here it is unconscionable. Did you not declare yourself ready to answer for the crimes done to me and mine by the Lord of your House?"

"So I did, yet it is one thing to want to ameliorate the wrongs he committed and another to stand idly by while he is slowly tortured into madness!" Elladan retorted. He made to take a step closer but Celeborn held him back, for the silent woodland archers were still armed.

"Compose yourself, Elladan, and hear me," Celeborn spoke. "I, too, opposed this sentence until I observed the manner in which it is being enforced. Your father is free to leave that cell at any moment. It is not locked; no guards stand there to bar his way; he may have light if he wishes it."

"What?" Elladan pulled free and stared from his grandfather to the Woodland King, incredulous. Before more could be said a voice shouted his name and all turned to observe Elrohir racing through the trees to reach them. He drew to a halt beside his brother and gripped his biceps tightly.

"Thank the Valar you have not done anything foolish," he breathed, smiling in relief. "I have seen him; you need not fear. Adar stays willingly and bade me go from him for he has much to consider in the quiet of that dreadful place."

"You are mad, too!" exclaimed Elladan, jerking free and striding off only to stop in no small surprise, finding a dozen arrows trained upon him.

"Listen to me, Elladan," said Celeborn. "This is a small punishment in comparison with the injury done to our hosts, who are in fact our own kin by blood and by bond."

"Nay, to be confined without light beneath that mountain is a torment none could endure!"

"Legolas did," barked Thranduil.

"Oh, now you are his champion?" sneered Elladan. "You have scorned and reviled him for all of his life and now"

"And now I have owned my wrong and claimed him as my own," replied Thranduil. "Who are you to stand in judgement of my behaviour when you freely admit the cause of that scorn and revulsion is your own father's sadistic and vindictive actions?"

"Unprovoked, may I add," reminded Elrohir. "Go and see Adar; none will hinder you. He will convince you he is neither mad nor tortured. He considers this an act of mercy on Thranduil's part for he has observed the alternative. Besides, he has no wish to stand trial before the population of Greenwood."

"That he shall not escape," the King denied. "He will announce his sins publicly and explain the motives that drove him to such low acts. We have agreed upon the sentence I will impose and this imprisonment is its beginning." A silent command ordered the guards to withdraw and the sound of arrows sliding back amid their brightly fletched fellows was a comforting one to Elladan and his kin.

They all stood quiet as Elladan stared, gaze hopping from one to the other, until at last he muttered an oath and took off at a run toward the stronghold. Celeborn heaved a sigh and passed his hand over his brow. "I thank you for your restraint; he feels this keenly and is torn, as you have seen. He would not have drawn your blood, Thranduil."

"No? Well, that says much about his fealty to Elrond." The King studied Elrohir closely for a moment. "Is it not past your hour to sit with Legolas?"

"Aye, so it is," Elrohir blinked in astonishment and sent a questioning glance to his grandfather. Celeborn smiled and shrugged. "I will go, then, with your leave."

"You have it," announced Thranduil magnanimously and waved a hand down the path. "Legolas is much improved today, so much so that you may find Erestor deems your kindly visit an intrusion."

"Oh!" Elrohir was startled, not missing the allusion to intimacy, but quickly came to feel that it would be wondrous if the two were to share such joy after all the horrors Legolas had endured. He fully believed as did the carpenter, that renewing their physical bond would go far towards renewing both hearts. "Perhaps I should not go up."

"A wise choice," Celeborn smiled, "yet stay in the clearing nearby."

"So be it, though it is bitterly cold and I've come away without my cloak," grumbled Elrohir.

"I have it," called a new voice and Aragorn crunched his way along the well-trod path grinning as he held the garment aloft. His other arm was likewise burdened with a large hamper filled with food and other necessities for Legolas' convalescence. "I will stand the watch with you, Muindoren."

"Your company is welcome," grinned Elrohir, "and a less sombre one this will be than others before it. Still, I am no small amount uncomfortable intruding on so private a moment." The two moved on toward the glen, Thranduil and Celeborn resuming the path to the stronghold.

"Sing!" Thranduil's voice rang out behind him and he paused, glancing up into the heights where the loyal guard assigned to his eldest son clung to the branches. "In fact, I order all of you to sing. A veritable serenade you will offer for this night's reunion between these ill-fated lovers."

No sooner had he spoken than two sylvans broke free of the rest, smiling as they tore through the branches, announcing their intent to gather instruments to accompany their concert. The King nodded his approval and rejoined his cousin, but before they reached the fortress the glade was encircled in music, soft and sonorous, soothing and suggestive, songs of love and longing, of struggles to win the heart and bind the soul, of desire and its fulfilment, of constancy and contentment. The voices offering this interlude were filled with all the strong feelings the warriors could not otherwise express for their long-rejected prince, of devotion and regret, pride and admiration, gratitude and respect.

TBC

NOTE:

Well, it is a short chapter but I think it necessary. Besides observing that even when he is trying to do the right thing Thranduil screws it up, assuming that what he deems best for Legolas must be so, I wanted show how the Wood Elves reacted to Elladan's attack on their King. Everyone should have an idea of what has been happening to help Legolas forget the things he has endured. Maybe that seems like the easy way out, but he deserves things a little easy right now and why should he have to undergo more anguish? Not that there will be none, I just am not going to suffer him to go mad with fear that Erestor will reject him because of the grotesque violation he has suffered.

Elrond I am tired of utterly. If I could justify Thranduil's brothers possessing the King's body and killing Elrond while in it, I would. Still, he has some value and I must not allow personal prejudice to intervene. What he found in the dungeons was rather sobering and he will behave himself now, I'm sure. He's been punished by Erestor, but I do have a final episode of painful mortification for him to suffer before he leaves for Imladris.

Legolas and Erestor's reunion next, I think, and then I have to let Thranduil humiliate Elrond. After that, settling Lindalcon's final resting place, for he cannot stay in that grave so near the caves where he was killed. Then, a chance to let Legolas enjoy some easier days and come to terms with his new life. The Gates will come down and the evil blade melted, all to recast as something else, the wizards will officiate Elrond's public humiliation, Gladi will stop the well-meaning Elladan from poisoning Legolas with Enchanted River water, Fearfaron will prepare his adopted son for their parting, our wild elf will have a visit from several children, he and the Lorien Lovers will come to an understanding. I do not want him to see Elrond right now, not for many many years to come, but I will let you see even that moment, too. It seems an awful lot to cover. If there is anything I have not remembered that you feel needs to be addressed, please remind me! Thanks for all the kind feedback, everyone :)


	113. Chapter 113

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Legolas a Berenaur Aderthannen**

The nest was close and stuffy, the heat relentless, peeling off the iron braziers in rippling waves and twisting curls of spicy smoke. The excessive amount of pillows and bolsters and blankets felt suffocating, as though he were immured in a mire of downy fluff. Every effort to shift the pile resulted in another cascade of cushions. Erestor unbent a knee to relieve a cramped muscle and cursed as the tell tale sound of a pillow falling to the floor met his ears. Muttering dark oaths, he rolled to the side and delved about beneath the hammock with one hand, clutching the the rope to keep from being dumped to the ground himself. Fingers brushed the satin fringe and he hauled it up; it wouldn't do to leave it lest the heat of the braziers ignite the fabric. The nest rocked as he settled in a more comfortable position and he sighed.

He considered which he liked least: the sensation of being suspended so high among the limbs and branches or the excessive heat. _The constant motion, definitely._ He chose almost at once, though he knew well the talan floor would catch him if the netting failed. He hadn't appreciated the incessant swaying even in the bonding talan and the conditions then were not nearly so trying. The elevated temperature only made the perpetual dipping and bobbing worse. A trickle of perspiration ran down behind his ear and Erestor suppressed a groan. A hammock was not the most comfortable sort of bed in which he had ever lain over the long course of his life, ranked just above sleeping on the cold ground or a stone floor, but he could stand it for Legolas' sake, for the nest was the Tawarwaith's haven and refuge.

Legolas lay sleeping, undisturbed by his mate's fidgeting, respiration easy and deep, relaxed and at peace, lips slightly parted and eyelids half shut. Behind them the sapphire irises glittered but remained motionless; this was slumber such as elves rarely needed, but the archer's healing body demanded it. Erestor gently stroked the soft wisps of golden hair covering Pen-rhovan's head. The lacerations on his scalp had been replaced by new skin that was still pink but smooth and sprouting abundant yellow strands. There would not be any scars to remind Legolas of the second time his mane had been shorn.

_What a ghastly thing to endure._

Not for the first time, Erestor wondered how the Wraiths could know of Greenwood's outrageous Law regarding Wandering and Judgement. Some day, perhaps, he would ask Legolas. Immediately he rejected such a notion. If Legolas felt need to speak of it, he would listen, but there was not courage sufficient within him to initiate that inquiry.

_Some distant day when time has granted you a measure of separation from those dire events, then mayhap you will tell me._

Erestor was in no hurry to hear of it. There was too much horror encapsulated in that short captivity, an eternity of anguish compressed into a pocket-full of days. He could not permit himself to contemplate this; the evidence was in front of him constantly and he dreaded the moment of revelation when he must hear these tortures described in his beloved Pen-Rhovan's voice.

_I would rather you speak of happiness, of hope, of all the joy before us in the days to come. I would hear you speak my name with love and longing._

He stroked the fine tresses again, his smile composed of love and profound gratitude. Truly, he had thought only sorrow, fading, and the Halls of Mandos awaited them both; now there could be no doubt physical recovery would be complete. His hand moved to the bare shoulder and down the arm, pleased to note more resilience in the flesh, a healthy warmth to the skin instead of fevered heat. His grip increased a bit and Legolas stirred.

"Berenaur." He sighed the name and blinked, shifting as consciousness rallied, hand reaching to clutch the inky locks spread across the seneschal's chest. He brought them to his nose and inhaled deeply, then kissed the silky swatch and smiled. "Aye, the scent of you" The words held a hint of hunger, a faint trace of yearning that made Erestor's heart skip, but they trailed away in a lengthy exhale that was nearly a yawn. He snuggled closer despite the heat, the hand holding the hair tucked tight against his heart.

"Pen-Rhovan," Erestor whispered and kissed his forehead, happy and disappointed at the same time. This made thrice that Legolas had voiced his name with that tremor of desire folded within the syllables, yet nothing had come of it. The hurts of the spirit were too extreme and hadn't healed fully.

_If they ever shall._

The seneschal's deepest fear was to either wait too long to answer that vague intimation of want and need, or not long enough. Too long and Legolas might believe he no longer desired him. Too soon and his mate might experience only fear and pain in their joining. _That I could not bear._ Time was his ally in this, he decided. Everyday Legolas grew stronger, took nourishment with something closer to true relish, was more coherent and responsive. _I will know when it is right; surely I will know it._ Soon that invitation would no longer be couched in such soft tones and all doubt would vanish. Instinct told him he must wait and let Legolas choose the moment.

_Ai, if I am wrong, what then? I want you and would claim you, yet such tortures you have known! Can you feel true desire now, Beloved, or respond only to its base and twisted echo?_ Intently he peered at the sleeping invalid, wishing for a means to know the answer to this before the time came to confront the issue. There was no question that he would remain at Legolas' side regardless the nature of their physical union, or lack thereof, but his heart quailed to be the target of the rage and anger that must surely be bottled up inside that still form beside him. Memories of Celebrian's struggle against similar abasement frequently invaded his imagination and Erestor wondered if it would be like that for Legolas. _If so, then I will endure it and we will sail to Aman together. I will not let him part from me. Elrond did not love his mate as I do mine._

Their time together had been short thus far and their encounters defined by strife, yet the intensity of their bond and the depth of their need for one another was directly proportional to that hardship. These were better memories: coupling in the brook beside the blackberry bramble, the days of bliss in that ancient oak, the night shared here when they exchanged bonding bands, and Erestor welcomed them. He wanted Legolas to want him, to claim him fully as once he had. Oh, that was the sweetest sound, the breathy exhalation of his name as Legolas' soul soared away into ecstasy.

"Legolas," he repeated, husky and low, shifting uncomfortably as he grew erect, and kissed Pen-rhovan's lax lips, but the Tawarwaith lay limp and still against him, naked and soft, submerged in slumber. Erestor groaned quietly in frustration and silently berated himself for it. There was an element of the familiar here that stung his conscience. Was this not like that first night together in the talan deep in the southern woods and the Elven Lord's plots? Aye, even appreciating fully the wild elf's exhaustion, Erestor had groped and petted him while he slept. Firmly resolved not to repeat such behaviour, Erestor drew back and observed Legolas sleeping, pleased he had not disturbed him.

A bead of sweat ran down his spine and he grumbled in misery, tugging ineffectually at the soft cotton sleeping clothes bunched up in wads that chaffed and itched, especially round his wayward penis which refused to settle down. He could abide it no longer and carefully crawled from the nest, trying not to wake Legolas, and hastily undressed. Using the rumpled shirt, he wiped away the perspiration and swiped at his half-hard cock, scowling at the idea of masturbating while Legolas lay naked nearby, and found his vision trained upon those parted lips, unable to banish the vision of his rigid organ pushing between them, a hot, wet tongue caressing it, suction drawing him deeper, deeper. His penis flexed and jolted him out of this daydream. Ashamed, he tore his eyes away and threw the shirt down in self-disgust. Could he never put Legolas first? Turning slightly so he wasn't facing the Tawarwaith, he raked fingers through his damp hair preparatory to braiding it.

"Nay, don't. Don't bind it."

Erestor jumped, surprised to see clear blue eyes regarding him from the mound of covers. They tracked him slowly, hungrily, and his penis came again to full attention, yet he remained fixed, frozen lest the dream dissolve.

"You are so beautiful," Legolas whispered. "Ai, Berenaur." He blinked as though to banish tears and impulsively, desperately reached out.

"Legolas!" Erestor caught up his hand and kissed it, hastening back into the hammock to gather his mate close. He kissed him softly and when the Tawarwaith's mouth opened he did not retreat, eagerly tasting the familiar flavour, so delighted to feel an answering caress that he smiled, heart expanding, and hugged him tight. A pleased exclamation escaped him as the unexpected heat and fullness of the wild elf's erection pressed against his belly. He looked to find an expression of ravenous need in the dilated eyes and their next kiss was frantic, passionate. It ended as the seneschal let his mouth travel down the elegant throat and linger there where the clavicle joined the neck, sucking and nibbling.

"Ai! Berenaur," Legolas exulted in the sensation and shivered; it ceased abruptly and he found himself peering up into midnight eyes lit with desire but clouded with concern.

"Too much?" asked Erestor, fondly petting the skin beneath his hand, suddenly realising it was Legolas' firm round rump. He squeezed the flesh to learn what reaction this might bring, grinning hugely when the archer's cock twitched against him. He reached for it, fisting the rigid column, testing the sensitivity of the tip with a sweep of his thumb, pumping slowly, watching avidly as Legolas bucked against him and groaned. "Too much?" he whispered again, breathless in enthralment, and sampled the parted, panting lips.

"Nay," Legolas murmured and pushed hard into the encircling fingers. "More."

Conversely, his answer caused the exquisite masturbation to stop and he grunted in complaint. Before he could demand a reason, Legolas watched wonder and wanton hunger suffuse Berenaur's eyes and then the seneschal's leering mouth went back to work, lips and tongue kissing, tasting, licking, sucking. Wet warmth swabbed over a nipple and he cried out, clutched at the crown of ebony hair, fascinated to see the red node emerge glistening and tight from the seneschal's lips. Berenaur's tongue flickered out and lapped at it repeatedly, and he arched into the pressure, but the mouth withdrew as he advanced. "More," he pleaded, squirming, and tried to get it back inside, moaned in wretched delight as the neglected nipple was treated to a fiercer suckling in which both teeth and tongue took paart. He held tight to the locks twined between his fingers and whimpered softly when the assault ended, flopping back into the pillows. Berenaur sat astride him, languidly stroking himself as he gloated over the sight of the engorged nipples rising and falling with his every breath.

Their eyes locked in both happiness and excitement, eager to reforge their bond, and Erestor slid backward as he bent low, tongue working over the dark red nodes anew, fingers seeking to relearn every contour of his mate's body, Legolas voicing inarticulate approbation and that single, magnificent word: "More". Slowly Erestor made his way over the wild elf's torso, neither ignoring nor paying too much tribute to the scarlet marks defining injuries old and new, adjusting his ardour to account for tender spots where the worst of the wounds were still tender. He licked and nipped gently, savouring the taste of the wild elf's skin, roving over abdomen and sides, proceeding ever lower until the tip of the turgid shaft brushed his chin. Legolas shouted and his whole frame shuddered in anticipation. Erestor raised his head to judge the state of his mate's mind and found fiery eyes upon him, an expression both pleading and demanding radiating from them; he offered his most decadent rogues grin and dived for the slick penis.

Legolas' gratified cry was uttered even before the liquid fire surrounded him and he lunged into the suction, curling forward to reach his mate. He shivered and groaned as the slippery tongue wrapped round him and then retreated, flicked across his slit and lapped against the vein, slithering lower, devouring him. Fingers tickled his balls and he screamed in delight, snatched the raven tresses and pushed against the upward motion. "More!" he begged, gasping for air, and felt the vibrations of an exultant growl ripple through his cock. The stimulation intensified, brilliant currents of delicious bliss coursing to the tip of his penis. Tension collected in his belly, that exquisite sensation of pending delirium, as though all good things were being pulled into him, through him, to be sucked out of him by that hungry mouth. He couldn't possibly contain such pleasure. Fingers probed his scrotum and tweaked his nipple simultaneously and Legolas could not hold back. A racking shiver convulsed his body and he issued a loud shout, orgasm sweeping him up as he erupted, feeling the quiver of that warm wet tongue as his seed was swallowed down. He collapsed in boneless ecstasy, panting out and heaving in great gusts of air; his eyes drifted shut, but he remained awake, body and soul awash in the lingering aftershocks of glory.

The hammock shifted and he looked to find the seneschal beside him, grinning in complacent pleasure, and happily allowed himself to be gathered against the long, lean body. He pillowed his head against the broad bare chest and inhaled a deeply satisfied breath. "Ai, Berenaur," he mumbled and kissed the damp skin beneath his cheek. A softly victorious laugh wafted over him and hips pivoted to push the seneschal's erection against his stomach. Legolas raised his head and met shining eyes; he smiled and grasped the potent shaft tight.

"Oh, Pen-Rhovan," Erestor gasped out, "you don't have to" He failed to finish the sentence, watching eagerly as Legolas dived into the pile of bedding and wormed away, hand still grasping his cock, and emerged right where Erestor hoped he would. Without word or look, Legolas closed his lips round the head and sucked. The sensation was pure rapture and the sight of the fair face rising and falling upon him more erotic than thoughts could encapsulate. He watched, stunned that this was really happening, the soft golden bristles on the bobbing head bearing witness to the fact that Legolas was sucking him off. Erestor forgot to worry about any of the myriad woes he had imagined and groaned his mate's name, pivoting up into the delicious suction. An answering growl was followed by the delicate touch of fingertips stroking his sac and the seneschal gave a surprised shout as those fingers suddenly squeezed and teeth grazed his shaft.

"Ai Valar!" he croaked, already feeling his ardour rise toward the pitch of joy, realising he could not hold back for long, already mourning the end of this episode. He grinned and laughed, rocking in sinuous synchrony with the wild elf, for he didn't care; this was too good, too perfect and would be but the first of many such adventures with Legolas. A curious eye swivelled to peer at him and the active lips upturned to see his happiness. Just then, the mobile tongue dabbed at the sensitive orifice and fingers made another grab at his balls. Erestor heard himself shouting, an incoherent bellowing wrung from him as the surge began. Reason reeled and rocked amid a giddy explosion of light and utter exaltation, the sensation both lovingly familiar and unaccountably brand new. He felt Legolas swallow round him and saw in his mind the elegant throat convulse as his seed went down. It was almost like a second orgasm and he shook under the force of it, murmuring over and over the name of his beloved: "Legolas, ai Legolas."

Legolas returned to him smiling and settled contentedly in Berenaur's arms, not tired but energised and alert. Warm and adoring hands smoothed over him, rubbing his back and shoulders, running through his ridiculously short hair. He sighed and lifted his head to demand a kiss, pleased with his mate's immediate obedience and the glorious smile adorning the seneschal's face. Legolas slid off the virile form to lie beside him so to see into those amazing eyes. He chuckled and raised a hand to brush against the flushed cheek.

"How can eyes the colour of a cool, still pool reveal such fire and fury?" he queried.

"The sight of you, my fair woodland archer, is enough to make that still pool boil into steam," answered Erestor, imitating the caress and stroking the smooth cheek. In all their tortures, the fiends had not marred Legolas' face and he was glad. "Ah, we are well matched, indeed. Not since they brought you home have I felt so confident of our future together."

"Yes?" Legolas' expression became serious. "Did you think me dead?"

It was a sombre query that robbed the moment of any frivolous thoughts and Erestor felt his smile disintegrate. He swallowed, praying he could manage this conversation. "Yes, I did. I could not feel you in my soul any longer. I could not hear the music of your soul, Legolas." Just saying it made him experience that awful emptiness anew and his heart stumbled.

"I am sorry for that," Legolas averted his eyes. Then slowly he made himself look, tracing with his sight the hints and signs of grief and fading etched upon the seneschal's face. WIth a heavy sigh he met Berenaur's troubled gaze, his own awash in guilty dismay. "I would have spared you that if I could. You must find it in your heart to forgive me. I knew no other way to protect myself."

 

 

"What do you mean?" This made no sense and Erestor's eyes swept quickly over the ample evidence of cruel brutality.

"I kept you from them. Not in all they did to me could they learn the key to my destruction, though they tried and tried. I will not tell you all they did. I will not tell you anything they did to me. I do not want to speak of it, ever."

"Then you need not."

"They could not understand, you see, how I continued to live. The Wraiths meant for me to die for they consider me a terrible threat to their parasitic presence in my Greenwood. They wanted me to suffer terribly and suffer long enough to know I would die there at their hands, and then they wanted me to die. Natural resilience of the First-born has always been great, but I had an additional shield: a secret they could not uncover, a hidden place for my heart and soul where they could not reach me. That place was you, Berenaur, for I sealed away my love for you lest they find it and sully it irrevocably. As long as I kept my heart hidden within me, I knew I would find you again, that we would be together again. Even if it meant a sojourn in Mandos, we would never be parted once that ordeal ended. So, you see, but for you I would have perished the first day, and I am not certain that all the Valar in Aman could have rescued my soul then."

"Ah, Pen-rhovan!" Erestor did not know what to say to this, moved beyond words, and so he scooped Legolas up and kissed him lavishly, kneading the naked body wherever his hands could reach. He felt a deep sigh work through the wild elf and held him tight; Legolas relaxed in his embrace and spoke.

"The weight of your hand upon me, a measure of strength and tenderness in equal parts, a warm and gentle pressure that soothes a soft caress upon my skin. Devotion is in it, love is in it, and all the while and overall, desire is in it; this anchors me, promising protection, declaring possession, and this I crave. You can't know the wonder of it; fingers and palm slip along my side and linger at the hip, allowing the thumb to carefully assess the state of a sore spot, probing delicately and recording my response; it was a bad wound and you will not hurt me, so you pause there to reassure yourself before going on. There's a sound to it when you do, subtle friction the nerves can hear, and I have listened to that avidly, holding myself still so not to miss it, scarcely daring breathe lest you stop."

"Legolas."

"Sometimes you kiss me then, a press of lips upon my brow and a faint zephyr blown from the depths of your heart. I feel your relief through the contact, gratitude and eagerness and just a touch of sorrow. Sometimes you speak my name or any of those endearments with which you've christened me. Sometimes I feel tears rain upon me. Not stormy ones of misery and woe but slow, sweet tears because we are here, now, and this now is our eternity no matter its length in moments or millennia. Ah, my Beloved, and then you begin anew, another quiet stroke down my side, tenderly affectionate, grazing over my skin as though you can taste me through the touch, and what heat this kindles in me! I want you. I want this sensation to expand and fill me until I cannot bear it. I want your very soul, Berenaur, and mine you shall receive in return."

"Legolas! Melethen, Hervenn nín." Erestor could not trust his voice to hold firm nor his mind to interpret the feelings such speech inspired, and regretted his inarticulate heart. How could he ever match the profound devotion of such a declaration? "I love you, Pen-rhovan. Eru bless the day I came under your doom in the forest of Greenwood."

Legolas smiled, understanding amusement in his eyes, and kissed Berenaur. They held each other and shared a deep exchange of love and longing, relishing the pleasure of the oral embrace, gently fondling one another, happy to let passion return in a sedate saunter instead of a tearing gallop, sharing the simple joy of lying side by side, aware of the resurgent erections pressed intimately together between them. After a time, they simply stopped and lay staring into one another's hearts, smiling and amazed at the facility with which they had dealt with this catastrophe, and yet not surprised at all. As one they sighed and then laughed, smiling, and Erestor tousled the Tawarwaith's hair. Legolas sat up.

"I want a bath," he announced and carefully swung his legs over the side of the net. "And I know it is Rhîw, but does it need to be so stiflingly hot in here?"

"Nay, beloved, it surely does not," Erestor agreed heartily, hastening to get up first so to assist Legolas. The broken bones were nearly healed but the leg was still weak. Without fuss he pulled him upright and they shuffled the three steps required to reach the bench beside the brazier where Legolas sat. "Let me send for warm water and "

"Valar, nay!" exclaimed Legolas, frowning. "It is hot enough without the water adding to it. Just use whatever is in the jugs there and it will be sufficient. Beside, I expect the water will get heated up pretty quickly once we're in it." His gaze tracked over Berenaur's naked frame in admiration, pleased with the seneschal's preening response as his chest expanded and his shoulders straightened.

"Whatsoever you wish, Pen-rhovan," Erestor complied, pouring water into the copper basin, aware of the eyes glued to his every move. Such a task is of short duration yet even so small an amount of time was sufficient to reawaken anxious worries that had plagued him daily over the long weeks of suffering and sickness. Was their bond, so fragile and new, incorrupt or forever tarnished? The answer was about to be revealed and he found he was reluctant to face the test. He returned to the bench and hunkered down before the Tawarwaith, took both Legolas' hands in his. "Legolas," he began.

"Don't," Legolas silenced him by leaning in for a kiss. He sat back and surveyed his mate, eyes alight with admiration and determination and a small spark of fear. "There is nothing you can do that will hurt me; we've done this before. Get in the bath with me."

A short silence followed this directive as Erestor studied him and then the seneschal closed in for a soft kiss, enfolding Legolas in his arms. There was no question in his mind; whatever fears he harboured, they were nothing compared to those Pen-rhovan must be feeling right now. So he decided at once that Legolas' demanding demeanour was all just a facade and the seneschal must take control of what transpired. _I healed him this way once before, and though he cannot speak it, this is what he wants and needs from me._

"That is so; I would never hurt you, but there are bound to be reservations on both our parts. Knowing the wounds you suffered, I do fear to cause you pain even as I did when first we coupled." He offered a wry smile. "It has never been easy for us, has it? What terrors gnawed at your heart then I could not guess, and I would fain shy from comprehending those you imagine now, yet I can see it in your eyes. You wonder if this is part of a dream, a prelude to one of those excruciating torments of spirit and flesh to which you were subjected behind the white doors." A sharp breath escaped his mate and Legolas' pupils dilated; Erestor rubbed his thumb over the rigid knuckles in his grasp and continued.

"It is perhaps pointless and futile for me to deny it, since that has been your reality, yet I do so emphatically. And I will prove it to you, Pen-rhovan, not by hastening this consummation so to push you into true consciousness, but by taking my time and doing what I deem best for you. You have trusted me before and it is imperative that you do so now. If you have been thrust into garish phantasms of erotic misery, beginning in desire and ending in disgust, now you will enter into that state of ecstasy with fear at the beginning but only delight, security, and love at the completion." He cocked a brow and tossed his head. "I've my reputation to consider, after all, and my selfish ego demands that I seduce you into a state of absolute abandon followed by total satisfaction." He saw a hint of a smile return to Legolas' eyes and became serious anew. "I mean for you to understand that you are mine and mine alone, bonding band or none, now and for all of time remaining. I cannot promise that you will forget what happened behind the white doors, but you will no longer doubt that you are free of that place."

Now it was Legolas' turn to examine his mate and he did so, seeking to burrow into the mind and heart of the ellon more deeply than even in their earliest days together. What he saw was exactly what he expected to see and this soothed him, partly, but he also shivered and averted his eyes. "So I pray," he said, "yet, all those horrors began in beauty and finished in an ugliness so grotesque and abominable that I can never speak aloud the words needed to describe it. He was trying so hard to break through. He knew there was a part of me he could not access and came so close when"

"Ai, Beloved!" Erestor cried softly, gathering Legolas close again. He wanted to silence these words, having no wish to know what had been done to the Tawarwaith, and at once his conscience rebuked him severely. He collected his courage and willed himself to remain silent, for Legolas had need to speak.

"Time means nothing behind the white doors. He meant to keep me forever and let me know it fully." Legolas shuddered and wrapped his arms round Berenaur, glad for the protective hold and the comforting percussion of the beating heart pressed against his. "If they had not come for me, I would have lost you forever, and maybe this is the moment I will find out that I already have. Even so, I must know. I would rather perish and await you in Mandos until the end of days than live on as that vile demon's pet!" He spoke these last in fierce defiance reminiscent of the commanding voice of Tirn-en-Tawar, the Watcher of the Great Wood.

"Legolas, you will not perish," Erestor insisted, heartened by the echo of self-determination the words contained no matter their grim import. He squeezed and rubbed the tense back under his hands. "And you will never be that thing's slave again. Come, then, and let me teach you what it means to be loved." He released the wild elf and stood, glancing behind at the overflowing nest, which wrought a frown of annoyance on his features. "Not there. Valar, I've begun to feel that hammock has a sort of life beginning to generate, its herald an intense and suffocating heat accompanied by rapidly multiplying pillows."

Legolas gave a soft snort of laughter that returned the smile to Erestor's face, which he shared, and then marched boldly to the mass of quilts and blankets, selecting the softest and thickest of the lot. He bore this armload to the centre of the talan and plopped it all down at Legolas' feet, kneeling to spread them and test the resilience of the padding. Deciding it was not acceptable, he returned to the mound and gathered the choicest cushions, building a bed right where the invalid's pallet had been for so many weeks. That, he decided, was fitting, and rose to retrieve the last necessity: a jar of salve the healer had prescribed to prevent Legolas' new skin from scarring. With this in hand he returned to the bench and held out his free hand to his mate, meeting troubled blue eyes.

"Berenaur, I'm I'm not sure I"

"Yes, you are," Erestor cut him off, knowing from experience how such a brief minute could spawn misgivings. "It is natural to be hesitant, but it is all for the good even as you said just now. Come, then, and trust me. Lie down here and we will begin with what you know and do not fear: a message for the benefit of these healing lashes." He waited patiently for Legolas to accept his offer and held the archer's gaze. Then the eyes bent a swift scrutiny over his naked form again and he smiled when they returned to his with a less fearful and more hungry expression.

Legolas accepted his hand and stood. "All right," he said firmly and let himself be led to the makeshift bed, all of one step, and knelt upon it, still clutching the seneschal's fingers. He was aware that neither of them were very much aroused any longer. Sighing, he shifted to his side and then rolled to his stomach, finally letting go to grab a cushion to prop under his chin. "All right. I am ready."

"Be at peace," urged Erestor and gently ran his palm along the marred back. All the old scars were still there, cut and dissected with fresh marks, garish and red. It was not a pleasing sight but he could only see the improvements and marvelled at the rate at which healing was now progressing. He did nothing more than press and soothe the injuries for several minutes, humming softly as he watched Legolas begin to relax. Only after a deep sigh made the wild elf's shoulders lift and fall did he reach for the jar and open it, scooping out a small dab and rubbing it between his palms. He took a bit more and began smoothing it over the knotty ridges and scarlet skin. As he had many a time before, he regretted that Vilya was in Imladris, for surely the powerful Ring of Air could banish these cruel badges from Legolas' body. _All of them, inside and out._

"It tingles a bit, but then grows warm," Legolas remarked. "I like this treatment."

"Good," Erestor smiled. "I was worried about undertaking it at first, but Gladhadithen said I could do it or someone else would, and that finished the discussion."

"Oh, yes?"

"Indeed. I was afraid to cause you pain, but I didn't want anyone else touching you this way. I didn't think you'd want that either."

"I wouldn't." He was quiet a moment. "Do you believe her?" Legolas asked.

"Aye, I do." Erestor had no doubt they were considering the same topic. "What reason would she have to give us false hopes?"

"Then these scars could truly fade in time."

"Aye, they will. All of them." There was a thing he needed to say and suddenly he deemed this the moment, while his nerve held. "We've not spoken of it yet, but I don't intend to let you out of my sight for quite a while. There is to be no opportunity for recapture. On this I will neither argue nor bend; it is my right as your mate to make such a decision and your duty to my heart to accept it." _There. Let him be angry; I will not falter._

"I would not think of contesting against your heart," Legolas shifted, peering over his shoulder to express his absolute delight over this protective demand in a twinkling smile.

"Good." Erestor resumed his meandering melody with unbounded relief. He'd played that speech out over and over in his mind and in only a few renditions was a response like this imaginable. For once he was glad the Tawarwaith's commanding presence seemed diminished. Such thoughts could not hold his attention long, however, when his eyes were focused on the tight mounds of the Tawarwaith's rump and the dimples defining them. There were marks here, too, some of teeth and claws, but he refused to let them chill his heart or alter his resolve to reclaim what was his. He slid an oily hand over one cheek and Legolas went still and tense. "Be at peace," he murmured. "We've done this before and I've been tending you throughout these long weeks, including the wounds inside, though you were generally unaware of it."

Legolas made no reply, knowing he had to see this through whatever the outcome, glad he had said all he felt in his heart already. If this ended as he feared and he escaped into Námo's keeping, then perhaps Berenaur would already be there and they would enter the Halls of Waiting together. That would not be unbearable and certainly better than what he had already suffered. Other outcomes he refused to admit, feeling his spirit respond to the Song of Berenaur's soul, recognising the same stirring he'd felt in the bonding talan: an expansive upwelling of nearly frantic need, his feä seeking to join with its counterpart. He inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I trust you. Tend to me now, Berenaur."

Erestor bent over him and kissed the nape of his neck, briefly pressing his chest against the marred back, his cheek atop the bare shoulder, and felt a shiver run down the wild elf's spine, wrought of fear or anticipation or both in equal measure he couldn't say. He sat back on his heels and took another sample of the salve, coating his fingers liberally, and slid them into the cleft to rub against the tightly sealed anus, circling with firm pressure but no attempt to breach the opening. Nothing more did he venture, letting habit guide his actions, relying on the automatic repetition of the clinical contact he'd developed under Gladhadithen's instructions, refusing to entertain any images of what memories his action might inspire. And while that was impossible, he reminded himself that he was Legolas' mate and it was right, and his right alone, to grant him whatever pleasure possible. Through it all he sang, the words softly voiced and sweet, a timeless love ballad that would appeal to Pen-rhovan's romantic heart. Legolas slowly relented to the stimulation and he stirred, legs flexing as he parted them, hands clutching at the pillows, a quiet moan. It was the sign Erestor needed and he did not hesitate, increasing the force and insinuating one finger into the clenched channel, pushing against the resistance until he could go no further. Legolas gave a garbled grunt and lay trembling, a film of sweat beginning to collect over his body.

"All right?" Erestor stroked the stiff spine firmly, gripped the tense shoulder and squeezed. The tremors ceased.

"Yes. Yes, fine."

Legolas inhaled and held breath suspended as the finger began slowly to withdraw, glad there was not even a hint of pain. The tip of the digit passed over his sensitive prostate and all the air gushed out in a cry of shock as the pleasing jolt raced through him. "Ah, Berenaur!" He glanced over his shoulder to see such obvious relief on the seneschal's face that his heart turned over. Suddenly the distance dividing them seemed immense. "I want you beside me," he pleaded. "I need to feel you against me."

"Aye, Pen-rhovan, as you wish," Erestor crooned, carefully circling the finger inside to coat the rippled muscle fully, repeating the pressure against the gland. A spasm closed the muscles tight round the finger and Legolas twitched, straining to remain still. The temptation to continue was strong, but Erestor found he longed for closer contact, too, and stopped, quickly repositioning, spooning up against the marred back and firm rump as Legolas rolled to his side. His semi-soft cock nestled against Pen-rhovan's buttocks and a thrill racing to it gave him a delicious shudder. "There," sighed Erestor and wrapped his arms round him, kissed an ear tip.

This wrought a short laugh and Legolas turned smiling lips toward him to be kissed. They were and then he laid his head down again, caressed the confining arm across his chest. "Much better," he said. Berenaur shifted and the arm withdrew; the sound of him gathering more of the soothing ointment was almost blotted out by the hammering of his heart, and then the pressure against his opening returned. He made a conscious effort to relax and the finger slid inside, quickly locating the right spot. It stroked slowly, carefully, a teasingly coy manoeuvre that was perfect. "Oh, yes," he sighed. "That's good."

An answering sigh met his ears and the seneschal's forehead came to rest atop his shoulder. The finger retreated and returned freshly slickened, accompanied by a second. They pushed in gradually and the instinct to reject them was strong; unconsciously Legolas huffed a complaint and forced himself to remain calm, to relax. The digits paused and began to part, pressing against the internal confinement, stretching the wall of muscles. It wasn't really painful and Legolas gave a tentative little pelvic pivot to encourage a deeper penetration. Suddenly Berenaur's head lifted and the soft compression of lips against his shoulder was followed by a softer expression of love: his name whispered in nearly reverent longing. Almost instantly the fingers moved and a burst of pleasure rippled through him, the sensation mounting as the fingers kept rubbing.

"Yes, oh!" Legolas pushed back, groaning as the tender gland was stroked and tickled. Again the fingers withdrew to add more salve and included a third upon reentry,advancing in minute increments, pausing when his muscles locked tight round them. The pressure was uncomfortable and he struggled not to reject the intrusion.

"Easy," Erestor murmured, and spread the digits, excited by the strong resistance. Carefully he inched deeper, finding the effort to keep the fingers parted was tremendous, and he wasn't sure he'd gone far enough until Legolas shouted. A shiver ran over the slender frame and a long moan issued from the wild elf's gasping mouth. Erestor found himself searching for a glimpse of erect nipples, crimson and engorged, but had to settle for imagination. It was enough; his body responded and Legolas' desperate plea for more enhanced his yearning. He began moving the fingers in and out more quickly, eager for his turn inside, delighted to feel his mate was rocking into every advance, to hear his frantic little mews of frustration and delight. Erestor understood; it never seemed enough. A taste of pleasure and one had to have more, to have everything, gorging wantonly long paste the point of satiation.

"Valar, now!" Legolas gasped. "Ready, ai, please!"

"Yes," Erestor rasped.

He worked quickly but carefully, removing his fingers and using them to hastily give his cock a few strokes, smearing the oily gel over its length. He repositioned himself and the head of the organ slid between the taut cheeks, caught on the anus and bored in. He called out and grabbed the archer's hip, pulling himself in for a full sheathing. The friction was incredible, hot and throbbing, and he pulled back immediately to feel it again. The glans of his penis rubbed against the wall of muscle and there was a mighty convulsion through Legolas' body, a garbled shout and his name repeated in pleading tones. Erestor grinned in victorious glory; he'd found his mark and began fucking in earnest. He raised eyes to find Legolas watching him intently, face all pinched in decadent delight. He stretched forward to kiss the salty skin atop a shoulder blade and again leaned his brow there.

They were moving in perfect synchrony now, desperate to enhance the sensation and push it to its climax, and neither sought to reign back this impulse. There was no room for worrying or fears in the presence of such an immense pleasure and fulfilment, a mutually proprietary and possessive feeling that engulfed them utterly. Awkwardly, Erestor worked his hand round Legolas' thigh and found the silky heat and hardness of his erection. He gripped it, pumping in time with his thrusts, and relished the wailing cry this wrung form his mate. It could not be long now and he was ready, only holding back until he felt the pressure round his organ tighten and the cock in his hand twitch. He kissed the shoulder again and sought Legolas' eyes. "Beloved, Pen-rhovan, let go!"

Legolas did, relenting to the current of euphoria that shot him into bliss. Nearly at once, Berenaur's seed coated his bowels and he almost wept, both in joy and regret for their union was completed and the pleasure must pass. Even so, the sense of unity intensified and he believed he had never felt their bond so strongly, not even on its initiation. He sighed in happiness, a bit embarrassed to find he actually was crying, but smiled as he recognised the tell-tale hitches and catches of his mate's emotional response. "Berenaur."

"Legolas. Ah, Legolas, my beloved." Erestor mumbled, overcome with the impact of the orgasm. He found he was shedding tears and lifted his head, saw Legolas smiling over it, and laughed, gloriously happy. "Ai, Pen-rhovan, gwedhim! Gwedhim." He shifted a little bit, just enough to reach the lips straining forward to get to his and claimed them. Legolas never tasted so sweet. His hand was sticky and he released the archer's spent cock to wipe it off on the blankets, shimmying closer so to wrap an arm round his mate, kissing the ear tip as he had before. "How I love you," he whispered and began to sing his soul-song, gently rocking them both.

"Say it again," murmured Legolas, about to burst out of his skin, exhilarated to know there was to be no chilling, cruel, or horrific conclusion to this joining. Exhaustion was stealing over him, not the draining, sickened depletion he had known for so long, but a delicious sensation of warmth and security. He could rest safely now. He was really free, bound to Berenaur for all time.

"Say what?" teased Erestor. "That I love you? That I could never leave your side? That the Valar have granted me my heart's desire twice?" he smiled and stroked the yellow fluff lovingly, watching happiness verily wafting from Legolas' aura, gold and silver glory. His must look the same, he thought.

"Yes, all that," nodded the wild elf and then a huge yawn cracked his jaws.

"All right." Erestor laughed, hugging him close. "I am the most fortunate of ellyn, for Shadow has been cheated of its victory and my beloved returned to me. What was broken is mending, what was sullied is renewed, and if our plans have been stalled it matters little, for we survived. We survived, Pen-rhovan. That being true, we will take this life and this love we share and cherish both."

"Aye, our life." A deep sigh left Legolas' smiling lips and he entwined his fingers with those pressed atop his sternum. Another yawn dropped him into abyssal slumber once more.

Erestor kissed the ear and the crown of his head and nuzzled the silky strands of gold, then settled his cheek against the archer's shoulder, content to simply hold him while he slept. He hummed softly, imagining their future, planning out changes he must make: a home of their own in Imladris, improvements to the talan here. "Aye, it is going to be all right after all."

TBC


	114. Chapter 114

_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **Noss Eärendil Arth**

  
**(The Noble House of Eärendil.)**

They showed him great respect, but formally and from a distance. Outwardly, it was the same deference he displayed for the honoured nobles still extent upon Arda: Gildor, Círdan, Galdor, yet it stung his heart unaccountably. Warriors, councillors, citizens and trade folk, all stood back when he passed as they did for the wizards, for Lord Celeborn and their King, as the Rangers of Fornost did when Glorfindel was among them, and this was exceptional company in which to be counted, but unaccountably it stung. Would they dip their heads and lower their eyes when the Tawarwaith walked these trails? Elladan did not think so. They would call him by name and by title, reach out to touch him, smiling from eyes bright with hope and regret and deeply held regard, eager to be reassured that he was alive and with them, to show their loyalty and allegiance to him, proclaiming in this simple way that he was theirs and they were his. That was the kind of regard he preferred and he enjoyed at home, and he prayed Legolas would never feel anything less from his people.

It was foolish to expect the same for himself here and Elladan didn't, but couldn't help wishing the reason was benign. Yet neither was their reserve born of malice. It wasn't that they suspected him of sharing in his father's failings, nor were they using him as a repository for their anger toward Imladris. What galled was the underlying pity that fuelled their courteous grace. All forms of sympathy were repugnant to him, but this, this almost smug commiseration for his shame and dishonour, this unspoken boast that however backward the Noldorin folk imagined them to be, the Wood Elves had never sunk so low as he, kinsman to kin-slayers, son of a cruel and devious interloper, his House betrayed and its dignity besmirched, and he almost despised them for it. He moved through Ost ned Eryn (the City in the Forest) in the solitary cacophony of his churning thoughts, remote, apart, ostensibly ignoring the polite bows and evasive movements as sylvan and Sindar alike gave way, granting ample space to accommodate his exalted heritage and demonstrated nobility. His expression was hard and stern; he knew it, preferring this mask to exposing the turmoil and confusion he felt, pretending this was the motivation for their reticence.

_But they know that, too. It is only another sign of their genuine esteem that they allow me this myth._

He could not fault them, not really, for it was only self-pity that made him so resistant to their nearly reverent empathy. In truth, the ignominy Elrond had brought upon him was nothing compared to the harm the Lore Master had inflicted upon the Woodland Realm, its ruling House, upon Legolas. His hurt was insignificant, but to his heart it was all-consuming, for his was a personal betrayal by someone who loved him, whom he loved in return. It was an awful thing, this wrenching conflict between reason and sentiment, torn between what he knew to be right and the knowledge that it was Elrond who had taught him how to recognise that quality in people and events and the choices one made regarding them.

That was not false; he had not brought himself up, arriving at this understanding automatically, but was raised under the guidance of wise and loving parents who instilled in him and his siblings their values. Somewhere in the bowels of that mountain fortress his father was imprisoned, the father he remembered and honoured and loved. Somewhere inside that familiar figure, debased now and scorned, was the hero of the Last Alliance, the revered leader of the Hidden Vale, the chosen guardian of the Ring of Air, a person who had renounced the violence of the sword and turned to healing, a person of prominence and power that had not before harboured darkness in thought, intent, or action. That person was not a figment; that person was real and had been abducted and locked away somehow much as Legolas had been sealed behind those White Gates, leaving this charlatan, this counterfeit wearing Elrond's skin.

_I must find him and free him._

He quickened his pace as though to out-stride the thoughts he could not quell, internal protests that arose in jeering derision, mocking his efforts at self-deception to counter his real fear: that this shadow-self had always been there within Elrond. The child of Eärendil had never been captured and tortured, never subjected to the dire influence of Shadow's foulest servants as his mother had, as Legolas had, and yet neither of them had succumbed to the influence of darkness that had held them in the grip of unspeakable torment. How could it be possible for his father to fail so utterly unless the evil had always been there, hidden but active, a subversive parasite slowly consuming the character of courage and conviction that defined his view of Elrond? Was it possible to kill such an elusive entity without destroying the person housing it?

Elladan stopped on the path, astonished by this question and terrified by its implications. He could not let his father die in this blighted land; he could not.

"Hiren, are you lost? Allow me to guide you."

The piping voice was young and its evocative query came at him from a source much closer to the ground. Elladan looked to find a small ellon barring the path, a second, smaller child half-hidden behind him, both peering up with wide hazel eyes set in solemn faces. They were dressed in layers of fur so that but for their fair little faces peeking out from ruffed hoods he might have thought himself addressed by children of the changeling bears. Even their agile elven fingers were gloved and their fleet feet were encased in boots of thick, soft leather trimmed in the same silvery grey pelt, and he laughed in delight to see them. The older boy bowed low, a harsh breath betraying his fright and highlighting his courage, and the second hid his face against his brother's back.

"Nay, no need to fear me," Elladan assured when the lad stood straight and met his gaze again. Then he glanced around, wondering where his feet had carried him while his mind wandered, and found himself in the midst of the snow-covered kitchen garden. The frozen beds, flat and dormant, provided an excellent playing field and the children had been busy constructing an impressive set of forts from the wintry precipitation, each walled citadel well armed with piles of icy bombs. Elladan was rather glad his person was so formidable, otherwise he might have been the first target of these able defenders. "Those are fine defences," he remarked and the littlest one grinned, nodding vigorously his agreement.

"We have received intelligence of a pack of wargs in the region," the older one said seriously. "They will not advance beyond this point." He stamped his foot upon the ground.

"I do not doubt it," Elladan concurred with equal gravity. "In fact, they will likely as not turn tail and retreat, having learned what resistance they will face." Suddenly, the younger boy darted out from the safety of his brother's bulk and attached himself to Elladan, trying as best he could to encircle the tall warrior about the waist, his face pressed up hard against Elladan's belly. "Here now, what is amiss pen neth?" Elladan asked softly, gently resting his hand on the hooded head. As quick as he'd arrived the child departed, taking refuge behind his brother again.

"He's trying to thank you," explained the older one.

"Nay, I am not! I was saying that I love you, but without any words because sometimes words are very hard to push out of my heart, for you rescued our Tawarwaith from the orcs and the Wraiths." The child shuddered violently and hid his face again.

"Oh." Elladan was astounded and deeply moved and smiled down upon them. He crouched low to meet them face to face. "That is very kind. I am fortunate to be loved for Legolas' sake."

"Have you been to see him today? Is he well again? When will he come out? His baby brother and sister live here and he has not come to see them in Ages," The young one complained.

"I did see him earlier," nodded Elladan. "He is not well yet, but he is healing now and much improved. I do not know when he will be strong enough to come forth and visit his family, but surely it will be before the leaves fall again."

"That long? Oh, it is too many days," wailed the child and the disappointment in his voice drew the notice of his guardian. The entrance into the mountain fortress loomed behind, a neatly cut arch faced in smooth, polished stones and from round its rim a head popped into view, followed quickly by the entire ellon to which it belonged.

"Ai! Anardur! Cemendur! What are you rascals about?" The chef of the kitchens arrived before the intimidating Noldorin Orc-slayer and deftly tucked the little ones behind him as he offered a deferential bow. "Forgive them, Hiren, they are my nephews and I try to mind their actions but I've other duties to attend and. . ."

"Be at peace," Elladan offered the servant a companionable smile. "They have done no harm nor disturbed me in any way. The elder here, Anardur I think?" The urchin in question peered around his uncle's ample body and nodded before disappearing again. "Ah, yes," Elladan laughed a little for they lightened his spirit immensely. "Anardur offered to be my guide and I graciously accept, with your permission."

"Your guide? Where are you going, Hiren?"

"Down to see my father."

"Nae, I cannot permit it, Hîr, please excuse me. That is no place for children to go." Worthy servant that he was, Glanduin was not wont to defy his betters, but the young ones were his responsibility now, for word had come back that their mother had perished on her journey to Imladris and here was the very ellon who had carried that news. He met Elladan's unspoken query with a slight nod, letting a protective hand rest upon Anardur's head. Instantly sorrow and dismay transformed the aristocratic countenance of the solemn warrior.

"Of course, you are right, mellon," Elladan immediately reversed his decision, wondering that he had even considered it, staring at these innocent faces and feeling another burden land upon his soul. Their mother was the sylvan messenger lost in the course of her duty, as many such couriers were, but that she had died in his land after presenting Thranduil's charges against Elrond tasted more of fate than coincidence.

"Come inside and I will show you the way." Glanduin stood back to let the warrior prince pass, eyes sweeping the stable-yard, empty in the chill of winter, and wished for someone else to call upon for this task. He had no desire to descend into the depths of the fortress and cringed at the thought of what was down there. Rumour of the Guardians of the Vaults was rampant, some claiming Thranduil himself had been possessed by them.

As though in answer to his fears, a lone figure heavily cloaked and muffled against the cold emerged from the distance and trotted across the barracks yard toward the kitchen entrance, his swift passage raising a fine cloud of powdery snow from the ground which enveloped him to the knees, obscuring his feet and swirling about him in the turbulent eddies of his fluttering cape. His garb was tinted in dull tan and drab white to mimic winter's colourless tones and he carried aloft a shining lantern on a tall staff; it swayed in time with his pace spilling golden light that set the minute crystals aglow, granting a quality of ghostly unreality to his rapid approach. The spectral scene evoked a chill through the chef's veins that made him shiver and he shrank back as the soldier pushed past him to enter in, relieved that the brush of shoulder against shoulder was solidly corporeal.

The sylvan balked on encountering Elladan, a surprised snort leaving his nose as he stepped back and bowed low. "Hiren, what do you will?" he asked in the ancient tongue, unwrapping to reveal himself, smiling, for he had fought beside the Orc slayers in the battle at the Central Mountains. There was nothing of mystery or awe about the Noldorin Twins, nothing to inspire fear or dread or pity. The brothers and he shared the same code, the same creed: to fight against Shadow wherever it encroached and to exact retribution for irreparable harm inflicted upon loved ones, friends, and comrades in arms. His open acceptance seemed to startle the fabled Orc-slayer and the sylvan's smile grew. "Mellon, is there aught that I may do for you?"

Elladan stared, his gaze burrowing into the guileless green eyes, pale and clear like the colour of moss, and found within them recognition and genuine pleasure to see him here. There was no pity, no scorn, no anger or hatred reflected in the tranquil expression of this humble warrior. It was a shock; all those morose and brooding thoughts that plagued him evaporated in the flash of that honest smile, and Elladan saw that what he was so sure he'd observed in others was the chicanery of his own soul recoiling in self-hatred, projecting his internal disgust onto all he encountered. It was not the woodland people whose eyes averted when he passed, but his. It was in him. All along, the darkness had been in him, hidden, festering. The relevance of this realisation flooded him and produced a sudden loosening round his heart as tension he had not consciously acknowledged seeped away and left him free. Elladan returned the smile and filled his lungs, releasing the residue of guilt and shame that made such fertile soil for misery and pain and self-delusion.

"Bear me company down into the depths of this place," he invited. "I have need to consult with my father."

"Gladly," the warrior agreed and handed over the silver staff with its quaint lantern swinging from the hook. "You will have need of this for I cannot command fire with my voice as Aranen can," he joked and then he cocked his head to study the noble ellon. "Unless it is a skill you possess, Hiren."

"Nay!" Elladan laughed at that and slapped the hilt of his sword. "My talents are of a more practical nature. How are you called?"

"Tê-telch," he replied and held up a hand to forestall what he knew must come next. "I will not be able to distinguish you from your brother, so do not honour me with your name. It will be enough to call you gwador."

"Nasan, gwador," Elladan could not fault such logic and his grin expanded as his eyes followed the length of the staff, curved like unto a shepherd's crook, to the lamp dangling from it. It was a thing of beauty and antiquity and the craftsmanship was such to rival the best smiths in Imladris. _Nay, it far exceeds the work of our finest artisans._ It must be a relic of Beleriand, he decided; one of many treasures stashed in Thranduil's hoard. He looked to find Tê-telch watching him, friendly amusement in his eyes, and laughed again. "Lead on."

A dip of the head preceded the warrior's descent and they took the narrow, winding stairs in silence. A sudden turning and they would have been plunged into darkness but for the lamp and the skittering sound of reptilian feet reported the hasty retreat of the small creatures that called the lower levels of the fortress home. Elladan found he was counting the steps and examining the stone of the rocky wall as they passed, and at number thirty-six he exhaled a harsh gasp and halted. Smeared over the rough surface was a dark stain that his nostrils told him was blood, splashed here not so long ago. The warrior stopped and frowned to see it, raising his fingers toward it delicately but not touching the ruddy blot.

"Here Legolas rested on his way to confront the Guardians of the Vaults," he said and there was a gentle reverence in his voice, sadness in his eyes. He turned them upon Elladan. "Do you know this story, gwador? He thought to force Thranduil into Antala Ajan Ek-tâ."

"I know it," Elladan nodded grimly. "Legolas meant to sacrifice himself before the Judgement could be revoked. It was madness."

"Of a kind," the warrior partially agreed, "but he had the key with him, you see, and his blood was on the key. Indeed, his blood was the key, for only one of his lineage could break the spell. He did not know until that moment, none of our people knew, that his uncles' sundered souls were imprisoned in the gates."

Elladan shivered in the confined space, chilled to the core. "That, also, is madness." Then he bowed his head, hand over heart, and prayed: "Námo, anno dâf an faer hyn minnar Mandos; anno hyn sîdh ar îdh." (Námo, give permission for these souls to enter Mandos; give them peace and rest.)

Tê-telch did not ratify his supplication and they continued as before, arriving in due time on the last step before the opening into the vestibule of the three doors. The place was lit with a single torch and in the harsh glare of its flickering fire the imposing gates stood open, the gory key still fitted to the lock, the atmosphere keen with the menace of the ugly history that had wrought such horror. The sylvan warrior sighed. "I have no wish to pass the threshold of this place, but our way is through the third door and we stand now in the first, so we must. Stay near, gwador, for while the Spirits of the Gates are no longer confined within the iron scrollwork, they linger here." He steeled himself and moved into the space, sight trained upon the looming black arch that held the stairs into the deeper dungeons.

Elladan could not deny his curiosity to see the fabled vaults of the Elven King and peered beyond the iron barrier to spy glimpses of high shelves and glints of gold and silver on riches undefined. For an instant, a face showed itself peering at him through the darkness but when he stopped and made to go closer his sylvan guide prevented him, tugging hard on his sleeve, eyes huge and dark and his skin pale. "Come," he pleaded and Elladan found he had no desire to argue. He glanced back as he passed into the stairwell, but the face was gone. He decided not to ask if Tê-telch had seen it, too. In time they came to another landing and here the sylvan halted and stepped back. "I will remain here, if you wish it," he said, "but what lies ahead is for you alone."

"What are you talking about?" Elladan demanded, unable to stem a sudden surge of dread at such portentous words. His grip on the staff tightened and Tê-telch's eyes lifted to the lantern.

"You will keep the lamp," he reassured. "You are here to speak with the Elven Lord and that is a thing to do alone. He is not my father and I have no words to trade with him."

"Truly spoken," Elladan could not deny the logic nor fault the warrior for his aversion to Elrond. Even so, he found it difficult to part from Tê-telch and they stood gazing upon one another in wordless communion. At last he smiled and reached out to grip the sylvan's biceps. "Well spoken, also. Wait for me here, then. I will not be long."

"I will wait however long it takes," answered Tê-telch and once more his cryptic speech and solemn demeanour held Elladan bound to the spot. At last the Wood Elf laughed indulgently and gave him a friendly shove. "Go."

The corridor was long, but there was no means to determine this beyond instinct for its end was hidden in the pitch black of a lightless void. Elladan moved into it and the circle of brilliance cast by the lantern became a shield against the inky substance that comprised the air, thick and cloying like an oily current flowing over and around him, pressing upon him from all sides. He was breathing it in with every breath, taking it inside himself, and every exhale seemed to deplete his spirit another mite more. It was an unwelcome thought but he could not deny he was familiar with the bleak idea.

_Have I been diminishing? Am I fading?_

If not for the cleansing light surrounding him he might be poisoned by the rank and polluted atmosphere. That brought him up short, heart hammering wildly, for it was not his imagination. The place stank with a sickly, putrid odour he knew well: the stench of rotting flesh. He gave a frantic cry and bolted down the hall, scanning right and left, but there were no doors here. Ahead the tunnel turned sharply left and dipped low, descending even deeper; he skidded round it, again faltering as the smell assaulted him with greater force, fumbling in the breast pocket of his tunic for a handkerchief which he pressed over open mouth and stinging nose. He gagged and gulped and groaned a miserable complaint, leaning against the wall a moment to gather his nerve and acclimate himself to the foul miasma, mind reeling with images of his father reduced to a decaying corpse.

The vision was vile, ugly, the exalted lore-master defeated, desecrated by a swarm of mindless, sightless, ravenous maggots. He forced it from his mind and repudiated that reality, gathered resolve sufficient to go forward, let the smell guide him now for he had to know. It seemed to take forever but perhaps that was because he feared what he would find. At last he stood before the heavy oaken barrier, immersed in the disgusting odour of decay, and reached for the handle. He yanked hard, but it was locked and did not budge. It was not what he'd expected and he stood staring at it, reason scattered, caught between imagination and the undeniable evidence of the palpable stink. He picked aimlessly at the keyhole with his fingernail, examined the edges of the door, the bottom. _The bottom._ From under the barrier a great flow of blood had seeped and congealed in the hallway. The toe of his boot was mired in it. He couldn't tear his eyes from it, wondering how he was going to break down the door without dropping the lantern. He did not want to lose the light.

"I mustn't lose the light." He would go back and get his woodland comrade and together they would either unlock this door or destroy it. He covered his mouth and inhaled deeply, crying out for his guide. "Tê-telch!" There was no answer and he became alarmed, for surely he was not beyond earshot. _Unless there is other magic acting here of which none have lived to tell._ He turned and retraced his steps, jogging uneasily round the corner and then more quickly to reach the end, for the tunnel seemed to be lengthening while shrinking in diameter, closing in round him. Abruptly he reached the steps and gave a dismayed cry; Tê-telch was not there. "Tê-telch!" he shouted. "Come down; I need you here!"

"Elladan?"

The query came from behind him and Elladan wheeled about, pulse resounding in his ears. Beyond the meagre glow of the swaying lamp, he could discern nothing and immediately became aware that he was all too visible. "Who is there? Tê-telch?"

"Nay. Nay, ion vinui. Im Elrond, adar lín." (No, first son. I am Elrond, your father.)

"Adar." Elladan swallowed against the surge of emotion, relief and embarrassment together, and drew breath. "I thought you dead. The smell..."

"Aye, it's bad, but none have sought to harm me, save Erestor and he is entitled."

"What? When did Erestor seek to hurt you?"

"It isn't important," Elrond had by now advanced into the feeble light and smiled at his son, proud of him despite the contention that divided them, overwhelmed to know he still cared whether his father lived or died, was injured or healthy. "I am well; you need not fear."

"Adar." Elladan wanted to rebuke him, tell him he had no such fears, but the words would not come. He could only stare at the kindly smile and shining eyes, grateful that his father was not the source of the abominable stench. "Who?"

"Ah, yes, another example of the archaic and barbaric practices to which these people have clung. The cruelty inherent in their Laws reflects the degree to which evil has inundated these ancient woods. Come, I will show you a thing no Noldorin edhel has ever beheld." Elrond took his son's arm and gently pulled, leading him back into the noisome passage, back round the corner to the cell from which the blood had oozed. He reached for the handle and the door opened easily but he did not enter in. "See? This is the way the woodland folk deal with kin-slayers in their midst. That is all that remains of Meril, beloved of Thranduil and mother to his younger children. Eru only knows what has become of her spirit."

"Lindalcon's naneth," Elladan said and the words echoed through the space, buffeting against his ears like a death dirge. He had no need to go inside the tiny room, for his lamp illuminated the cell, revealing her where she lay on the threshold, crumpled up in an awkward pose, head thrown back and mouth agape, eyeless, a dagger protruding from her neck. "She was trying to get out," Elladan murmured, taking in the scene, her fingers curled into claws as though she had clutched at her assailant. _Or the handle of the door._ He wondered if Thranduil had done this deed. "Valar." Yet his father was wrong; he had seen this before. "Antala Ajan Ek-tâ."

"Indeed. Ritual sacrifice, the Holy Stab." Elrond's voice was thick with disdainful affront. "Primitive and brutal and quite final as far as they are concerned, for they do not like Námo and she will have no rebirth. I am thus quite happy to know my indiscretions do not warrant such a penalty. I will gladly sit in the dark and contemplate my fate. I am eager to accept any punishment their Council sees fit to impose, even the dreaded Judgement. Compared to this, it will be a privilege to serve it."

Elladan looked to his father, furious and disgusted, and yanked his arm free. "Indiscretions?" He stepped back, swinging the door shut with a loud bang. "What you did was deserving of a more fitting term than that. Try 'sins'. Aye, sadistic sins, taking pleasure from the pain and debasement of another, taking pleasure in a manner nearly as abhorrent and unthinkable as rape. Is it better to be primitive and brutal or advanced in learning and wisdom and yet still brutal? Is not the latter a sign of a more grievous decline? You dare mock the laws of the sylvan people while placing yourself so high above those laws, above our laws and even the natural laws with which all elf-kind were infused at the Awakening."

"No, Elladan, I did not mean to suggest that," Elrond pleaded, seeking to close the distance between them, reaching for his son.

"Get your hands off me!" Elladan slapped the arm away and turned, retreating down the hall. "Come, I have need to speak with you." _How can you so easily forgive him, Muindor?_ His mental query went unanswered; too much distance in earth and stone lay between him and his brother.

"Of course, I will answer any questions you have. Truly, I am repentant and want only to undo the harm I've caused here, ion vinui. I did not mean to be scornful, but this is a frightening place and it has become ingrained habit to hide my fears behind arrogance and condescension," Elrond explained as he trotted after his son, reaching out to touch his sleeve again. "That is not the way," he informed and flinched when Elladan rounded on him, his rage barely suppressed. "My cell is here, down this turning." He pointed, afraid to lay so much as a finger on the agitated warrior before him, and saw that the dark and twisting passages had disoriented his son, even as they had initially confused him.

"How is this possible?" Elladan murmured, drawing cautiously near and tilting his staff into the narrow gap. He was certain there had not been any opening here before. The light displayed just another passageway, identical to the one in which he stood save it led off in a different direction. With a jolt he realised he had no idea what direction he was facing or from which he had proceeded. A huntsman and a renowned tracker all of his adult life, it was not a sensation he could accept with grace. "Is this more of the Elven King's magic?"

"Nay, though I have seen him do things I would not have believed without witnessing them first hand. This is just the dark, Elladan, and the deeps. We are not made for it and our senses fail us here."

"How will I get out?" The panicked words escaped him before he even realised the thought was in his mind, but Elladan was too disturbed to be embarrassed to have his fear revealed.

"I have been down here now for several days and know the way," Elrond assured him, careful to keep his tone neutral. He did not want Elladan to lose his temper and storm away into this labyrinth. The lamp could only burn until its oil was expended and if cast into utter darkness, he feared for his son's sanity.

Elladan looked at him sharply, bringing the lantern near to see his eyes clearly. "You can navigate in this caliginous gloom?"

"To a limited degree. I have not gone beyond these corridors near the stairs and would not wish to even with a thousand lanterns burning brightly. There are things, or some thing, filling this place. I don't know if it is a living entity or some kind of taint in the air arising from below us. I have imagined a Balrog sleeping in some cavern down there near the heart of the world, its berth hot with fire; its breath rank and poisonous to elf-kind. I have envisioned those strange monsters that destroyed Gondolin, creatures that have not been seen in Middle-earth since then. Where did they go?" He had resumed walking as he spoke, Elladan following, and since the way was short they arrived at his cell just as he finished. "Here. It is small but dry and clean; I want for nothing."

Elladan stepped in, stooping to pass under the lintel, and surveyed the room critically. There was a rough bed, a stool, a washstand, a chamber pot, a shelf cut into the stone, a candle and flint upon it. _Little enough comfort, but so much more than Legolas had._

"You see, I am being treated fairly," Elrond said, smiling again to think Elladan's anger covered a heart that still bled for him. "Sit; ask me what you will. I am prepared to own everything and will not hold back." Elrond took the stool and crossed one knee over the other, folded his hands atop his knee, waiting.

"How noble." Elladan gazed at him, incredulous and saddened. "You believe I am here to clear the animosity between us. I am not here to talk about your crimes, Adar, or demand explanations from you. I have already done that and you gave me what answers there were to offer. I am not here for you; not everything in the world is about you or the wrongs done to you by ill-fate. I am here to consult with you as a healer. I am here only for Legolas and if you truly wish to atone for your sins then you will help me now." He took the lantern from its hook and set it on the shelf, leaning the staff in the corner as he sat upon the low cot. His words had astonished and hurt his father, this was evident in the instant before the debased Lord turned his eyes away, but Elladan did not care. "So? What say you to that?"

"Of course I will help you," Elrond snapped. "I am foremost a healer and would do anything to aid Legolas." There was a short pause punctuated by Elladan's snort of derision. "How is he?"

"Awake and aware," Elladan barked. "Does that strike a chord with you?"

"Yes." No words more fully described the horror that had been Celebrian's struggle to heal and Elrond's head dropped low.

"You failed her," Elladan growled, dark menace in his voice. "Did you even try or were you hoping she would sail?"

"Far, Elladan," (Enough) Elrond raised a hand to ward off these accusations and shifted, facing the wall.

"What? Enough? I thought you were prepared to answer all my questions, Adar." Scorn dripped from every syllable and Elladan felt the urge to strike the huddled figure cowering on the stool.

"About Legolas," Elrond croaked, finding his throat constricted and dry. He made an effort to clear it, glanced at the silent fury regarding him within his son's eyes. "Elladan?"

"This is about Legolas, according to you," intoned Celebrian's elder son. "I am the one who found her, not you. I am the one who found Legolas, not you. You told me some bizarre tale of how losing her was Thranduil's fault and by extension Legolas'. Isn't that why you punished him, to get back at Thranduil for all you have lost over the long Ages of your life?"

"Yes, I said that." Elrond twisted in discomfort. "It was a lie."

"Oh. A lie." Elladan nodded. He exhaled a loud breath from his nostrils and scowled. "I am the one who found her and brought her to you to heal and you failed her. You failed me. You permitted my mother to abandon her life, her children. I am the one who found Legolas and Elrohir brought him out, but my eyes had to see him first. It was not as bad as seeing her, for I do not know him and she is my naneth, but it was bad enough. Have you ever seen such sights as these, I wonder? Nay, I don't want to hear your answer!" Elladan half rose and his voice boomed through the cell; Elrond sat frozen, staring in wide-eyed disbelief. When the echoes died out, Elladan settled himself again; the bed creaked in the abyssal silence. "He has been under the care of skilled healers and he is now awake and aware. I want to remove that awareness without affecting his wakefulness. Can it be done?"

"I don't know," Elrond was shaking his head, thinking of Thranduil's cautions. "There is a way, but I have been told the risk is too great to attempt such a cure."

"What risk?" Elladan scooted forward and leaned toward his father eagerly, anxiously. "You are referring to that enchantment in the waters here?"

"Thranduil says it is no mere enchantment but a living entity, or colony of entities, I am not clear on that point, that robs the victim of his soul if left in the water too long."

"Even so, that result involves being submerged within it. Aragorn told me something of Erestor and Legolas' history. Our kinsman was subjected to this water and he lay in deep sleep for two days. His memories returned fairly quickly."

"Yes, he was fortunate his exposure was so limited. He was also in good health before it happened. What are you suggesting? I admit I thought the same as you, but in his condition Legolas should not be plunged into that water for even the briefest time."

"I agree, but that is not what I mean. How if I made a tincture from it?"

"Elladan!" Elrond could say no more, his shock tying his tongue.

"Yes, or say rather a tincture of athelas and Miruvor with some other curative herbs into which a drop or two of this water is added. Drinking this, would it have the effect I hope to achieve? Would not the athelas and Miruvor predominate, appropriating the powers of the enchantment in a positive way?"

In the quiet that followed Elrond considered clinically his son's proposal, aware of the keen gaze watching him, hope shining in those grey eyes so like his own. The ingredients in Miruvor were indeed restorative and the properties of athelas induced a mental state of peace and coherent strength. It was a brilliant hypothesis and he was impressed with the insight that had made it possible. Here was a protocol that merited study, but he had to conclude the risk was too high to attempt it with Legolas. "If it fails it would be disastrous. What could we say to Erestor then? This is his mate, Elladan. You cannot experiment on a sick and grieving ellon." The awful contradiction this statement exposed was lost on neither of them and Elrond felt his cheeks grow hot. He looked away in shame, and Elladan was pleased.

"Truly, Legolas should only be given this cure if it has been tried on another. That is why I have been taking it myself for nearly a month."

"What? Elladan, you didn't!" Elrond rocketed to his feet and bent over his son, peering into those eyes in dread, heart sinking like a stone.

"I have experienced no ill effects from it."

"How can you be so sure?" Elrond demanded, automatically taking his son's pulse at the wrist, inhaling the scent of his breath, testing the temperature of his skin. To his relief, all seemed normal, and he lowered himself to his seat. "But you have not had memories to expunge such as Legolas possesses."

"No, but there are many scenes of violence I am happy to have excised from my internal landscape."

"Is it working?" Elrond was almost afraid to hope.

"It would be wrong to say the memories are expunged," Elladan said, "but they no longer plague me at will and I am able to view them as from a distance or turn from them completely. I do not relive the events in vivid detail but observe without my heart being disturbed. Reverie is again a time of rest and peace as Eru intended. I think what I experience now is like memory in the Second-born."

"That is amazing," Elrond said and then amended his praise, "and incredibly irresponsible. What if you lost your mind, Elladan, or your very soul as Thranduil warned? Who could aid you then? It was foolish to. . ."

"I considered my fate carefully and my actions were not foolish. Had I been harmed and all my memories lost, then Elrohir would just have had to put me on a ship for Aman. The worst that could happen was to forget everything: the horror of killing my comrades when no other recourse was available, the haunted shame in my mother's eyes when I found her, the defeat in them when she sailed. The worst that would result was removing to the Undying Lands, there to be healed under Estë's care. The worst that could happen would be to be reunited with Nana in the Blessed Realm. These were risks I was more than willing to take, Adar."

"I see." They stared at one another for a time and Elrond did not know what his son expected of him. "You have done what you have done and it is too late to change it. Why have you come, then? Do you seek my blessing to try this on Legolas?"

"Your blessing?" Elladan laughed, a scoffing, derisive noise, and shook his head. "No, Adar. I have already been treating Legolas for several days now. I add a vial of the tincture to his drinking water each day and none are the wiser. I believe it is helping him and will continue the treatment until the new moon. You will be my failsafe, Adar. I came here to give you the formula in case I am wrong and something terrible happens. It will happen to me first and thus you may have time to unravel the error in my calculation and correct the prescription before the same befalls Legolas. Or at least you can prepare Erestor for what will happen and apologise for me. If it comes to that, tell him I only meant to help and will meet his just challenge when I am healed and recall who I am and what I have done, for we will all sail to Aman then, Erestor, Legolas, Elrohir, and I." He reached into his tunic and withdrew a rolled parchment, handing it to his father who accepted it in woebegone misery.

"Ai, Elladan, now the evil in my deeds has spilled over onto you! I never meant that, ion, never!"

"You never thought about it one way or the other," sneered Elladan and rose, taking up the lantern and attaching it to the staff. "You have not considered your children in a very long time. In fact, you have thought of none but yourself in more centuries than I care to number. Now lead me out of here for my guide has deserted me."

Elrond led him through the twisting paths and when they came again to the stair they parted. The sylvan warrior had not returned and Elladan ascended to the kitchens alone. There the chef and his nephews were waiting, much relieved to see him, and replied to his enquiry that Tê-telch had not emerged. There were many ways in and out of the stronghold, they averred, and would not let their guest use any of them until he had come to the hearth and eaten a hearty meal. Then the young ones coaxed and cajoled and convinced the daunting Orc-slayer to join their games in the snow, and Elladan played with them, laughing and carefree for a time as he had not been in more years than his memory could recount.

"I don't want them popping up over the edge of the platform anytime they want to check on me."

"No, of course not. We have been deeply concerned and dared not leave you alone, otherwise..."

"Yes, I understand and I'm grateful, but I am no longer in danger of fading or death."

"Thank Eru for that."

"I don't know about Eru." Legolas' features presented an expression of scepticism shaded in betrayal. "Tawar, yes, and the Twins, and Aragorn, and all the warriors who came and got me out. Thank Gladdy and you, Ada, and most of all thank Berenaur." He reached over and gripped the carpenter's arm briefly, a strangely savage smile on his lips.

"No thanks are needed. We could not bear to know you were captive in there." Fearfaron sighed softly, worrying over what that unpleasant leer portended. He continued lending minimal assistance as Legolas slowly readied himself for the day, which meant merely watching as his adopted son donned the comfortable silk sleeping garments the carpenter had given him. Fearfaron was pleased to note the colour and style were no longer objectionable; the convalescent warrior clearly appreciated the warmth of the wool flannel lining and the loose fit, the ease of getting into them. Legolas looked up from tying off the drawstring of the pants, his features cast in a more placid aspect, and they shared the memory of the first time he'd put them on.

"I like this colour," said Legolas, grinning. "It's very cheerful."

"So it is," laughed the carpenter, nodding agreement.

"Still, for all my gratitude," Legolas reverted to the topic most in his thoughts these days, "I need everyone to respect my privacy. Berenaur and I are newly bonded and not really so eager to have guests about all the time."

"Guests?" Fearfaron was stunned. "I would hope I am more than that, Tawarwaith, and Aragorn is your staunchest friend, Gladhadithen your physician for all your life." He folded his arms over his chest and offered an offended countenance to his adopted son, deciding not to include Mithrandir or the Twins in his litany, and certainly not Thranduil.

"I did not mean you!" Legolas insisted and awkwardly rose so to go and reassure his surrogate father, but Fearfaron went to him instead.

"Nay, don't exert yourself for such a trifle." He leaned low and circled loving arms round the bare shoulders briefly and ruffled the thickening golden spikes as he righted himself, smiling down on Legolas. "I know you didn't really mean me; it was just a surprise to hear."

"I am sorry; I would never exclude you from my home," averred Legolas. He did not object when Fearfaron took up the pyjama top and held it out for him, slipping his arms through. The carpenter stepped back and left him to do the rest, for which he was thankful. He did not like being a burden and liked even less the helpless feeling that came with it. "No more do we want to forbid visitors, but Berenaur and I need to set some limits. We need time together alone."

"Rightly spoken," agreed Fearfaron, smiling happily to listen to such demands. In so short a time, he'd gone from despairing ever to hear Legolas speak to wondering over the new tones of authority in the Tawarwaith's voice. "I am truly glad you and Berenaur have renewed your bond and can enjoy the pleasure that brings. We will abide by whatever limits you deem proper. Yet, don't shut us out completely, Ion Edwen, for it is all still too new for us and we need to see you to believe it is true."

"Aye," Legolas smiled warmly. It was a strange and novel experience, but pleasing, he decided, to have so many people worried about his health and well-being. So many long years he'd been the centre of ugly gossip and open disgust, shunned utterly even before the Judgement wrought his banishment in truth. He wasn't sure how well he'd adjust to the new circumstances, having been alone for so long. _That is the past and I need not relive it having lived through it once so fully._ The thought had the ring of familiarity and he believed he'd heard someone tell him this, but couldn't recall who.

Fearfaron presented a pair of soft woollen boots he'd had made and placed them before his second son's naked feet, obviously proud to have a fitting gift to offer, especially in light of the neat stack of newly and plushly made garments Thranduil had sent, ignored where they had been deposited on the floor beneath the hammock. Legolas smiled and shoved his feet in, bending to pull up the cuff, wincing a bit for there was an injury at his side that gave him a twinge when he moved too quickly that way. A small groan escaped him as he straightened, wiggled his toes, and met Fearfaron's peering eyes, glad he had not immediately hastened to fuss over him. "It's all right," he assured, "but help me to stand. The leg does not abide too much strain and I'll not upset Berenaur by making any noise."

Fearfaron was happy to do it, and once Legolas was up kept only a light touch upon his arm by way of stabilisation as they moved from the bench toward the edge of the flet.

The little talan had undergone a second transformation, the multiple layers of silk and wool and canvas stripped away until only the normal two remained: that to ward off precipitation and the tight silk panels used to retain heat. The sleeping flet held only one brazier now and the many ewers of water had been reduced to the traditional two: one for drinking and one for bathing. The floor remained covered with rugs and furs, though, and the nest, while less daunting, still burgeoned with abundant cushions and blankets. It was all neat and tidy just now for Legolas and Berenaur had changed out the linens and set everything right. Legolas passed it and then stopped; there draped over the netting was the cloak Thranduil had left behind and he reached for it. Fearfaron made no comment and took it from him, draping it over his arm as they came to the clever apparatus Aragorn had constructed to make moving between the levels as easy for Legolas as possible. It was simple, a rope and pulley mechanism with a nicely padded loop for Legolas' foot, and could be worked either by someone below on the next flet or Legolas himself, once strength sufficient to do so returned to his arms. He balanced carefully on the mending leg and set the unhurt foot in that loop, complaining about the need for aid.

"Valar, how will I ever wield a bow again when I cannot lift my own weight?"

"It will come in time," advised a voice from below and he peered over the edge to see Berenaur smiling up at him, waiting to work the pulley and bring him down. "Ready?"

"Aye." It only took a second and he was in the seneschal's arms, not so displeased to need help after all, and remained there to be sweetly kissed. He let his mate usher him to the settee and settled on the comfortable sofa. Fearfaron leaped down after them and brought the cloak, spreading it over Legolas' legs as Berenaur propped them up on the ample ottoman. "My thanks," Legolas sighed, snuggling under Berenaur's arm as he sat beside him and secured him protectively close.

"Are you hungry?" asked Fearfaron, observing them both with profound joy and affection. It reminded him of Analdir's early days with his new mate, this love between the unlikely pair.

"Yes," said Erestor, but "No," replied Legolas. The august Noldorin advisor and the humble carpenter favoured the forest prince with equally displeased frowns. "You should eat something, even if it is only broth and bread," Erestor insisted.

"All right," Legolas decided he had no desire to fight them over it. They would just bring food anyway; too much, in fact, and it would go to waste. "A slice of bread with honey would be nice." He was amused by how much happiness this simple request invoked as Berenaur hugged him and Fearfaron practically skipped away to the kitchen. They heard him humming as he bustled about to prepare the food. "I told him," Legolas replied to his mate's unspoken question, "and he agreed we need more control over who comes and goes and when they do. He'll talk to the others and explain."

Before Erestor could answer there was a sharp rap on the trap door and it was thrown open. Through the gap arose a sound of frantic scuffling and Aragorn's voice, strained and irritable, boomed through the air.

"You cannot just go blundering in there; have you no manners at all? Wait to be invited, Aranen!" (my King)

"You dare lay hands on me? Echil tarlanc, (stubborn human) you will regret such insolence!" This pronouncement was followed by a loud grunt of surprise and discomfort, a crunchy sort of thud as of a body connecting rudely with the snow-covered earth, and Thranduil's head and shoulders appearing in the empty space. His disgruntled expression transformed at once upon spying Legolas on the sofa and he verily beamed his approval. "You are up and about. Excellent progress, I am much gratified." He made to hoist himself up but found his plans hindered when Legolas threw the elegant cloak at him. It landed in a heap far from the King's head, but the intent was plain.

"Out!" ordered the Tawarwaith, scowling as much over this example of his diminished strength as the need to give the order. He glared at the regal countenance trained upon him, ignoring the shocked displeasure there. Then the King's stubborn chin lifted, but a gleam, something quite like approval, flashed in his emerald eyes.

"Fine," barked Thranduil, but leaned forward and tossed the cape back closer to the settee ere he descended.

"I told you to wait." Aragorn's scolding was exultant; smug delight crammed into every syllable.

"Drúadan, (Primitive troglodyte) your interference is unacceptable. I think it is time you returned to your wandering Rangers in Eriador." Thranduil announced, but before he could issue a decree to ensure it, his command was overruled.

"Daro, Hiren Adar; leave him be," Legolas forbade any reprisals.

Tense and profound silence filled the glade, not the variety of awe-inspired, respectful quiet that attended the Tawarwaith's proclamations out in the wild woods, but rather the pensive, fretful pause of folk waiting to know if they would be called upon to defend the forest champion. None defied Thranduil without reprisal, and Legolas had been fully chastened for it on the occasions he had done so. Here was the first test of the fragile truce the two had managed: would the King denounce the only rival for power he had ever encountered, or permit his son, newly reclaimed and accepted, to countermand his desires? Erestor prepared to shield his mate from Thranduil's fury; Fearfaron readied himself to salvage the foolish human for provoking the volatile Sindarin monarch, Elladan and Elrohir stood ready to tackle the King, and the Tawarwaith's guard faced a dilemma they had discussed at length. All of them had sworn allegiance to Greenwood's King and fought beside him in the war just ended, but they would not have their Tawarwaith come to ill by Thranduil's doing again, even if it meant their own banishment. All this well-intended preparedness proved unnecessary.

"Sui thelich," (As you will) said Thranduil calmly, highly pleased. He would expect nothing less from Oropher's grandson than to protect his friends. He spared Aragorn an amused shrug, seeing the disbelief on his face, and removed to the perimeter of the glen where his son's guards had made a fire to warm them as they kept the watch. He was satisfied; Legolas' spirit was not crushed. He remained as defiant as ever, yet had found a means within himself to accept Thranduil as his father, even inventing a fitting name by which to call him. He could not have hoped for better and made an effort to converse genially with the sylvan and Sindarin soldiers that they might understand he did not begrudge their presence or their purpose here.

"Come up, Aragorn," Legolas called. He turned his eye not on the open trap, however, but upon Fearfaron, worried how this development might affect him. The wise carpenter displayed no opposition, smiling at his adopted son as he bent to gather the cloak from the floor. "Oh, get rid of that thing," Legolas waved at it in disgust, but Fearfaron knew better and carefully hung up the garment out of sight in the kitchen. Legolas would want it later.

Aragorn shut the trap as he entered, grinning to see Legolas awake and pain-free, for the most part. It was clear there was still discomfort and he was still far from well, but the improvement from raving delirium to this quieter example of convalescence was more than he had hoped. The suddenness of the breakthrough was astounding and the Man had to attribute it primarily to Wood Elf tenacity, a quality the woodland archer had displayed before in his endurance against grieving sickness and privation combined. He came forward and carefully hugged Legolas, unable to resist the urge, and was pleased to hear a soft laugh and feel lean arms pull him in briefly. He sat on the floor at the Tawarwaith's feet. "I would not have believed it," he said, "had I not heard it with my own ears. You gave orders to the King and he obeyed!"

"It's not the first time," answered Legolas solemnly, yet he couldn't deny it pleased him for Thranduil to accede more gracefully than in their past confrontations. He sighed. "I can see he is going to be a pest."

"Perhaps not," Fearfaron said thoughtfully. "I know he is arrogant and selfish, but now he wants you for a son and that will temper his normal lack of consideration."

"Indeed, I heard him warn Elrohir not to disturb you and Erestor," added the Man. "He seems genuinely to have your best interest at heart."

"Rather late to come to it," complained Erestor. "There are amends to be made. He thinks he can just scoop you up and add you to his life as he sees fit. Well, I have your true interests foremost and will regulate his over-zealous attitude."

Legolas basked in the warm affection apparent in these statements and reached for Berenaur's hand. Instead, his was immediately caught and kissed and blanketed between both the seneschal's and his smile grew larger. "I am most fortunate," he murmured happily.

It was a remark the others found astounding considering all the Tawarwaith had endured and none could manage a fitting response, sharing their nonplused senses in surreptitious looks one to another. Fearfaron got up and retrieved the food, carrying the tray in and setting it on Legolas' lap. They watched him eat in silent, enthralled concentration that embarrassed him and he gave an awkward laugh. Really, the simplest, most basic things he did filled them with delight. He cringed, a rapid flash of colour staining his cheeks, recalling Fearfaron's enthusiastic announcement to all upon his first independently achieved bowel movement in the chamber pot.

The nourishing soup and bread soon filled him and he shoved at the tray, which was instantly collected and carried away by the carpenter. Sleepy from the hearty victuals, Legolas frowned a bit as he watched Fearfaron. He had never intended his adopted father to behave toward him as a servant would and it bothered him. "Ada, someone else can do that," he said, hearing the clatter of dishes being scraped and stacked for washing. Fearfaron came forth and squatted beside him, setting a gentle hand upon his cheek.

"It is nothing, Ion Edwen. I cannot repay the debt your sacrifice has placed upon me. Do not even attempt a rebuttal; I will see my son reborn because of you. I will have my family whole and at peace, free of all travail and sorrow forever. Let me do what I may." He stopped short of saying more, deeming it too soon to share the longing that had begun to build within his heart. He was dreaming of that new life almost daily now and he knew he could not withstand the impulse very long. _After Echuil, after Lindalcon's remains are exhumed and exalted, then it will be time to discuss my journey home._

Legolas saw something of both hope and sadness within the calm, brown eyes he had come to love so well. He covered the hand with his own and nodded, watched the willowy ellon unfold and move away, let him go with uneasy wistfulness. He was not ready to ask what it was about, not yet. He needed Fearfaron and instinct warned that if he gave life to his fears in speech they would become reality. His mind was clear now and sharp as once it had been, and there was cause to wonder at the grieving ellon's continuance in Middle-earth when all he loved were gone. True, many people did so, but usually these had large extended families stretching into many generations, while Fearfaron had no grandchildren or nieces and nephews. He was among the Wood Elves whose losses at Dagorlad had been devastatingly extensive. Those of his lineage not killed in battle, those who did not fade from grief, had sailed to Aman long before Legolas was born. He had stayed for Analdir whose commitment to Greenwood was as strong as Legolas'. After the Judgement, he had stayed for his son's Release and for Legolas. The Tawarwaith scrutinised him carefully and felt a sharp pang assail his heart. Always slender and ever sorrowful, there was a new translucence to the carpenter's skin, a deeper glow to his elvish aura, and brighter, as though his soul was seeking to burn its way out and get free. How much longer could he hold it in?

_Next winter he will not be with me._

Legolas gave a shudder and Berenaur tightened his hold round his shoulders, kissed his temple, evaluated his condition. "Pân vae?" (All right?)

"Aye, pân na vae." (Yes, all is well.)

Aragorn discarded his boots near the trap, moved to be closer to the brazier, and stretched out his stockinged feet toward its heat, wriggling his toes in prickling pleasure for he'd just finished his turn on the perimeter and they were numb with cold. When the carpenter brought him a mug of strong, hot tea, his contentment was complete. His happy sigh and noisy slurp made Legolas smile and gave him the distraction he needed to remove his thoughts from his adopted father's imminent departure.

"Tell me," he said quietly, and Aragorn looked to him, not in surprise or anxious concern, but with an earnest and serious mien that was almost grateful.

He knew what Legolas needed to hear and in the same way the Tawarwaith wished to have the tale of the battle told, the Man had need to speak of it. Not to glorify the deeds done or advance himself through an account of his exploits, but to inform Legolas that neither he nor Lindalcon had been abandoned to fate, that Lindalcon's decision to achieve his father's Release had made a profound impact on everyone in Greenwood. Aragorn deemed It an important revelation as it described a change in the consensus that was not so much a radical departure from the mores of the woodland people, but a return to those values that had defined them even at the Awakening. So he believed and so he spoke. "The whole of the population recoiled at the idea of him alone, innocent and noble in his ideals, bereft of any recourse to justice save only that which he himself could wring from his doom. In this solitary action the people of Greenwood saw clearly how their Laws had failed. They were moved at once to find him, to save him, though they could not act quickly enough. I don't think anyone, even you, Legolas, foresaw the extent of the Wraiths' plan or the numbers they would bring against the Woodland Realm in this war."

"No, truly spoken," Legolas sighed. "Yet, there is more here at work than you guess. Greenwood needed a sacrifice; I proved too durable, so another must be found. Lindalcon volunteered himself and for this the people will exalt him." He spoke the words calmly, his tone as even as though he had just described how one season follows another in the cycle of the year. The ensuing silence was charged with discomfort and suppressed outrage. Legolas was aware of the incredulous, affronted glance the Man and his Beloved shared between them , and shrugged. "I do not expect you to understand it. We have been here a very long time and our ways are intimately entwined within these boughs and branches, these roots and vines. We do not see ourselves as set apart from this earth as the Noldorin folk might do, as most Men surely do, wanting mastery and the power to wreck a thing as proof of their authority.

"We sylvans are not like that. We thrive when Greenwood thrives and so we do whatever we must to protect our woods. Death is no mystery to us and our warriors understand that circumstance decrees most will not sail to Aman at a time of their choosing, but enter Eldamar through Námo's domain. Aye, even those joined at death to Tawar know Mandos is their ultimate destination, for when we are all gone, who will stand for Tawar? Who will speak for the trees? None, and so when we go, Tawar will go, too, or perhaps it is the other way round. Yet those lives destroyed through violence, battle, and strife are not lost nor given, but taken; taken from us at great exertion of force and darkness. Aye, our archers do not go out to war and throw themselves upon the spears of the orcs, but repulse them, defying Shadow and death and domination by evil things, which is worse than death. Lindalcon, though, went out to give his life away that his father would be free, and he knew this was what the people needed: An end to it; a way to put this vile series of events into the past, no longer an episode of dark defeat to be hidden from memory in shame and reproach, but a great struggle ending in a victory of the peoples' soul over Shadow. Lindalcon needed to give us that victory, the goal for which his father died. There is honour in this death."

"You believe he wanted to die?" Erestor asked, uncomfortable with the ideas his wild elf harboured.

"He did not want to die," Legolas explained patiently, "but could not live the life granted him, the legitimacy of his birth half-sham, half-verity, loved by his father yet nothing to his mother but a mask to hide her deceptions and selfish designs. Even I was not created thus and my Naneth loves me because I am Legolas, the child she created from her blood and bone, not because I granted her a path to privilege. What could he do but die? How else would he achieve the fate for which he was designed? Not the fate Meril crafted for him, which is an abomination and abhorrent to Tawar and to Eru, but a fulfilment of the Music that is his life, and that is something he was both given and gave. What she conceived in her disturbed mind was wholly evil; what she conceived in her body was utterly pure. To thwart her unholy ends, which would achieve nothing less than the downfall of Greenwood and the scattering of her people, Iluvatar instilled in Lindalcon a sanctifying beauty, a soul so radiant that his father could not help but name him thus: a Song of the Sun Ray. As Anar was made to drive out the dark cast over Arda by Melkor's violence, so Lindalcon was made to cast out the Shadow smothering the soul of Greenwood's people.

"His mother brought it here, right here into the heart of our world, past wards and weirds that should be impenetrable but for her betrayal and treachery, and always that is how Shadow gains victory over the First-born. She absorbed it, harboured it, cherished it, that vile, creeping adulteration that has been trying to infect us, a toxin designed to destroy the spirit of the Wood Elves and thus the Spirit of the Great Wood. It is all the same: kill one and the other must wither also. Long has Shadow sought our destruction; long have we endured against it. Too long, and we are diminished by relentless struggle as are all the First-born, weary and worn down by war and conflict. Even so, if we have given ground it is because we have the advantage of long sight, both behind us into ancient days and ahead to the finishing of all our days. Maybe we cannot admit it yet, most of us, but we feel it; we feel it. This verse of the Music is almost sung, and deep inside we all know it. We know it and became paralysed by it, seeing the inevitable and accepting it, accepting that the end will not be sweet as we had long believed, but bitter. Why fight it? And such fools are we that we would seek to bargain with Shadow, begging with our actions if nor our voices, pulling back and back, giving up much of what is ours hoping we might be left in peace.

"Fools! See how we were changed by this cunning Shadow? It has grown clever and uses our own truth against us. But it has always done that, blinding us and binding us with fear and sorrow so deep there is no limit to it, no limit. We will not go down into those unsounded deeps of oblivion. We are no longer blind; our limbs are not lifeless, our hearts not cowed. Lindalcon has banished it completely, flushed the poison out and through his sacrifice exposed our tainted spirits to the wholesome light and cleansing power of our own Music. Whatever darkness lies out there in wait, and I shudder to learn of it for it must be terrible and mighty, we will meet it and we will vanquish it. Now there will be a time of healing and rebuilding our strength, and when the trial is upon us, we will not falter. We will prevail."

It was a long speech and telling it exhausted Legolas. He turned to burrow against Berenaur's neck and settled into the arms that encircled him, caring nothing about what reaction his words might produce or what impression Aragorn might form of him. He wasn't even certain, once he was done, if any of it had made sense to them or not, or if it made any sense to him, and found he did not want to know. Perhaps this is what people did to make acceptance possible, what they had to do, changing something so horrible it didn't bear scrutiny, adding a veneer of noble purpose to render it pleasing and palatable. He only wanted sleep and it claimed him readily as Berenaur sang to him, holding him near both in body and spirit, anchoring him to his heart to forestall a plummeting free-fall into those bottomless wells of pain and woe and endless sorrow.

Drifting and dwindling, feathered and fragile, the flakes fell down, down through the breathless air; frozen fragments of weightless gauze scattered from a pale sky slung low, heavy bosomed and benevolent, merging heaven and earth. Soft, slow, exquisite snow cloaked naked branches stripped of summer's glory by winter's dominion and transmuted the harshness of the frigid landscape into blurred contrasts in dark and light, clean edges erased, replaced by white humps and mounds that hid the drab, decaying detritus covering the ground. The biting chill, tolerable by virtue of this multitude of icy droplets, became exhilarating, refreshing, clean like the frosty vapour exhaled with every breath, every word. The cascading crystals had a rhythm, a steady and endless precision to their descent that induced a soothing denouement to cares and woes. Watching them calmed the soul, capturing first the eyes and then mesmerising the mind into a state of subtle serenity seldom achieved save during such intervals of gentle precipitation. Walking within this curtain of lace, capes and fur-rimmed hoods frosted with the delicate fluff, two elves marked the perimeter of the clearing, absorbed in wordless communion: Legolas and Berenaur, their halting gate measured in the same sleepy rate as the falling snow.

All around them Greenwood slept, the mighty trees silent, dormant and still, rank upon rank of stalwart trunks soaring skyward in stark defiance of their temporary subjugation, their motionless life. Trees did not run hither and yon seeking food and water, courting mates and hiding young from predation, eking out a paltry existence from the world; they held the world, held the earth rooted, and held it fast to serve them. Anchored in majestic splendour, held fast in winter's grip, the forest dreamed in shades of green and gold of birdsong and running streams. Beneath their woven shield of interlocking limbs, the Tawarwaith stumbled over the drifts, supported by his mate and watched over by many eyes. They watched in wonder, careful, respectful, joyous wonder that remained apart, their scrutiny masked to afford their Watcher privacy and dignity in the humble pursuit of his daily exercise. He was theirs now, but what brought the woodland warriors so near to tears was the knowledge that they had always been his, always, housed in his heart and shielded behind the vigilant protection of his deadly art. In silence they hailed him, spirits singing their accolades in exultant pride: Hîl od Oropher, Tirn-en-Tawar, Legolas, Ernil-en-Gladgalen, the Tawarwaith.  



	115. Chapter 115

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd  


###  **An Pennas**

(For the Record)  


#### Transition

"The trial begins on the morrow."

Thranduil offered the information quietly, seriously, a note of restraint and concern underpinning the words. It was a tone and manner he had developed of late when speaking with his elder son, a conscious rejection of the arrogant disdain he had nourished and cherished so long. It was much worse than mere hubris and condescension he had banished, of course, and recalling the hatred he'd harboured and the cruelty he'd employed in his dealings with Legolas shamed him now. Looking upon him, Thranduil wondered that he had been so easily duped. Though the healing wounds were covered up and the shorn hair was growing in rapidly, Legolas was far from well and strong, yet even in this depleted state his spirit shone with resilient brilliance. A soul this tenacious and a heart so steadfast could only spring from Oropher's lineage. This understated demeanour of respectful commiseration was meant to declare that kinship and express his earnest desire to create a genuine familial bond.

Discovering the best means to win Legolas' trust was at once simple and extremely difficult. As closely as possible, Thranduil mimicked his father, clothing himself in Oropher's phantom, donning the demeanour of paternal tenderness and restraint he recalled from the days following the discovery of his naneth's remains. As harrowing and damaging as that time had been, its memory held the core of his indefatigable love for his father, for during those first months of mourning Oropher put forth great effort to reach his youngest son's heart and hold it safe. Grieving drew the family together and Thranduil came to believe, truly believe, that his father loved him.

It had never been easy for Oropher to love him; something stood between them that Thranduil could never name or understand and he had never mustered courage enough to confront his father and demand an explanation. There was nothing overtly cruel or unkind, as his manner toward Legolas, but there was a gulf between them, a distance his father did not want to cross; some unarticulated aspect of Thranduil's personality was thoroughly repugnant to Oropher. The loss of his wife-mate had shattered that barrier. Now they shared a thing, horrible and destructive and immutable, a loss and a grief so profound it brought them all to the brink of fading. Faced with the raw and ravaged soul of his youngest son, Oropher softened and extended the light of his suffering spirit to soothe and heal Thranduil. It was not his fault that he failed; he was grieving, too, and could neither comprehend nor follow his child's path through that darkness.

Thranduil had wanted, needed someone to blame, someone from whom to exact retribution. His challenging statements condemning the Powers sounded too much like accusations to the grieving father and husband. The Valar, he reasoned, were far removed from the forests of Region and could not protect the First-born. That was the province of mates and parents and in this duty Oropher had utterly failed. His youngest confronted him with this truth openly, but his scornful condemnations of accepted dogma issued form him in such venom and rage that Oropher feared what he might do. His attempts to offer comfort were received in startled distrust and questioned, as though Thranduil believed his father was withholding the truth to purposefully blind him. Oropher was forced to see something no father can easily abide in the best of circumstances: his unconsciously expressed discrimination among his offspring had alienated Thranduil. The child knew he was a disappointment, the last to receive praises and the first to be criticised.

_Adar thought his estranged son would wreak bloody revenge for her death, for his failures. He was not so wrong._

Yet, if the child was not what his father wished, should the child be blamed? Thranduil had not designed himself nor chosen the world into which he'd been born anymore than Legolas had. Oropher, he could see now, had been shamed by his revealed prejudice, had tried to reverse the harm he'd done and reached out to embrace his youngest, his demeanour calm and quiet, humble and contrite. He never protested Thranduil's raving or admonished him for expressing his profound anger, accepting it all in hopes of preventing a violent confrontation and a second tragedy. He might have succeeded had he not sent Thranduil away to the care of the Spirit Hunters. Yet, the child was too adamant, too passionate, and too sharp of both mind and tongue. The weight of his contempt and his hatred was killing Oropher. In the end, he must live, yet could not live with the living representation of his guilt, and there were more suffering than just Thranduil. In order to provide security and healing for all of his family he must have peace, and his youngest was ensnared in a reaving storm that would consume them all, and so he sent Thranduil away.

Thranduil had not sent Legolas away, though he had wished it and thought on it often, and in retrospect it would have been better for the child had he done so. Why had he not? The answer, the same that lay at the foundation of nearly all the contentions he'd faced since the loss of his father, was Ningloriel. However inadequate she was as a mother, she would not be parted from her child. The King had always considered this a means of spiteful revenge against him, but now he had a darker example with which to compare her maternal instincts and believed that her reasons were the simplest and purest that ever worked upon her soul: Ningloriel adored her son. There was no question that Legolas adored his naneth and would abide no slurs uttered against her in his hearing. Here were two things he and Legolas shared: love and loss of their mothers.

_Love and loss defines our lives._

Thus, Thranduil reverted to recollection of his father's efforts to heal him and vowed not to fail his son as his father had failed him. Thus his conscious mind explained the deeper motives of his hidden heart, all valid reasons to be sure, but the true cause for his novel treatment of the Tawarwaith resided much too near to his own injured spirit to acknowledge. He wanted this strange ellon, so much like his father in personality and character, to approve of him, to respect him, to own the kinship between them with pride and gladness instead of abhorrence and disgust. In a convoluted transference of emotions, Thranduil had seated all his stymied desires for paternal regard onto his son.

"You expect me to attend?"

Legolas' query interrupted his father's internal musing and Thranduil startled slightly, recovering with a deep inhalation as he blinked and passed his gaze over his son. Legolas sat on the sofa longways, his bare feet up and his back supported by cushions, head resting on the arm of the settee, his eyes on the ceiling of dry, bare limbs. He was wearing the loose and comfortable sleeping garments Thranduil had sent over, the King's fur-trimmed cloak draped across his body. The clothes were made of the finest silk cloth elven hands could weave and died a deep walnut brown, and though Thranduil had conveyed the dimensions himself the size seemed much too large. There was a deep weariness in Legolas' posture as though the effort to hold himself upright was exhausting, and the shadow of pain hovered close about his pale features. His mate sat on the floor beside him; Legolas' hand clasped to Erestor's so firmly the connection must be all that kept him conscious, a vital life-line without which he would perish, and Thranduil did not doubt the verity of this observation. It was unlikely he would be fit enough to participate in the hearing, but trying to hide its commencement was foolish and, to Thranduil's mind, insulting. Expressing this was somehow more difficult than he'd imagined it would be, and when the resultant silence went on too long Legolas lifted his head and repeated the question.

"You believe I should be present?"

Legolas watched his father keenly, fascinated and yet wary, and listened with every sensory nerve attuned to the tones and undertones, the subtle shades of pitch and inflection that often betrayed falsehood and revealed truth. That familiar demeanour of regal and aristocratic might, radiating justified fury and self-righteous affront whenever Legolas was near, had been rooted out and cast off. Not that Thranduil had humbled or abased himself, it was more that Legolas had been exalted, an equal to be treated with due regard and courtesy. Yet again, it was more than polite civility; the King's aura glinted with little flashes filled with impatient eagerness and the scrutiny with which he weighed the reactions to his words was intense. Here was a person Legolas did not know at all and he found himself curious to test his character and learn his quality.

"No, I would place no such burden upon you," Thranduil continued, glance flicking to Erestor for a moment to share his sincerity and determination with that imposing Noldorin Lord. The seneschal's dark glower promised battle. "I thought it right to tell you in case you wished to confront yourto confront him."

"I see," Legolas tendered his mate a wry smile and squeezed the hand that held his. "As opposed to what others might deem right?"

"I saw no reason to make you endure even the thought of it," Erestor defended his protective instincts, shooting Thranduil a scathing glare. They'd had a talk and he'd believed he'd made himself clear on this point, but apparently Legolas' stubborn nature was an inherited trait. He leaned forward, pointing at the Elven King. "You want him there for selfish reasons, to strengthen your position with the warriors and the common folk. You care nothing for what serves Legolas' health and happiness."

"Spoken as a devoted mate should," Thranduil smiled thinly at the legendary statesman, sparing a second to wonder anew over the dark fate that had brought him to Greenwood, and completely ignored the accusation. "Legolas, you are not a child and these things happened to you. They were not accidental mishaps but the designs of a scheming mind bent on your ruin and mine. He misused your naneth disgracefully and betrayed her heart, betrayed the one person she loved more than him: her only child." Thranduil announced these truths without compunction, knowing fully the target of his words was the sore and aching emptiness in Legolas' soul, his sadness over her abandonment of him. Causing her to flee was the one crime the Tawarwaith was least likely to forgive and Thranduil hoped to deflect part of the blame onto Elrond. "At times, the way to promote healing is to expose the wound to light and air. Pretending it isn't here just allows the darkness he spawned to fester, spreading its poison unseen and unchecked."

"You speak from experience." Legolas was not being sarcastic but voicing a pertinent observation. Thranduil had undertaken an exhaustive self-examination that was evident in his felicitous comportment and visible in the mature resolve in his vibrant emerald eyes. _His brothers' work, but he is not resisting it. He is trying to change._ It wasn't so much changing his views, Legolas realised, as evicting the toxic residue of long-held grief. In that instant he decided. If he must have Thranduil for his father, then he wanted the Thranduil he'd caught unawares in solemn contemplation, a person of noble character and long-standing strength, dedicated to the same ideals that motivated him. _How to coax that character out of hiding?_

"Yes," Thranduil lifted his chin regally. "I am angry and feel the need to finally vent my rage upon the true perpetrator of the injuries my immediate family has suffered." Erestor shifted on the floor, a move of restrained hostility combined with a derisive sniff, but the King would not be distracted. "I do not reject my responsibility, but neither can it be denied that I was manipulated with malicious intent."

"Had you not been so"

"Sîdh, Melethen," Legolas truncated the seneschal's contentious rebuke. "Let me treat with him as I would."

They shared a long moment soul to soul and then Erestor sighed aloud his capitulation, resigned to bend to the steely will of the indomitable Tawarwaith. He leaned up to kiss his mate and then rose, sparing a repudiating grimace for Thranduil. "Sui thelich, hervennen. Since I find it hard to refrain from argument, I will leave you two and have a visit with your guards. I will not go beyond earshot." With that oblique warning to the King, Erestor opened the trap and descended, filled with both pride and irritation, but he smiled as he walked away, gladdened indeed that Legolas was strong enough to voice his wishes. _Ah well, mutual love and devotion does not mean we will never disagree._ He did not even realise he was humming his soul-song as he went.

The lilting, melancholy melody made Legolas blush and smile, openly pleased with his conquest. Alive since the First-age, wily Erestor of Gondolin, esteemed statesman and Lord of the noble House of Eärendil, had evaded all efforts to woo and win him. Legolas alone had tamed the randy, roguish councillor; he and he alone had claimed the seneschals' carefully guarded heart. He realised Thranduil was also smiling and blushed redder, looked away.

"I am glad," Thranduil announced as though to counter an unspoken criticism. "It is love such as you deserve and he is right to watch over you. Yet, Erestor does not fully realise the depth of your pain anymore than do I, save that I have caught a glimpse of it in understanding fully the part I played to cause it."

"Aye, it is best to meet fears and enemies head on," Legolas agreed, for this had always been his belief. It was with a small burst of surprise that he considered whether he might have learned this from Thranduil's example.

He shifted on the settee to ease discomfort in his back and side, watching the King watch him, wondering if he saw anything in him that evoked a similar sense of recognition. He sighed, deciding that was too much to expect, and removed his sight from the pensive face to the neat stack of clothing on the low table beside him: Thranduil's latest offering of garments. He fingered the suede leather appreciatively; this was the third such present and the finest yet. "I do not know that I have strength to endure the entire hearing," he said, "but I will come for a time and see what I may." He lifted the tunic to examine the rest of the clothes and uttered a small cry, incredulous and bemused. Resting atop the neatly folded leggings lay a woven circlet of holly berries and yew boughs identical to the one adorning Thranduil's brow at this very moment. His eye flew to it and then to his father's face, brows lifting to observe the defensive and self-conscious expression transforming the King's features. He took up the winter crown. "You would have me wear this?"

"I would have you wear what you please," Thranduil dissembled awkwardly, "but I wanted to make the point. It is your right should you choose to exercise it."

"That is no answer," Legolas challenged, turning the circlet in his hands and noting that all the prickly holly leaves and thorns had been removed, the inner surface of the boughs faced in silk to prevent abrading his forehead. He lifted his gaze to the King's and presented the crown, the motion abrupt and short, an unvoiced censure vaguely tinged with hopeful expectation. "You would have me wear it?"

Thranduil held his son's eyes in the silent seconds that followed, hoping only his genuine remorse showed and nothing of his uneasy trepidation, for as always Legolas' merest glance was as probing as Oropher's and as difficult to endure. "I would have you wear it," he admitted the truth simply, tone subdued, and held himself tense, ready for a barrage of insults and mocking detractions. He still had much to learn of the Tawarwaith's character.

Legolas' chin lifted and his posture realigned in a total expression of rising self-esteem and open appreciation. He gave the briefest dip of his head and the solemnest smile in his repertoire, his best impersonation of Thranduil's haughty air. "Then I shall," he said firmly and offered a faintly less daunting countenance.

"Oh," Thranduil was dumbstruck, having again expected sneering disgust, having imagined the circlet thrown at his face amid expletives and demands to get out. Suddenly he smiled; Legolas was doing just as he'd predicted: giving him the chance to prove he would not revert to previous attitudes and behaviours. "Thank you," his voice finally returned and the words wrought a warmer expression on his son's features.

Thranduil's eyes looked to his hands, stunned to find them gripping his knees so hard it hurt, and removed them, stood from the chair. He cleared his throat and met Legolas' eyes, pleased with the intensity of his regard, revealing just a hint of mirth and gratified approbation. His heart gave a swift and sudden jolt as though it wished to get free of him, the body too confining for the feelings crowding it. Here, now, after all his life searching and hoping for approval and acceptance within his family, after being consistently denied the very thing he required to heal and be whole, he saw that he was to receive this gift from the very person he had rejected and maligned. He swallowed, fighting the urge to go to his son, to touch him, and gave a brisk nod. Thranduil moved to the trap, opened it. "I expect the trial to take all day; come when you will." He ducked through the gap and closed the hatch softly, pretending he did not hear the Tawarwaith's quietly emphatic parting remarks:

"Nasan, Hiren Adar. You will speak the words and place the crown upon my brow with your own hands. Would that she could be there to see."


	116. Chapter 116

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd

###  **An Pennas**

(For the Record)  


#### Part One - Talagan's Fate - 

He stood in the dark of the winter night, a mere impression of life invisible to all but elven eyes, vigilant and calm, guarding the path at the verge of the great valley, the trees like frozen lace around him, frozen and fragile, charred and twisted shapes softened by the thick coat of snow and ice, aglow in eery iridescence under the minimal gleam of Ithil's sheen. Beyond stretched the broad, open plain of Imrad Anduin (Anduin Valley), a white expense unbroken save by a few scrubby trees standing half-buried in the drifts, stranded and forlorn. The solitude and the covering dark lent the valley a stark magnitude far greater than it truly owned while above, the stars swept close to earth, milky with the haze of high gauzy clouds drifting in slow parade like the banners of the dead or the ghosts of ancient warriors trapped forever betwixt home and whatever lay beyond. Talagan shuddered, a violent rattling that coursed through his bones and left him uneasy and filled with sorrow. Countless such turns of duty he'd fulfilled in places foul and fair, but never here at the place where Greenwood began.

_Or ends._

Was he to be witness to that end? Was it to hold within it his death as well?

_All of the others are dead._

Here, on these narrow tracks and winding paths, the life of a sylvan warrior arose and here the battle-weary and grief-worn wound out their service and their days; youth and antiquity paired to safe-guard both and ensure the integrity of the secret entrance. Here, the untested and untried gained experience and confidence; here veterans enjoyed a duty easier in its fulfilment yet as vital to Greenwood as that of warriors in the borderlands. To them fell the task of preparing the next wave of defenders. It was a position of dignity and respect; those chosen were nominated from among the ranks with which they served, but it was also a means for those who no longer possessed the nerve to fight to retire with honour. There were fewer of them, young archers and elder warriors, the numbers dwindling each year, and Talagan wondered how long it would be before the Wood Elves were overrun by their foes and driven out into that vast plain.

_Refugees again._

He remembered the journey from Beleriand, Oropher unerringly leading his people right here, right to this very point. Legend had it that this path was first worn down by the feet of the great mass of elves following the call to Valinor in the Elder Days before the sun and moon were made. Oropher had not been alive then, yet some in their caravan had and they recalled the way, noting how the forest had encroached upon the valley, how the trees loomed so large and lush. It was then, scanning this daunting realm from the outside, that Talagan first marked the combination of fresh-eyed young archers and sorrow-sunken old faces filled with defiance, the glance from the latter promising death, the former pleading in silent ferocity not to be made to deliver it.

The tradition had served the woodland folk well and none had seen need to change it until the recent attack from the distant mountains. Now active, frontline warriors stood watch at the gate in turns, but Talagan could not shake the sensation that he was here to begin the long retreat that led either to Mithlond or immersion amid the trees, his spirit too weak and his body too drained to clasp one to another anymore.

_Fading._ Immediately the concept was rejected and forced from conscious consideration; there were better ways for a warrior to die.

He crouched low and inhaled deeply, exhaled the warm steam slowly through his hands to hide the tell-tale puff of wispy white breath, and stood again, stretching up onto his toes and holding the pose to relieve a cramp, dropped noiselessly to his heels. Normally, he preferred the night watch, enjoying the quiet serenity and the opportunity to indulge without interruption those internal conversations of heart and soul, a means to evaluate actions and events and try to make sense out of them, to make it all worthwhile somehow, but not this night. He did not like the feel of the place. An unaccountable sense of being vulnerable and exposed ebbed and flowed through his soul despite the surrounding cover, and his mental dialogue was mired in regret, a tug-of-war between condemning guilt and rationalisations fuelled by denial, the emotions equally matched and thus perpetually at odds. He was not the sort to have those kinds of reflections, viewing errors and failures as valuable lessons, teachers not to be ignored. No, Talagan knew his strengths and accepted his limitations without boasting, apologies, or excuses. This departure from familiar terrain into the uncharted depths of motive and intent was alien and disturbing.

He shook himself, determined to cast off such morose introspection. It was useless anyway; the past could not be changed and the future was taking care of itself. This thought coalesced as a piercing spike of hurt and resentment for that was the crux of it. He could not see himself in this self-assembling new Greenwood. Before, always, he had perceived his own hand in whatever might unfold; his actions, his strengths bent upon bringing the will of his King into reality. Theirs had been the same vision, he and Thranduil sharing one dream to be realised through careful, diligent, and often violent action. He could not remember a day when they had not faced the world side by side, brothers in arms and in spirit, sharing not a drop of blood between them but a sameness of soul that was uncanny. He believed each knew the thoughts of the other, a gift rare enough to be legendary; he believed their ideas flowed between them effortlessly. It was not so now; Thranduil had shut him out.

For centuries unnumbered he had served as the only true friend on whom Thranduil could depend without question. He was family in a way even blood kin could not be, for they had defied death together and defeated it too many times to recall them all without effort. Talagan knew all the darkest secrets of the Sindarin King and had participated fully both in their execution and the efforts to safeguard these harrowing truths. Each understood the other and accepted everything, good and bad. Yet, now Thranduil was changed and had no desire to remember the things he had done to secure the realm he ruled. He had a family again, broken but healing, and a son worthy to stand at his side. Talagan's voice had condemned that son; it was not something either Thranduil or Legolas would be likely to forget.

He stooped to breathe as before and stayed low, counting out his respiration and the seconds used both in retaining the air and releasing it, tempted to stay there, hidden and lost. Even if Thranduil forgave him, there was no going on. Even if the King opposed it, the Council might charge him; he'd be tried for his part in Legolas' downfall, stripped of his commission and rank in front of all the warriors he had commanded. _Judgement!_ It was too humiliating to imagine and he swiftly shifted the emotion to anger, stood abruptly, glared out into the snow-shrouded plains.

What else could he have done? It had seemed perfect, an acceptable way to finally rid his King of the bastard forced on him by Ningloriel. The corpsman did not deny the charge of negligent incompetence when his words would have prevented Talagan's battlefield condemnation. Was it his fault the humans took the disgraced archer away? How could he imagine Legolas would fail to complete the ritual and end his own life? The Judgement could not be stopped under this set of circumstances. The consequences had been distressing, but everything involving Legolas had always been intensely distasteful and burdensome. It was he who'd had the task of administering Thranduil's punishments, reduced to beating an adolescent child. It was beneath him, the job of nannies or tutors. He remembered taking out his anger over this demeaning chore on Legolas; the beatings were far worse than they'd needed to be. Somehow, interaction with the misbegotten prince brought forth all that was dark and ugly within him and he'd blamed that on the youth, too. The failure at Erebor had come as a relief; whatever its cause, the Judgement had held within it the hope that they would both be rid of him, finally and forever.

The years dragged on and Legolas did not die. Thranduil pretended not to notice his presence; Talagan did the same, ignoring the perverted actions taking place in the storeroom and their negative impact on the warriors. _It was the old talan-builder who forced us to see._ Then Legolas disappeared utterly into the southern woods, the most dangerous and deadly region of the forest; surely there he would perish, alone and forgotten, but it had not been so. Instead, word of his deeds filtered back to the stronghold and his courage inspired the warriors, sylvan and Sindarin alike. _Mithrandir's interfering influence._ Yet, even Talagan could not deny his admiration for the ingenuity and tenacity of the wild elf. When interlopers allowed them to see what real enemies looked like, Legolas was no longer an embarrassment from which to shrink, but the Tawarwaith of prophesy.

The onerous burden of Judgement shifted onto the young shoulders of Lindalcon and the sacrifice was at last completed, but through such rending horrors that it was difficult to accept. Difficult for Talagan, Sindarin in blood and beliefs, and so must be just as bitter for his King. _Why is it so much worse that Lindalcon was sacrificed instead of Legolas?_ He knew the answer: Legolas was stained with the taint of illegitimacy and abhorrent sexual desires; Lindalcon was pure and innocent. Talagan sighed out another carefully measure breath; now here he was, pondering why it all seemed to be following after him like a hound on the hunt, all that dark and ugly stuff.

"Gwador, you must be troubled at heart to let me catch you dreaming."

The words were couched in quiet tones to match the stillness of the night, glazed with affectionate rebuke, the voice rich with the depth of their long association. Talagan raised his head to find Thranduil watching him from the boughs above, a half-smile softening those firm, grim lips. His eyes glimmered green from the depths of his hooded cloak and Talagan caught his breath; it was not entirely a friendly look. "Thranduil."

"I was looking for you." The King leaped to the ground and joined his comrade. "The roster showed you here, why? Surely this work can be delegated to other soldiers."

"I must take my turn like the rest," Talagan bowed, flustered and uncomfortable. There was that which he would say, but the timing was wrong. He straightened to find a narrow and piercing stare evaluating him carefully and came automatically to attention.

"Aye," Thranduil nodded, understanding fully what underlay this half-truth. "Out here you can be certain; under the mountain my brothers lie in wait for you."

"As you say," Talagan scowled and, because this was Thranduil, he spoke what he knew must be evident. "All of the others are dead, every one of them save you and I. Even Meril." It did not displease him to see the sudden jolt that rocked Thranduil at the speaking of her name. "You are exempt for the childrens' sakes, though your suffering may lead you to wish it could be otherwise."

"As always, I can count on you to be blunt, Talagan, but your words are sharp this night," Thranduil hissed in strained tones. His remark went unacknowledged.

"You will be spared yet no others will escape Tawar's retribution and I am no fool; my time is at hand. Even so, I would not have my doom announced by your voice in their words. Let me find my own way, Thranduil."

"It need not be so. There are the Noldorin Lords," reminded Thranduil not unkindly. "If they may be spared then why not my oldest and dearest friend?" He reached out and settled his hand heavily upon Talagan's shoulder. "You are all I have of family, mellon vrûn."

"Nay, it isn't so. I've become a burden, an unpleasant reminder of this ugly past. You've a grown son to stand at your right hand, an ally and a counsellor, a mighty warrior, the prophesied saviour of Tawar. It can never be again as it has been for me." Speaking the truth tasted bitter and his mouth felt dry and clammy at the same time, like he might choke on his own spit. He swallowed with effort and blurted out the rest. "I truly have no other but you."

"I am still here, as you have remarked, and will continue to be." Thranduil squeezed the rigid muscle beneath his palm. "You have not retreated from my side before, even if the distance between us was at times somewhat greater than was pleasing to you. Even when I found love and forgot you, even then you were never beyond the call of my voice. Can you not overcome these adjustments and remain my trusted friend? Legolas will not demand an accounting of you."

"I am your friend, now and always," Talagan managed, the syllables full with sulky antipathy.

"Then what?"

"I know the bargain you have made," Talagan said quietly and paused, noting the subtle tension that altered his friend's stance.

"Go on," Thranduil bade him, resigned to hear it all.

"The gates will come down; your brothers will be free. Where will they go? Into the trees? Nay, they long to be reunited with their families, with their Adar. To Mandos? Someday, but not for many years yet; not until Taurant is fully grown. I know the bargain you have made with them, Thranduil. You I will always honour and love, but it will not really be you any longer and already I grieve for your passing. Already I feel my soul yearning to escape, to go and follow my wife-mate to Mandos."

"It need not be like that. I will remain and become better because of it," insisted the King. "Can you not see this? Together we can control the grief and rage, my brothers and I, and I will be the King our father would have wished and our people demand. I will be the father my children need, even for Legolas. Is that so repugnant a transformation?" The body beneath his hand shuddered in revulsion and withdrew from him.

"Perhaps my devotion is not so encompassing as I have long thought," muttered Talagan, "for it cannot accommodate them also." He flinched as the King fixed him with an incredulous eye. "Let me go," he demanded, low and tormented. "Let me find my own way to amend my misdeeds. We both know they will demand redress whether you, Legolas, or the people of Greenwood want it. If there is any friendship remaining between us, grant me this mercy and spare me the shame of Judgement." He dropped to his knees before his King, head bowed and heavy-hearted, waiting to have his doom pronounced, thinking it fitting that it should be here where a sylvan warrior's service commenced and concluded.

Thranduil stared down at him in sorrow, for he had not wanted this. Knowing in his heart it would come to pass, still he had hoped to turn fate in a new direction and salvage his gwador. He recalled the day they had made their pact, swearing in solemn words and youthful voices to always stand side by side and never desert one another, no matter what evil sprang upon them. That day, Talagan had committed the entirety of his life to Thranduil's service. Children though they were, Thranduil knew it and had silently vowed never to make light of the gift. Through all the Ages of time and turmoil they had shared, Talagan had remained true. He shook his head sadly.

"Must I lose you now? The night is ending, Talagan; a new day dawns for Greenwood and for us, brothers and more than brothers."

"Aye," Talagan said, looking up and finding he could smile now, hearing the genuine sorrow in Thranduil's voice. "A new day for you and for Greenwood. Yet I will remain loyal and serve you as long as I may. Do not mourn when my passing comes to be; I will make it a good death, a clean death."

They remained in silent contemplation sharing this ultimate realisation of Talagan's vow, each perusing the memories coursing through the other's heart, and then Thranduil sighed, his breath a pure white vapour that obscured his old friend's face for an instant.

"Nasan," he whispered and laid his hand upon Talagan's head. "You did what you thought right, misguided by my errors and your own true heart. No guilt do I assign you for it is all my own. I leave you free to choose how you will serve the Tawarwaith, whatever decision you make." He removed his hand and Talagan stood, clearly relieved of the burden his soul had borne these many days since Legolas' captivity, though in fact he had just shouldered not only his guilt but his King's. "Will you take his place tending the traps and patrolling the southern region of the woods?"

"Nay," his old friend announced, dismayed to think this was what Thranduil expected of him. "I have put together a new duty and will head it myself. Lindalcon's grave must be guarded until the earth thaws in spring; no Orc or wild beast will be permitted to desecrate the remains. When the final rites are completed and he is no longer in that place, then I will undertake a thing I have long wished and I hope will please you."

"What is that?" If Thranduil was surprised by the degree of thought and planning Talagan had invested, he did not show it.

"The Central Mountains were once ours; the caverns majestic and beautiful as Yavanna designed them and Aulë her spouse carved them."

"Talagan!" Thranduil could not help but cry out, for this was suicide. It was one thing to face the dangers of constant combat and fall to that violence, another to seek such a death. It was a distinctly sylvan trait. "I do not care about those mountain halls and you must know Legolas will never enter them again." His outburst was ignored.

"I will undertake to reclaim those caves and cleanse from them the dank and evil residue left by the Orcs and their masters. Legolas may never go there, but Taurant might wish it, and in any case it is a bad business having the enemy entrenched so near to hand."

"Ai, mellon vrûn," Thranduil said. "Even Legolas had a finite term of Judgement. Your sentence need not be a death sentence."

"No," Talagan was shaking his head. "We both know this is not the case, for Legolas was innocent of any wrong and I am not." He paused, considering the way of things a moment, then grimaced, shrugged, and continued. "There is one of those renegade warriors left, one of those who took such delight in watching Rochendil's cruelty. The others died in the battle or remain in Lorien by the will of the Lady, according to Haldir, granted clemency by virtue of true repentance and enlightenment. I have made certain this last offender will also serve this final duty. We will all be gone then and you can start anew with Legolas, with the children, with Greenwood. None of us will remain to remind you of unpleasant events."

Thranduil did not deny the understated charge. There was truth here, too, for he was not displeased that all of the culprits in Legolas' downfall should be punished, even Talagan. Nor was he displeased to have the responsibility to do so removed from him. Yet he subdued a strong surge of sorrow and fear for the loss of his dearest friend and wondered if the Valar would permit his escape from a similar fate. The next instant he banished those worries; Talagan, always an able advisor, was right in this also: for the sake of the children, for the sake of Greenwood and her people, Thranduil would be spared.

"Nasan," he said again and dipped his head, half-bowing with hand over heart. "You honour me and our long friendship; I will not forget to honour such loyalty."

"My thanks, Gwadoren. I leave with the dawn. We will see one another once more before I begin my final duty, in Echuir when it is time to exalt Lindalcon. Then, when my service to Tawar is complete word will come to you from a source you know and trust. I beg you will not seek my remains, for that would not be an easy thing for you to see. Let me know you will remember me as I stand here now."

Thranduil nodded, deeply moved by the depth of his friend's determination and the unfailing habit of protecting his King foremost from any hurt, whether of heart or body.

"One final favour I ask, Gwadoren."

"It is already granted; speak."

"When you melt the gates and the key, you must also render down the armour you crafted for me and set those blighted souls free. No more do they owe me penance for my wife's death; they have my forgiveness and my regret also. Let them go where they may, even if that is to demand retribution from me in the Halls of Mandos."

"It shall be done as you say."

They smiled on one another and clasped arms in warrior's salute, automatically drawing close to share a final embrace. Parting, they moved forward to the very brink of the realm and stood side by side within the arch of silent, snow-clad trees gazing across white fields brightening under dawn's approach. Winter kept its stern and silent vigil, no insolent noise of bird or beast allowed. Abruptly Talagan turned and whistled the change of the guard then left Thranduil, striding swiftly down the elf path to engage his fate.


	117. Chapter 117

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd  


###  **An Pennas**

(For the Record)  


#### Gonodial-en-Elrond - Elrond's Reckoning - 

"Let the accused come forth."

The formal words, edged in disdain, cast in cold rage restrained, issued from the Wood Elves' King and echoed in clear, ringing majesty through Thamas uin Aran. (Great Hall of the King) They bounced off the stony walls and battered the tips of ancient, desiccated stalactites hanging from the ceiling, the jagged points glinting ruddy in the torchlight like the bloody fangs of some immense beast. The sounds amplified and changed pitch; the proclamation criss-crossed the throne room now in three voices, now four, now two, and then none, devolving to an inchoate droning hum, vibrations of menace and righteous condemnation. As it faded into nothing, a sharp and vicious silence arose, predatory, filled with hunting eyes and seeking ears and quivering nostrils, rising in magnitude like the hackles of a wolf. Through it he must pass, and Elrond's nerve failed him there on the threshold of the great hall.

Blinking and squinting, he peered into the yellow glare, unused to such radiant illumination after so many weeks ensconced in the bowels of the stronghold. It was a spectacular place, simultaneously lavish and austere. All but barren of furnishings, its beauty lodged in the structure and the stone embellished with gold leaf, mithril inlay and faceted jewels, amid elaborate carvings and the ornate cut-work bannisters of double-tiered galleries that limned three quarters of the room. People were crammed into them and packed all the way to the the walls facing the dais, leaving barely two metres of clear space before it. The platform was barely visible from this angle, though its presence was heavily felt. Elrond imagined he was eager for this day, glad to re-enter the living world above ground after having imposed isolation upon his tainted soul, but discovered this to be a lie. He had come to prefer his tiny cell and its solemn solitude; he was safe and protected there, left alone with only the reproof of his thoughts for company. The place on the other side of the arch was less a theatre of litigation and governance than a great cage or trap, nay, a stage on which to exhibit his shame surrounded by eyes straining to pierce him, hearts burning with hatred and mouths poised to unleash it in a volley of epithets and spittle.

It was this raw, undulating anger he'd expected to encounter upon entering the Woodland realm, but it hadn't happened that way. That would have been easier, for he'd had his sons beside him and Haldir and a full troop of warriors ordered to defend him. Now he must go, naked and alone, into this arena and try to placate a multitudinous beast, a single entity with innumerable arms to strike and teeth to gnash. He was not naked, truly, but dressed in the finest garments he had brought, thinking when he'd packed them to cow these lesser people with the grandeur of his renown. He was not alone, either, but flanked right and left with the very guards who had met him that first day. They were old friends now, the proof of it in the pity with which they treated him; careful, cautious, dignified pity such as one used when handling an aged and infirm mortal or an elf disfigured and maimed. There was nothing one could do to remedy such things and thus pity was the balm they offered. He knew them by name; they still called him Lord. They did so now.

"It is time, Hiren."

"Yes," he sighed and gave each a grim smile. "Just a moment more, mellyn; it will be better if he must call for me twice."

"Nay, Hiren, the people will think you fear justice."

"Aye, it is fitting," Elrond nodded. His guards shared uncomprehending glances and shrugged, but granted his request.

He pretended internal amusement over how much he dreaded this confrontation. He had convinced himself that he was prepared to own his failings and accept any foul derogation, any punishment to prove it. Instead he was scared, suffused with that fright of the helpless and vulnerable child, remembering only now that fear resided in the body beyond the rational mind's ability to stem. He must not permit it to master him. He had Thranduil's promise; he need only endure these next two days and then he could go home again. 

_Home. Imladris._

Images of the fair valley inundated his thoughts and induced a powerful surge of longing that spurred his pulse and pinched his heart. He hadn't thought of Imladris in weeks, at home in his loneliness, free to search his innermost heart and root out every last thread of malice and envy and guilt and martyred discontent that hid there. Each little bit extracted was painstakingly dissected, all its clever rationalisations and beguiling falsehoods exposed, revealed and destroyed. Home had become solitude and the dim illumination of lantern light, but he had not forgot after all what the wind felt like or the sound of running water or the warmth of the sun upon his face. Suddenly, he was quite ready, yet now had to wait upon that second summons and the delay chaffed his very soul. Imladris! On the other side of this nightmare was a bright and merry refuge waiting for him. His people would forgive him; they must.

"Let the Lord of Imladris come forth and face his accusers!"

This time the command was boiling with exaggerated, indignant impatience. No sooner was it voiced than an ominous, grumbling discord arose to supplant the booming echo. The folk were no more patient than their King or their prisoner. Elrond smiled to hide the chill the murmuring menace of the throng gave him, but his faithful gaolers were not fooled.

"Take heart, mighty Lord, you were not chosen to lead your people without good cause."

"Aye, our Lord and King is no more perfect than you, only he's never let himself be caught."

"Yet we do love him despite his hidden crimes, for he fights those who would destroy us."

"We sylvan folk understand what Shadow can do and will not hold a grudge against you once this matter is settled."

"No more will your own people reject you, but welcome you in wonder, remarking on the depth of your humility and wisdom."

Elrond's brows rose skyward, displeased by the comparison to Thranduil but unable to deny it, surprised to hear this reference to the corruption inherent in those who rule and the fickle morals of the governed. Or were they merely jesting at his expense? The guards preceded him into the hall and no sooner had his feet trod upon the ornately tiled floor than a contentious outcry of reprisals and curses descend upon him. The woodland folk erupted in a writhing mass of arms and faces contorted with pure enmity, invisible barriers of pride and opprobrium all that kept them from mauling the prisoner. They named him everything ugly and evil their minds could seize upon, venom and disgust in their voices, until gradually two words gained supremacy and assaulted him with vigour. Betrayer, they named him, and Defiler. Elrond lowered his head in shame for so he would be remembered here, no matter his kindly guards' assurances. 

"Gwarth! Gwathron!" (Betrayer! Defiler!)

The shouts rang out with the might of a thousand voices transformed into the single roar of this primitive brute, its injured innocence the panoply that made it bold, shouting not only for the Tawarwaith's sake but its own. Denied venting its wrath upon Meril or Rochendil, the crowd pummelled the Noldorin Lord with all the horror and dread the Shadow imposed upon them, the true culprit manifest at last, a living and visible and conquerable demon to excise from their hearts and their lands. The volume rose higher and the resounding chant grew to deafening proportions as the whole mountain rang with it; the gilded fangs in the ceiling trembled; the tapestries quivered in the wind of the noise. 

"Gwarth! Gwathron!" (Betrayer! Defiler!)

They began stamping their feet, a pounding throb that mimicked the seething madness of their inflamed hearts, their rage escalating like wild fire, devouring, energetic hunger focused on Elrond. He fought the urge to hurry, fought the rising spike of fear that set his pulse racing, and dared not look upon them. He mustn't meet a single rabid eye, convinced they would lose all reason and rip him apart if he did. He crowded up close against the guards, sight fixed to the polished surface passing beneath his feet, praying, praying fervently to reach the appointed spot that he might prostrate himself before their King and beg mercy. He forgot that his sons were here amid this crowd, forgot the presence of Celeborn the Wise, forgot the Istari in their humble garb and holy mien, forgot Legolas and Erestor. He was reduced to the base response of the hunted as the hunter closes on the kill, desperate to reach a safe haven, a hole in which to hide. Suddenly there it was: the squared toes of polished boots on a low marble step, the subtle sway of the hem of a royal cape; Elrond cast himself down before Thranduil.

Instantly the beast fell silent and listened.

"Gohenach nín! Gohenach nín! Annach nín baul a brenio, a gohenach nín!" (Forgive me! Forgive me! Give me any punishment to bear, only forgive me!)

A long pause followed then, unquiet and tense, the woodland people absorbing the fallen Lord's ignominious defeat and complete mortification, gloating over his effort to hide his cringing terror, inhaling the rich scent of it. It was a moment to relish and Thranduil permitted it. As for himself, he felt nothing but disgust.

He looked down upon Elrond from the dais near his throne, its splendour wrought not in majestic proportions, as the room that housed it, but in the intricate design with which the white marble was carved. The four legs were fluted and fit firmly against the floor with the spreading elegance of rooted trees, supporting a broad, smooth seat from which symmetrical, gracefully interwoven branches reached for and met one another at the midpoint of each face of the square. The arms seemed to grow from the underside of the seat and swept up and then curved outward, looping again to join to the back of the chair. This support was not overly high, reaching the area of the scapulas, and was solid but not plain. On it was carved the seal of Oropher's House, the mighty oak inlaid in gold and mithril and pale jade, and above this the stars as they appeared on Thranduil's conception, and these were cut of diamond and spinel. It was fitted with plush green velvet pillows and beside it stood an identical chair, save that the scatter of stars upon it was not the same and it was thickly padded with cushions and draped in furs. Beneath it hid a matching footstool. The Woodland King stood beside this secondary seat, his hand upon its back, and watched his enemy abase himself.

Somehow, this was not as satisfying as he'd imagined it would be. Somehow, this seemed a needless distraction from important matters that pressed upon his mind. Conversely, he suddenly felt he was being too lenient, that the sentence he'd chosen was too brief in both execution and consequences. It was all a farce; he had agreed to terminate the trial quickly and see the punishment proceed the following dawn, after which Elrond would be free to go. Thranduil scowled; he had bargained with Lorien and Imladris and concluded the negotiation poorly, Greenwood on the bottom again. Elrond would return to his hidden haven and recover his former glory. What was this one moment of dishonour against Ages of reverence and renown? What had he done to earn such accolades? Celeborn had convinced Thranduil; there was no price high enough to purchase a new history for Legolas or for him. There was only the future and for that to blossom and bear fruit this interloper needed to be removed. He knew this was right, yet it nagged at his mind that Legolas had not been included in their conference. His frown darkened

_Let me be done with this creature._

"Forgiveness you ask of me?" Thranduil asked quietly and the words raised a sudden sigh from the throng. The sylvans calmed; confident their King would make the foreign Lord repent.

"I do not ask, Aran Arth (Noble King), but beg," Elrond pleaded, the sentence muffled in weak submission.

"Why should we grant you such a boon?" It was not what he'd planned to say but the thought got free and lingered in unsettling overtones that circled the room. Everyone waited to hear an answer, every eye trained upon the prostrate form, but the reply did not issue from Elrond.

"There is no valid reason to exhibit clemency," Elladan stepped forward from his place beside Elrohir, but did not go to his father. "The House of the Beeches has been injured and the realm of the Wood Elves trespassed. I cannot undo this wrong, for it is monstrous, as all here know. Yet, I offer my blade in service to Greenwood and the woodland folk, be they Sindar, sylvan, or mortal for as long as the life of Legolas, your elder son, has thus far lived, or for whatever term you deem right." Elladan drew his sword and held it hilt out-facing as he dropped to one knee before Thranduil.

This, also, was unplanned and Elrond reacted automatically, raising his head to shout his objection. "Nay! Elladan, nay!" His paternal dismay did not set well with the people and they murmured against him, but their discontent was squelched as Elrohir came forward to state his own solution.

"Muindor, you have done enough. Let this part be mine." He knelt beside Elladan and likewise offered his sword to the King. "I make the same claim and the same oath of service, only do not ask my brother to do this."

"Ai, Elrohir," complained Elladan sourly but with much love behind it.

"Your word was given," Elrond pleaded, now on his knees also, but Thranduil was not looking at him. 

Pleased by the brothers' earnest desire to do right, the King raised a hand to forestall the crowd's outcry over Elrond's remark. "Restrain yourselves! See you, the House of the Mariner is not lost as long as there are Lords so noble to defend it." His praise inspired his peoples' and their discontent ebbed. Then Thranduil studied the identical faces peering up at him. "Given your noble heart, Elladan, I should have guessed you would desire this. As you are Twins, I should have expected Elrohir to join you." 

He took the elder brother's sword and inspected it with interest, knowing few had ever held it save Elladan, and tested its weight and the way the strength of his arm flowed easily into it. He gave a quick demonstration of his skill with a blade, a parry and thrust and a sweeping cross-body slice that would have disemboweled an Orc, and in this final flourish neatly nicked Elladan's cheek, a shallow cut such as he had suffered in their brief tussle a few days past. The crowd gasped and Elrond cried in horror, but Elladan remained unflinching and Elrohir likewise held still. Thranduil nodded his approbation. 

"Rise, Elladan of Imladris. Your service is accepted, but the term is too lengthy. Instead, let the time be seventeen years, and hope with me that at its end I may have regained what was taken."

Elladan bowed formally and received his sword, sheathing it with a quick glance at his brother before resuming his place. Now Elrohir and Elrond remained before Thranduil and each waited in suspense to know what he would rule. He shrugged and took the younger Twin's sword, using it to tap him lightly on the scull, grinning as Elrond winced and Elladan inhaled an audible breath. "I cannot be the one to part you; join him." To this Elrohir returned a merry grin and stood, bowing with less formality and more genuine appreciation; he liked this new Thranduil. He sheathed his blade and returned to Elladan's side, reaching out to clasp his shoulder and wipe away the trickle of blood.

"Well done," Celeborn praised, indicating both his grandsons and his distant cousin in his insightful gaze. 

Through it all Elrond sat on his heels filled with pride over what had transpired, not daring to say what his heart would fain express, and could only gaze upon his sons, his bold and incorruptible sons. Yes, here was the true character at the core of his lineage, the very highest of ideals harboured safely within them, Lords of Imladris in every sense of that word, Lords among Elf-kind and the moulders of the future yet to be. Such as they were now, once he had been, and the realisation was a burden both onerous and easy to bear. He had never given in to Darkness; he had fought it diligently in every place he found it, and only now did he see that it had been hiding the worst of its malignant power behind the severest wounds the heart can take, right inside him. He drew a harsh breath; Elladan's eye met his and he saw it there, too, manifest in the pain and rage his son harboured for loss of first his mother and now the father he had only respected all these many years of his life. "No!" he cried out, an involuntary plea of desperation, a hand flying out as though to pull that shadow out of Elladan's soul; his blindness must not be inherited. Then he had to look away, seared by the repugnance shining in Elladan's countenance; he did not understand.

"Your sons do honour to their House; such actions aught not be maligned or hindered," intoned Mithrandir, unconvinced of Elrond's contrition. To him, it seemed he was merely reacting to his own misfortune, as had been the case so often before.

"Nay, nay," Elrond denied and agreed simultaneously, for he approved their valour and had not meant to deter them, dropping his hand and lowering his forehead to the floor. Thus, he missed Elrohir's spontaneous motion to go to him and Elladan's hasty grab that stopped it.

"Eglerio Gwanur Hîr-en-Imladris!" (Praise the Twin Lords of Imladris!)

"Av'leinio hain!" (Do not hinder them!)

"Hyn leithenner Tawarwaith nín!" (They freed our Tawarwaith!)

"Eglerio hain!" (Praise them!)

"Av'leinio în cairth eryd!" (Do not hinder their noble deeds!) 

These admonishing praises shot out from sundry spots within the hall, crossing one another verily over the defamed Lord's head, until Thranduil raised his hand to command silence.

"Aye, they are worthy of our praise and we are honoured by their service," the King attested solemnly. "It is strange indeed to find outlanders better able to comprehend the needs of justice than any among our own." He scanned the faces ringing the court, noting their guilty expressions and downcast eyes. "They perceived wrong and did not hide from it or pass blame on to another, but came here with all speed to own it and make it right. Here is the example we must follow. Henceforth, we will move more carefully through the confusing currents stirred by Shadow and temper any hasty response by recalling how horribly we have failed and what those errors have cost."

"Ai, Lindalcon!" someone cried and a lowing susurration of mournful lamentation hissed through the room at the speaking of his name.

"Aye, revered he shall be and hallowed is his sacrifice," intoned Thranduil, well versed on the ritual response. A time of respectful silence passed and then he drew breath and focused again on the elven Lord. "Elrond son of Eärendil, son of Tuor, son of Huor, son of Galdor, son of Hador, son of Hathol, son of Magor, son of Malach, son of Marach of the Fathers of Men, you have asked forgiveness of this court. Yet what must we forgive? What are the sins of which you need to be shriven?"

At his feet, Elrond jerked, an involuntary response to the naming of his mortal ancestors, and groaned, raising and lowering his head, pressing his brow to the tiled floor as he spoke. "For trespassing the sovereign bounds of Greenwood secretly and with intent to harm her people." He spoke loudly and clearly, not wishing to be commanded to utter the hated phrase a second time. 

"Úgarth ceredir! Ethir!" (Trespasser! Spy!) The people named him with guilty guile.

"What cause had you to enact this invasion across our borders?" demanded Thranduil. "Has any citizen of Greenwood done such to the realm of the Noldor in Imladris?"

"Nay, Aran Thranduil," Elrond admitted, tense and expectant, knowing all that must follow. "No citizen of Greenwood has ever sought to injure my nation or my people or myself."

"Again I ask you, Elrond son of Elwing daughter of Nimloth daughter of Galadhil son of Galadhon son of Elmo, Lord of the Teleri Calaquendi and King over my people in Aman, what motive inspired this unwarranted act of aggression?"

Another shudder assaulted the debased Lord of Imladris to hear his noble Telerin kin so announced, people of the same race that settled Greenwood, and he could feel the elevation in emotion spreading through the audience. "The motive was vindictive and selfish. My only purpose was to bring ruin to Legolas, son of Thranduil and Ningloriel, she whom I loved that spurned me."

"Treachery! He admits it so easily!"

"She sailed for grieving, not for spite!"

"Punish such hubris!"

It took a little while for this enmity to be vented and Thranduil did not intervene, for the sylvans had need to express their outrage. Not a one could be found who would place any blame on the absent Queen now, whatever their private judgement of her morals might be. No more would the King remind them of it. She was a bereft mother lost to them through grieving, forced to sail or fade in the face of her son's prolonged and undeserved death sentence. Always she had defended his paternity and fought her husband to restore his rights. She had become a tragic heroine in the compelling saga.

"Ruin for the child of she whom you loved?" the King repeated, booming voice incensed and mocking. "How can you claim to love her, my wife and mate, when you were already wedded?" It was lost on none that Celebrian's sons were present and that Celeborn was Elrond's law-father; none wished to name the Lady Celebrian in this ugly scene. Neither she nor her sons nor her father had done harm to Greenwood. All was quiet as Elrond struggled to answer the query without debasing her life, yet he was required to acknowledge the insult and shame he had given her.

"I was wedded to a noble and loving mate; love I did not deserve. She knew of my inconstant heart and bore the pain it gave without so much as a sigh. I met them both in Lorien and both I loved, unable to relinquish one to honour the other. I wronged them both."

"Glib and insincere these affronts fall from your lips!" charged Thranduil, dissatisfied. "Elrond son of Elwing daughter of Dior son of Luthien the child of Melian the Maia, Blessed among the Valar in Aman, what meaning can this word love have to you?"

"Love always has two meanings," Elrond choked out, mouth dry as ash, mortified to admit his narcism in the wake of his illustrious pedigree. "There is the meaning of how one expresses love for another person and the sense of what it means to be loved by another. I confess; I have only concentrated on the latter definition through all my long life."

"Fool!" someone called out. "How came you to be thought wise?"

"How one loves, this is the essence of one's character."

"I agree with my people," Thranduil said softly, his voice suddenly lowered and cast in tones of remorseful sorrow. "In this respect I have also failed. I did not love my own child, instead reviling him and denouncing him. Tell me, Elrond son of Eärendil son of Idril daughter of Turgon son of Fingolfin son of Indis the daughter of Ingwë High King of the Vanyar and Finwë High King of the Noldor, what cause would motivate me to reject my elder son, Legolas?"

Now this had never been publicly announced before, though rumour and gossip had long ago spread the tale that Thranduil believed Elrond was Legolas' sire. In the silence that followed respiration ceased and all ears strained to catch every nuance of the impending answer. The elven Lord remained slumped against the floor, motionless and quiet as he had been instructed, and suddenly Thranduil's toe shot out and shoved him sprawling to his side.

"Get up!" he roared. "Stand and face me, the father you robbed, the husband you cuckolded. Stand upright, noble Lord, and tell them why I believed Legolas was yours!" Here Thranduil reached into his tunic and withdrew two objects, one an old and much creased parchment, the other a pale green handkerchief, stained and crumpled. He threw them atop Elrond and pointed down at him. "Read it!" he bellowed.

Elrond got to his feet, clutching the cloth and the missive, red-faced and ill, fearing he would vomit before he could obey. He mastered the urge and drew a shaky breath, dared a glance at the King ere he turned to address the crowd. Better to look upon them than the aghast expressions of his children and the bloodless, stricken visage of Celeborn. With shaking fingers he unfolded the parchment, explaining as he did so, his voice flat and clinical: "This letter and the silken scarf, which belonged to Ningloriel, were sent here by me. They were intended to arrive approximately at the time of Legolas' birth. The fabric is soiled with the seminal fluids and the secretions particular to the female during intercourse; they are Ningloriel's and mine respectively." He blocked out the exclamations of shocked disgust and continued. 

"The letter reads: 'Suilad Thranduil Oropherion, King of Greenwood, and felicitations on the birth of Ningloriel's child, who will be your heir. I recall her happiness over the conception of a son when last we were both in Lorien, a protracted holiday for her, I believe, which ended only a little more than a year ago. How proud you must be over the expectation of this child! I rejoice as I did when my sons were born and look forward to the day when I may meet this prince of the Woodland Realm. Enclosed is a token you may find of interest regarding Ningloriel and her offspring.' It is not signed, but the handwriting is mine and I admit that I did this hideous thing."

There was no outcry, no time to summon one, for immediately Thranduil stepped from the dais and marched to his enemy, stood glowering at Elrond, bitter fury and absolute bewilderment plain within his emerald eyes. "Why?" he demanded. "Why did you do such a thing? What wrong did I do to you?"

"None," Elrond replied bluntly and held the King's gaze. "Nothing direct or overt."

"What does that mean?" Thranduil wanted a truthful answer, needed a means to comprehend why he had been so basely manipulated. "What created such hate in your heart that you would punish my innocent son? For he is mine, Legolas is, and all here know it. Do you dare claim him as that letter implies?"

"No," Elrond answered. "He is not my son. She was careful, wanting a prince for the sylvan people and not a bastard from Imladris. She refused to lie with me during that stay in Lorien; that is the truth. I knew when she left me she was going back to you to give you this son and heir, a promise made but also a real desire in her heart. She wanted her people to have a claim upon the throne of their own lands. And it angered me that she would not bear my child, for it meant she did not love me. Out of perverse jealousy I sought to take from you the child I deemed should be mine." 

A heavy sigh exhaled through the crowd to have this quandary finally laid to rest; their Tawarwaith wholly theirs. Thranduil, too, seemed more at ease and nodded coldly at his enemy.

"Go on. There is more behind this tale and you will tell it, since we were the chosen victims of your enmity," he said.

"Long before this," Elrond continued in halting syllables, "when first we met, before she became your Queen, she asked me to be her mate, to come here and live with her and rescue her people from the Shadow. This was after the Last Alliance and Greenwood's people were grieving; the kingdom of Oropher struggling to stand. She wanted the strength of Vilya to serve her people and deemed it likely I could easily supplant you, sunk low in grief as you were. To this day, I do not know how she had knowledge of the Ring I bear. Yet, I declined and chose another I deemed more appropriate for a great Noldorin Lord, the High King in all but words. So I took fair Celebrian to wife and Ningloriel I had on my own terms."

There came during this recitation a muffled and inarticulate exclamation of distress from the Lord of Lorien and a soft ruffling of robes as his grandsons closed round him in support, but their pain was a secondary drama inadequate to distract the rapt audience from the principal characters.

"Yet what sprang between us was not so easily termed mere prurience and I deem it was love, of a kind." Elrond paused, realising he must be careful not to make her the scapegoat for his failings. She was not here to speak of what lay in her heart and so he must leave the sylvan folk enough doubt to hold her blameless. Yet his bitterness won this battle. "After Legolas' birth, then she sought in earnest for a child with me. I denied her, knowing what caused the breach in her relationship with you, her husband, and gloating over it. Now she wanted me to free her from your fearful wrath, but I was content with the manner of our affair and saw no need to take on the burden of a darkening realm for her sake. I would punish her, you see, for refusing to give up Greenwood, for refusing to give up her beloved guardian, for refusing to give up you, Thranduil, and I blamed you for being secondary in her life, for my unhappiness and sorrow. I blamed you even though I had chosen my lot freely."

"Ai, Adar!" Elrohir whispered.

Thranduil was taken aback; these were things Elrond had refused to discuss in their meetings, no matter how he wheedled or stormed, and he was incredulous. "Me? This is the wrong you have harboured all these many centuries?" It sounded preposterous, yet he was guilty of many an irrational belief himself and thus the King waited to hear Elrond's reply.

"No, the wrong I have nourished and fed with hidden tears and silent rage has nothing to do with you," Elrond barked, contempt in his voice. "You were just easier to condemn and ready to hand, real and vital and blind to your own frailty, an unsuspecting target. The true cause of my torment goes much deeper, and because I could not face it and root it out, I must go mad. This madness chose to destroy others to prevent destroying me."

"That is rather abstruse," Mithrandir intervened his mocking words. "Be plain if you would find mercy here."

"Silence!" commanded Thranduil, wheeling to rebuke him. "None may speak above the Woodland King in his own court!" He favoured the wizard with a warning glare, no longer so pleased with his continuation in Greenwood now that it was clear Legolas had no wish to interact with him. "Yet he speaks my thoughts," he turned back to Elrond and crossed his arms over his chest, certain of the insult inherent in these admissions. "I was a simple fool, you mean to say, and who would care about the shattered lives of lesser elves such as me and mine. Aye, we know the low regard with which our Noldorin kin consider the sylvan folk, when by chance they think on us at all." His words evoked a sympathetic vibration among his subjects and they whispered in low and menacing speech, forgetting for the time that Thranduil had scorned them in much the same vein. 

"Enough," Elrohir suddenly growled, shaking loose of his brother and grandfather to join the King and berate his father. "It is past time for philosophy and riddles and distractions over old disagreements. Tell us this great torment that has rent your soul and besieged your mind with madness." His eyes bored into Elrond's, trying to decipher the core of this ugliness, this malignant tumour that was devouring his heart. "You have to speak," he insisted, voice rough in frustrated anger. "Can you not see what this is doing to those who love you? We are torn, Adar, torn! Once I understand I can forgive, until then I am trapped in quandary, one moment empathetic with your plight, the next furious over the vile things you've done. Surely this must spawn in me the very same madness that defeated you."

"Aye, Elrohir, I will tell you everything. Everything," Elrond said and took his son's hands in his. "Everything. If you despise me for it than may you at least find pity in your heart for the father who raised you."

"As soon as we recognise him, we will honour our Adar as we have always done," Elladan promised darkly. He did not join his sibling.

"So be it," Elrond grimaced; the rejection stung and raised the old thoughts up as a shield, but this time he fought them down. He trained his eyes on Thranduil, who was watching all this with less lurid delight than he'd expected. Indeed, there was in the King's eyes a hint of that same pity the guards had shown. "Let me remind everyone here that whatever motives I might have invented, the truth is that neither King Thranduil nor anyone in his family, even Ningloriel, has ever wronged me. I chose to destroy him for reasons that are erroneous and which I will now reveal. If the reasoning seems bizarre, that is as it should be for this is truly convoluted, a case of substituting one person for all the others that hurt me."

"iI is Legolas upon whom you heaped this unwarranted blame," Thranduil reminded quietly. "I was fully grown and maybe my deeds and motives were impure and tainted by darkness, perhaps I have earned some of my hardships, but he had yet to be born. He deserved to be loved by the parents who made him. What might he have become had he enjoyed this simple right?"

"Whatever Elrond has done," Elladan interposed, "he failed to destroy Legolas. The Tawarwaith has become exactly what he was meant to be when Eru gave thought to the Music of this Greenwood and its people."

The sylvans liked this notion and traded smiles and glad words, and Thranduil dipped his head to acknowledge the correction. To Elrond he gave a different sort of nod. "Speak; answer your son's demand and my command."

Elrond smiled, an ironic expression, and raised his brows. "Could you do it, I wonder?" he asked Thranduil. "Could you admit to all the betrayals that formed your views and twisted your heart?"

"Since I have not seen fit to inflict my pain and anguish upon others with malicious intent to do harm, there is no cause for me to do so, anymore than there is cause to demand such from your sons. Would you deem it right to ask it of them? Nay, for they have not used that pain to excuse base conduct." Thranduil was furious with this challenge and came as near to laying hands on the half-elf as he had since the trial began. His face grew hot, feeling again the touch of that manipulating mind, and his hands tightened into fists. "The hold of this Darkness is tight upon you; its roots sunk deep into the recesses of your heart. Can you not break its bonds and speak freely of these things? Must the Istari invoke the might of their order to loose the demon's grip?"

"I can free myself," Elrond said, rather startled to realise he was still delaying and baiting Thranduil to distract the court. "I was abandoned," he said abruptly. "First my father deserted us for some grand quest to reach Aman and plead for the aid of the Valar. Was it heroism or boredom? I still don't know. I know only that he left us alone and when trouble came he was not there to defend us or give counsel to our mother. He should have taken that filthy jewel with him, for it corrupted her. To keep it from the sons of Feanaro, she abandoned her children. She chose that gem over her own flesh and blood."

He had to stop speaking as waves of nausea rolled through his gut, the scene playing out in his mind and bruising his heart. It was still shocking, still terrifying after all this time. He swallowed against the surge of bile and struggled to master the anger that accompanied it, failing. He turned harried eyes upon the King. "You think yourself wronged by fate because you mother perished, but you do not know what real hardship is. She loved you and did not go from you willingly, her life torn from her by violence. My naneth just left us there, alone. We became hostages of the very people who had killed untold numbers of our kin and that is not the worst. The worst is that these Feanorion princes, these bloody-handed killers, cared more for us than our own parents. We were never ransomed, as everyone knows. Our parents were not among those who came forth from Aman to fight Melkor. Why?"

The silence in the room was intense, not a breath audible nor a foot stirring, the elven Lord's despairing question unanswerable. He surveyed them, noting the wide eyes, the ghoulish stares of horrified fascination, lips parted in anticipation of secret and revolting revelations, nearly salivating in their hunger for his humiliation. He heaved a noisy breath. 

"Nay, there is no one who can explain it, though I have talked with all the elders of my people and even the highest among the Istari. This is what happened and nothing can change it. It was the first of many abandonments, though not all were voluntary. My beloved mentors were next, the jewel again triumphing over love, the last of the Feanorions gone. My brother chose mortality and left me after the fullness of time Iluvatar granted him; I count that a betrayal also. Long before then I took up residence with Círdan in Mithlond and dwelled there with Gil-galad my cousin." Again he stopped, emotion threatening to overwhelm him, for it was still difficult to speak his name even after so many centuries. He glanced at the leering faces; how could they enjoy the misery that inflicts another so severely? Well, then, let them gnaw on the bones of his blasted destiny.

"I will say now what few know: I came to love him not as a cousin and not as a brother but as my beloved. He was my first love and I his; we did not hide it but neither did we solidify the bond with any formal ceremony. We did not require it." Now he turned and faced Thranduil, a hard glimmer in his icy grey eyes. "And this is where Greenwood wronged me. Aye, though it was not intentional, the harm was irrevocable and I could not forget it. But for Oropher's refusal to adhere to Gil-galad's strategy, both would still be living now. I lost my beloved; you lost your father and for the same ridiculous pride that verily defines the woodland folk."

His words provoked a shocked gasp from the audience and loud was the outcry against him that followed. Elrond watched them, the bare trace of a sneer contorting his nose, wondering if they would dare accost him, crossing those invisible barriers established by protocol and the King's will. Beside him, Thranduil simply waited, allowing the people to express the indignation he felt, refusing to be manipulated into an angry outburst. This was, after all, his own evaluation of why Oropher had perished and he had blamed and then confiscated the souls of every sylvan who died with him that day. If anything he was surprised and annoyed by the similarity between his and Elrond's thinking. His silence caught his subjects notice and the grumbling wound down until uneasy silence returned, for now they remembered that part of it, too, and then the King spoke.

"So this is what you have against me; this is the cause for which you condemned my son, that your beloved was slain in the same battle that gobbled up the lives of hundreds of sylvan and Sindarin and Noldorin and mortal warriors? My father, and by extension me, and through me to Legolas, caused Gil-galad's downfall? Strange, here in Greenwood we speak of Sauron as the cause of his death and of Oropher's and every other person killed over the course of the siege. At least you have established the reason for your hatred, fallacious though it surely is. What say you now for this convoluted rationalisation, Elrond Peredhel?"

The pejorative needled as it was meant to do and Elrond could not hide his aversion for the term. He was elf-kind, that had been his choice to make and he'd chosen long Ages ago. Yet, he swallowed his discontent and made to answer, for that was the agreement he'd made with his captor, only he made the mistake of letting his eye be drawn by a faint flutter of motion in his peripheral vision and locked on Elladan's agonised face, mortified rage bleeding from his stern and stormy eyes. "Forgive me," he said softly but there was no softening in his son's glare. Elrohir refused to look on him. There was nothing to do but resume his chronicle and he did so, awkwardly aware that everyone had heard his plea and witnessed its refusal. He coughed and cleared his throat, swept the room with his unhappy haze, and continued.

"I look upon this association of my loss with the failures of the Last Alliance as the breaking point, the place where reason gave way and madness entered in. Grief is difficult to bear among the FIrst-born and I have kept mine hidden, thinking it best to do so, only now seeing that I cherished and nourished it, for within my grief were the memories of my parents most vital and vivid. I was already conditioned to do the same on Gil-galad's death." He turned suddenly back to Elladan. "This is how Shadow takes root: by convincing us that if we give up the grief and rage we do insult to the memory of those we have loved and lost. Unwittingly, we begin to nurture and cherish the anger and the sorrow, believing doing so is a tribute to the depth of our feeling and the continuity of the bond that has been sundered." Even as he spoke, Elladan relaxed and drew a deep breath, his eyes going bright with a sheen of moisture that he blinked away, relief and thanksgiving shining there instead, and Elrond understood. His son had realised this truth and feared his father never would. Elrond bowed his head solemnly, heart heavy over the degree to which his sons had assumed the burden of his wrongs.

Thranduil observed this silent exchange and felt keen sympathy for the Twins. There was nothing he could do to spare them; it was their right to be here and their hearts were not his responsibility. Through them he spied a glimpse of Elrond as he once had been, as he had known him during that bloody war. "So strange is this fate, Elrond, which entwines us. Our sons view us today as exactly opposite to that personality familiar since childhood." His remark clearly startled the Noldorin Lord and Elrond peered at his with stricken eyes. "And you are the cause for both those shifts in perspective." Thranduil inhaled and blew back a disgruntled breath and shrugged. "Even so, you have spoken truth and that commends your conscience. There is hope you may yet be redeemed, but there is a little more to hear, I think. Long were the centuries between that victorious defeat and Legolas' birth; even more years, almost enough to frame an Age, passed before you made the decision to trespass here and seek out the ellon you so thoroughly ruined. Explain it to us, Lore-master, renowned healer, Keeper of the Ring of Air, and revered councillor to the White Council."

Elrond was frowning. "As the chosen bearer of that article, I respectfully ask that you refrain from naming it here, so near to the Dark Tower."

"I second the request," Celeborn implored his kinsman. "The battle just fought and won is no guarantee that the Shadow has given up on its war against our people."

"Aye, that is wise counsel and I will heed it," Thranduil acknowledged both with a dip of his head and then peered at Elrond, eyebrows lifted in expectation and exasperation. It was all taking too long and he wanted it over before Legolas arrived."Get on with it," he snapped.

"Yes. It is simple enough to conclude. I was content to nurse my hatred in secret during this time, satisfied by having effectively alienated you first from your wife and then your son. I enjoyed hearing reports of your misery and rage, of the forced retreat of the Kingdom far behind the borders established when Amdir's father ruled. Then all this business of the Judgement happened and because of that she left me. Ningloriel left me because you took a sylvan concubine to get you new heirs. I didn't believe she would really go. Nothing had moved her to abandon Greenwood before, though I had tried; indeed, the whole trick with the note and the cloth was meant for you to drive her out. She would have no choice but go to Lorien and bring the child with her. Yet, while she endured the charge of inconstancy and defended her son's paternity, she could not stomach another in her place. She left, even with Legolas in terrible condition from the brutality of Chastisement. Oh yes, she described it to me in gruesome detail. She wanted me to come and rescue Legolas after she was gone; it was she put the idea in my head, but I had no wish to help him. I wanted to hurt him since I could not hurt her."

He had to stop because the throng was shouting too loudly to hear himself above the din. The people were in a frenzy of outrage to hear this so baldly placed before them, so raw and ugly and vindictive. It was almost a worse insult than the trespass itself, this bland and cold-blooded account of his decision to invade their lands and harass their Tawarwaith, all wrapped up in criticism of their sylvan Queen as though she was responsible for his deeds. It was too much and they must teach this arrogant outlander what it cost to discount them. Thranduil did nothing; it was all staged and this was no more than what he'd ordered, though the people were genuinely angry. It was a bitter realisation that they would not riot and assault the prisoner though they had readily laid hands upon their King, and Thranduil hated his prisoner for it. He suspected Elrond had more he wished to add but he pinned him with a hard glare. He turned to his subjects and raised his arms for silence.

"What say you? It is my right to name the punishment but I would hear the choice of my people."

At once the clamour rose to new heights and for a few moments a number of unintelligible phrases jumbled together in a cacophonous tangle. Then a consensus arose and the words became clear and strong and loud as the sylvans chanted the sentence they preferred.

"Râd-en-Gynd a Megel! Râd-en-Gynd a Megel!" (the Path of Stones and Blades)

"Nasan," Thranduil called out and his assent silenced the people. They watched him, expecting the words and longing to hear them spoken, and the King obliged. "Elrond Peredhel, you have admitted your wrongs and recounted your evil deeds and their dark and warped genesis. You have pleaded for mercy from this court and from the people of Greenwood, yet nothing moves you to propose any remedy to the consequences of your crimes." Elrond made to speak, for this was not part of the plan to which he'd agreed, but Thranduil stopped him with a furious shout that made the elf Lord flinch. "Gwarth! Gwathron!" He moved an inch from his enemy's face and screamed the words again, spraying spittle. "Gwarth! Gwathron!" And Thranduil struck him a heavy blow against the cheek that sent Elrond reeling; the King snatched him at the biceps to keep him upright and yanked him close again. "Others have punished you but I have refrained until now. You offer me nothing to atone for the egregious wrongs done to me for no just cause. Your sons understand; they have answered the demand placed on their personal honour, but you have none. You have not even spoken of restitution for Legolas.

"I say to you now you are not forgiven. Your sins remain and I will hold you to account for them until you find it within yourself to offer some gesture of atonement, however inadequate, to me and to Legolas. I cannot believe that the whole period of time you have been here you have not made one single suggestion that considers the weight and gravity of the harm you've caused! Nothing! You have spent this time in secluded contemplation of your soul and worked out how to forgive the wrongs fate decreed for your life and nothing more. How grand! You return a cleansed and improved elven Lord, ready to meet the great challenges which confront you as the leader of a realm that lies hidden, protected from the evils that beset my people." Thranduil paused his sarcastic tirade and stalked a tight circle round his enemy, looking him over with aversion and loathing, wishing Elrond would dare interrupt so he could hit him again. "I am not impressed with your exalted heritage and your celebrated wisdom; you are a hypocrite, Elrond Peredhel!"

Now none would intervene to halt Thranduil's harangue, though it is true the Twin Lords of Imladris and their foster brother might wish it. Yet they remained silent and still, allowing this assault, deeming it mild in comparison to the King's treatment of Legolas over the years, and the fault for that lay at their father's feet. Celeborn had no desire to stop his kinsman and indeed felt his own anger kindled on hearing Elrond's quick and easy dismissal of what Celebrian had endured as his mate. The wizards had weeks ago decided that any punishment would be tolerated as long as it was clear death was not likely to result from it. They, too, considered this very moderate behaviour from an elf given to manipulating souls.

"I cannot stain my spirit with your blood or I would have every drop of it spilled right here and now," menaced the King darkly. "Such is the depth of my anger that I wish I could bludgeon you to death, but killing would not reverse the damage or give my heart ease, nor please Legolas. Do you know the one thing out of all this mess he would like undone? He wants his mother back, and I cannot make it happen. Can you?" 

Elrond shook his head sadly; he did not count this as one of his errors. He had tried to make her stay, but he held his tongue now. Nothing he could say would appease the King and so he refrained from stating the things he hoped to do that would amend his sins, for he had thought long on this topic in the empty hours of his confinement. He should have spoken sooner, but thought he was meant to do so here before all the people.

"Nay, she will remain in Aman and he will not see her until he leaves Middle-earth." Thranduil sighed in exasperation and discontent and ran his hands through his long mane, agitation in the motion. "I want you gone from here. I don't want to look upon your face again until you have given some thought to make reparations. You will leave my lands on the morrow, and you will exit through Râd-en-Gynd a Megel, and I will be there at the end to make you regret your trespass if nothing else. Now, you will sit outside the doors of this hall and abase your self that any citizen who might wish it may denounce you and spit upon you. Get out."

The people cheered and many hastened to leave the room so to be first to exhibit their disgust upon the mighty Lord. The two guards came and took Elrond at the arms and walked him out through the grand arched entrance, and there in the hallway they stripped him down to his breech clout and sat him on a low stool in the corner. For all their sympathetic words and kindly treatment, they were the first to mock him and laughed at the shock on his face when they did so. After that, a long train of people filed through the hall, each pausing to cast insults and saliva on the Lord of Imladris. He sat quietly and kept his head bowed, his eyes lowered, and did not attempt to shield himself. 

The line of sylvans seemed interminable and he believed every elf in the realm wanted the opportunity to denigrate him, but after a time a buzz of excitement travelled through the crowd and everyone pressed back against the walls of the wide corridor, jostling one another for the best position. Then they fell silent and all eyes watched the far end of the hall which connected to the outer courtyard. A hushed cascade of bended knees swept the crowd as the people bowed down at the approach of the Tawarwaith.


	118. Chapter 118

  
_italics indicate thoughts_ |   
(elvish translations in parentheses) |   
This chapter un-Beta'd  


###  **An Pennas**

(For the Record)  


#### Aglar Ovor - Abundant Glory - 

"Pan vae?" Erestor whispered in windy, breathless bliss, wrapped all round Legolas where the two lay conjoined in the swaying nest, the seneschal's heaving chest flush against the Tawarwaith's back; the archer's heart pounding in a wild, reciprocal rhythm that matched his perfectly. One hand cradled the velvety warmth of Legolas' soft, lax penis, slick with spent seed, and the other gently surrounded his battered body so that their hands were clasped just atop the old dagger wound.

"Aye, pan vae," Legolas sighed, raising the seneschal's hand to his panting lips in a small expression of tender veneration. Berenaur still feared to cause him discomfort, but he did not mind this need for reassurance; it was rather exhilarating to be so treasured. "I am happy," he whispered, "and so grateful that you don't care. You never did."

"The scars?" Erestor kissed one, the tail end of a lash that had caught the shoulder and neck. It was smooth and bright red and hot after their exertions.

"Aye." Legolas bent his head to expose more of his throat and relished the soft pressure of adoring lips.

"Of course I don't care. They are fading anyway, even the deep ones that touch upon your soul." Erestor paused and thought about it a moment, though, finding it was not entirely true. "Yet I do, Legolas; I do. I'm angry and racked with guilt, for I could not shield you from any of it; even after I took you for my own I could not protect you. It burns, like a red coal lodged down beneath my heart, for it feels too like the selfish and fearful youth who fled the sack of Gondolin. Am I a coward?"

"No," Legolas said simply. "You did right not to follow me into that hellacious place. I could not have borne it knowing you suffered also. It would have been the end of us both and the only good thing I have ever known would then be ruined, tainted and sullied by their dark games. Who can say how long we would languish in Mandos trying to regain some semblance of sanity?" He smiled and caressed the arm wrapped round him. "Sing to me," he murmured, shifting to get closer, an impossible feat since the seneschal's cock, slack and sated, was still buried inside him.

"What shall I sing?" Erestor smiled; he had never done quite so much singing as in these recent months, save perhaps during his childhood in Gondolin. It was good to recall the rich harmonies of that wondrous place where even the stones were given voice in Ulmo's fluid tones, to remember its glory instead of its ruin. Legolas answered him with an admonishing elbow nudge in the ribs and the seneschal laughed. He began a song of exalted love, the only sort of music he seemed able to make these days, grinning as he altered the words of the ancient tune to serve his particular purpose this night:

> "In ithil's gleam you are fair and far too beautiful to resist.  
>  Under Anor's glare your glory rivals the stars in heaven above.  
>  Rare and precious is such perfection as this;  
>  I must make you mine ere some other catch your eye and inflame your love.  
>  How to capture your heart and bind your soul? Impossible, yet I have done this very thing  
>  by the call of your spirit and the union we share and the promise of a golden ring."

Legolas had been drifting into hazy reverie but this word snapped his mind back to clarity in an instant. He caught his breath and he shifted, peering over his shoulder into Berenaur's eyes, hoping he had not misheard. "A ring?"

"Aye, Pen-rhovan," Erestor beamed, pleased to see the anticipation his humble lyric raised. "If you will have it."

"Of course I will have it," Legolas replied, incredulous. They disengaged so he could turn and face his mate, watching in joyous relief as Berenaur leaned over to fish about in the catch pocket of the netting. He held forth a small leather pouch and demanded a kiss before handing it over. "Let me see it," Legolas pleaded, impatiently trying to snatch the little bag, but the seneschal would not let him.

"Nay, let me do this," Erestor insisted, helping Legolas sit up as he did the same. "Give me your hand now," he said quietly and Legolas did so. 

Erestor stroked the archer's fingers, carefully pressing on the remaining marks left by the forcible removal of the false bonding band. The wounds were healed and the bone was whole again and Legolas desperately wanted a replacement. Erestor knew that desire was foremost in his heart and mind, though Pen-rhovan held silent on the subject. The seneschal understood; he must provide a new ring without prompting, a test of his constancy and the strength of his love. He gazed into Legolas' eyes and saw the fear there. It stung him; he would never desert his wild elf. 

Yet, he knew where such dread arose and could not feel angry or resentful. Legolas could not help it; everything in his life had been twisted and broken, no love ever given him pure and untainted or free of unholy demands. Until now, everyone he'd ever loved had eventually rejected him. What reason had he to believe that love could be true, eternal, and a source of limitless joy? It was time to extinguish the doubts such a history inspired, something Erestor had not had time to do before Lindalcon's flight into the forest prompted Legolas' futile efforts to save him. He isolated the injured finger and slipped the new ring past the knuckle; it was a perfect fit.

"Elo," Legolas sighed and held his hand up to look upon it, curious and surprised. "I was not expecting something so ornate. Where did you get it?" Reason insisted it had to come from the vaults, but what he really wanted was its history. It was ancient, crafted in fine filigree so that the metal looked to be woven together from tiny strands. This was exactly so and within the minute crevasses between these strings of gold ran ribbons of deep blue sapphire. It was a ring such as he had never imagined.

"Thranduil," Erestor shrugged, hoping this would not diminish the value of the gift. "He brought me a box filled with the 'best rings ever crafted to adorn elvish hands' and said they were from Beleriand."

"Not from the horde of Nargothrond?" Legolas exclaimed in dismay. He knew Oropher's host must have passed across the very same shallows where the bloody treasure lay abandoned. "Those jewels are cursed!" He made to take the ring off but Berenaur stayed his fingers.

"Nay, nay! Not from that, Pen-rhovan, I would not give you any such thing, nor would he, I am glad to admit. Your father insists these were recovered from the carnage resulting from the war over Amon Lanc." Erestor gripped the Tawarwaith's hands between his and smiled at the wide-eyed stare focused upon him. "Now, Thranduil was trying not to indicate which ring he favoured, wanting me to choose one of my own liking, but it was impossible to hide that this particular ring meant very much to him. When I picked it from the rest, he almost cried out. Then he explained to me that he believed with absolute certainty I was meant to be your mate and not just the 'first ellon to show him any kindness', meaning you, of course, and accepted I was not just taking advantage of your loneliness, or remaining at your side due to guilt."

"He said that?" Legolas scowled. "Who is he to weigh the burdens of another's conscience? What does he know of loneliness or of love?"

"Well, perhaps more than either of us have credited him," Erestor smiled and squeezed the lean fingers then touched upon the new ring. "This belonged to his Naneth and Oropher wore it round his neck on a golden chain after her death. This belonged to his Naneth and Oropher wore it round his neck on a golden chain after her death. It was during a fight against the orcs that he lost it, early in the Second Age in the region of Amon Lanc, for he was wounded and the chain cut at the same time. Thranduil went to find it and the story goes that he very nearly took back the fallen duchy in his desire to get it. He says he does not remember all that happened; he saw an orc with a chain of gold in its hands and went mad with rage, his own words. Gladhadithen has confirmed this is the legend retold by his brothers, one of the few in which they expressed pride in Thranduil. Upon recovering his health, Oropher gave the ring over to him." Erestor paused and watched his mate's reaction carefully. "He did not wear it on his person, as had his father, but kept it among his belongings where he could see it daily. I do not think he owned anything more dear to him, yet more painful a talisman he could not possess."

"Ai Valar," Legolas turned the ring on his hand carefully; there was no break in the circle and he could see no beginning or ending, even in the sapphire ribbons. "He passes this to me; you have Oropher's bonding band and I his mate's. This is...I never thought it possible he could be so generous."

"Nor I and it may be cynical, but I think this is his way of laying claim to us both and securing our loyalty. We're part of his family now," said Erestor, no longer disturbed by the idea as he might once have been. 

"It is all so strange," Legolas shook his head a bit, befuddled, "yet I cannot deny it pleases me."

"I am also pleased, for he has finally come to appreciate the qualities in you that I so deeply admire. If he had continued in his hatred, I would have been forced to remove you from Greenwood, and was not sure I could convince you to take that remedy. I only wish I had some relic from my people to give to you," Erestor's complaint was met with a mischievous grin and a quick hug.

"I have you." 

"Oh, an old relic, am I?" Erestor laughed and kissed him.

"You're certainly much older than I am."

"True enough, but we are too well matched for that to matter, and in so many ways you have wisdom that far surpasses mine."

"Then you will abide with me?" Legolas queried softly, eyes on the ring instead of his mate's face, for they still had not settled this issue.

"Listen to what I say, Pen-rhovan." Erestor tipped the fair face up to meet his gaze. "I am bound to you and no other and ever shall I be. The Galadhrim warriors with whom I have shared a part of my life have no claim upon my heart in this way, and I have explained to them that they never will. As your foster-father rightly informed me, they never imagined they had. You have nothing to fear from them, as you will know when you meet them."

"Meet them?" Legolas was not so sure this was warranted.

"Aye, but only when you are amenable to it," Erestor hesitated but then decided it was as good a time as any to share the news. None of the wild elf's unusual family had braved the revelation, fearing to upset him. "Orophin and Dambethnin are to remain in Greenwood as guardians to the prince and princess. Dambethnin is the babes' surrogate mother and a better naneth they could not hope to have; she adores them."

"Oh. I see," Legolas did not know what to say. He hadn't thought he would ever have to confront Berenaur's Galadhrim lovers and it was a peculiar quirk of fate to have them become his siblings' mentors. "I am grateful if she can turn them from sorrow." It was the best he could manage; the idea was too new and too unexpected.

Erestor understood his discomfort. "If it helps you to understand, consider that they are the closest thing to family I have, Elrond and his children aside. They could not stay away once they heard of the trouble I was in. I must admit to you they were very disappointed in me until they realised my heart was utterly committed. I love them, but not as I love you, Legolas. You are nothing less than the strength of my spirit and without you I would quickly fade. Had you not been freed, we would have met again in Mandos."

Legolas shifted; this was not a notion he liked to discuss. "I will attempt to accept them as you have accepted my family," he said and looked again to the ring, glad to have a symbol of their pledge that none could refuse to acknowledge. "Why did you wait until now to give me this?"

"It is from Thranduil and I didn't want anything from him at first. I wanted to commission a new ring that would be of my own design. I didn't trust him."

"Ah," Legolas sighed and relaxed into the Noldorin Lord's arms again, glad it was only this. 

"Yes. It was early days when he offered the selection and I wanted nothing to do with it. He has expressed a different side to his character since then. This war has changed him."

"It isn't the war," Legolas corrected. "His brothers are working on him, and they are not tutors to be defied. Yet, I do not believe he rebels against their instruction."

"Interesting, if rather unsettling," Erestor shrugged to ward off a shiver and held Pen-rhovan close. "I wonder, will they convince him to give up those black arts for which Wood Elves have become infamous?"

"He decided that for himself, but the weirds upon the Enchanted river will remain."

Erestor pulled back and peered in wonder at his mate. "How can you be so certain? Did he speak of it?"

"No, he speaks to me of many things but never of his unusual gifts." Legolas shook his head in wonder. "He speaks to me," he whispered and then glanced into Berenaur's calm grey eyes. "Truly, I have no proof, only a feeling."

"So be it; I trust your feeling."

They were quiet a time, content in one another's embrace, and needed no words to satisfy the peaceful moment. Then Legolas stirred and sought the seneschal's eyes again. "You will not go home, then, when your kinsmen leave for Imladris?"

"My home is here in this clearing with you, Beloved," Erestor assured him softly and kissed him. "I will come home with you when my kinsmen leave Greenwood."

"That is all I needed to hear," Legolas' joy was in his voice. He laid back against the cushions and offered himself, rosy erection exposed and inviting. "Caro mîl enni."

Erestor did so, claiming his mate with gentle urgency and devotion, and afterward Legolas fell asleep in his arms, fëa and hroa conjoined, hands entwined, hearts beating out the same contented tempo.

  


_Seventeen years._

Legolas smoothed his palm over the supple suede tunic and slipped his fingers inside, enjoying the lavish texture of the silk lining. He ruffled the rich, thick fur of the high collar, soft and warm and velvety black, pieced from the pelts of the unique squirrels indigenous to Greenwood. It was not the most elegant tunic he'd ever owned for his Naneth had ensured he was always garbed as befitted a Sindarin prince. It was not the finest garment Thranduil had sent him, either, in these early days of his son's convalescence, these early days of discovering what it meant to be the Tawarwaith's father. Simple and severe, this tunic was the most recognisable part of a warriors uniform and an old friend much missed. His hand ran again down the front, watching the deep green hue take on a silvery sheen as he pressed the napped pile, pausing at a small mithril broach in the form of twinned arrows crossed, pinned upon it at the breast. The insignia did not announce his rank amid the Guard, which was nothing exceptional, but his status as an archer, which was the highest possible. To find it here set his soul singing.

In all of Great Greenwood there were but twelve such pins and this one was his, conferred so long ago he had all but forgotten, yet nothing once known is ever truly lost to the recollection of the First-born. Seeing it there, brushing the silvery ridges of the frozen fletching, brought the moment forward in all its solemn grace and he felt anew the strange commingling of pride and humility to be so lauded. It was not Thranduil who had pinned it there, nor Talagan, but Iarwain, reciting the tradition of the sylvan people in honouring their most accomplished warriors. A thrill ran up through his fingers and touched upon his heart, wrenching it tight until Legolas thought he might cry out. His skill had failed him only once. Just one step forward, a mere second's inattention, and four lives lost.

_Nay, not four. So many more._

He was meant to be the fifth, but fate had spared him. Why weren't his four comrades spared? They were worthy soldiers as devoted to Greenwood as he, undeserving the end that claimed them, a purposeless end as it benefitted none but Meril. He could find no answer to satisfy this complaint. But for her scheming, Rochendil would have remained merely a petty antagonist too cowardly to openly accost him. But for Rochendil's carelessness amid the rocky defile, no boulders would have rained down to ruin Legolas' aim. He was convinced it was an accident, certain Rochendil would never have had the nerve to actually kill an elf, whether by covering him in an avalanche or firing an arrow into his heart. Without that misfortune, _and whom may I blame for it, Shadow or the Valar? _ Legolas would have hit his mark and those four warriors might not have died that day. 

Those deaths were not of his design nor a result of his negligence. He could perceive this so clearly now; they were never his kills to claim and he was just a small player in the scene of malicious avarice composed by Valtamar's mate, the fair sylvan maid, Meril. From four casualties the total increased dramatically when the heaving earth destroyed the village and killed so many innocents. He had to add these people to the count, for had he never been banished then he would not have antagonised the Wraiths and then maybe Shadow would have no cause to rend Greenwood so horribly. Then followed in quick succession Gildin's agonised demise, Malthen's final sacrifice, Rochendil's complete annihilation, and Meril's suicide. Last of all, Lindalcon's blood poured over the conflagration ignited in Erebor that day and finally quenched its destructive fury. 

_Seventeen years filled with violence and destruction._

It was a minute segment of time, insufficient to grow a child to adulthood, a blink and a breath compared to the centuries his life contained before the Judgement, yet more than sufficient to rock the Woodland Realm to its very foundations. Those few years had become magnified far beyond their true length, dwarfing the rest of his history, drawn out and extended into experiences that seemed too much for one person, too harrowing, too intense to be fit within even an Age of years. He had lived another lifetime in those seventeen sun-rounds, replacing a life defined by mental misery, isolation, and suffering of the heart with one comprised of grinding physical torture, deepening sorrow, and relentless terror; a life from which he had not escaped until Lindalcon's ghostly visitation scarcely a month gone by, delivered at last from the first and the second into this fragile new reality.

In it he would live a third life, the one he should have had from birth, and in it he would be honoured and loved; part of a family in the truest sense of the word. He still feared what effect the loss of Meril would have upon his siblings, but for this he would not shoulder responsibility. He had done all in his power to prevent her part coming to light. Like all other turns of fate, his will and any action born of it proved ineffectual, and this was a truth he was forced to recognise. If they should fade, then no good was to be gleaned from all this wretchedness and misery. He could not bear even to imagine it; the burden of the children's doom must be carried by another heart. Legolas did not envy Thranduil's internal torment through the years to come, ever watchful, ever fearful that he would lose them either to grieving or to Darkness.

_Nay, he will not; I will set myself a new Task and preserve their tender spirits from the Shadow of the past._

No sooner had he laid aside responsibility than he snatched it back up in defiance of all he had just determined. Legolas scowled grimly; perhaps this was a lesson requiring additional years to solidify. He inhaled a deep breath and let it go, relaxing his hands where they gripped the leather so tight they'd left marks. He would not brood on this and focused on the events ahead. He caressed the pliant suede and permitted himself a smile. He had never thought to be holding this garment again; he had never believed he would survive the Judgement. He had not wished to live and considered the moment when that had changed, eyes flickering to Berenaur, the seneschal busy setting the talan to rights so to give him this time to himself. Solitude had always been his constant companion and Berenaur accepted his need for mental separation. _Or perhaps he needs time, too._ That caused him a brief flash of fear; what was Berenaur thinking about right now? Were his thoughts also plagued with grim regrets? As though called, the seneschal turned to check on him, love and concern plain in his eyes, and Legolas' heart turned over. They shared a smile, Berenaur resumed his chores, and Legolas once more turned his attention to the future in his hands. 

It was a moment to relish, a victory to celebrate rather than waste wallowing in somber introspection, except it was also a solemn moment deserving his utmost respect. Not in all the years of exile had he worn the Greenwood's colours or donned the uniform of the King's Guard, the severe garment that had defined him nearly all his adult life. Yet, it was a partial, incomplete expression and only after it was stripped from him, his sole claim to rank and honour, that he learned the truth lodged deep in the core of his being. So much had been taken, so much lost in the need to fulfil the Tasks, so much discarded in the effort to survive, and he'd wondered in the emptiness of those lonely years what part of himself remained? Was there anything left of the internal concept that encompassed his notion of Legolas? He sighed, at peace with it now, the truth manifest in the solid mithril contours of that badge of honour. Never once during those seventeen years had his bow rested or his service lapsed. He had not changed at all, and yet he was completely transformed. 

_It is over._

His heart gave a thunderous lunge and an explosion of bright jubilation coursed through him. Time had moved on and carried him with it until now he was here, Hecilo no more, exonerated and forgiven, loved and beloved and soul-bound to his mate: the Tawarwaith, about to be crowned Greenwood's prince and Thranduil's heir. He fumbled the closures open, eager now to feel the suede against his skin, to claim this new reality, manipulating buttons cast in gold and moulded in the insignia of Oropher's House, the House of the Beeches, and then his fingers froze. The fifth button was different. He gaped at the small metal disc, lips parting in surprise and delight; the remaining five were cast in the seal of his mother's people. A harsh breath left him and he sucked it back in fast, earning instantaneous attention from Berenaur. 

"What is it?" Erestor sat beside him and reached a protective arm round bare and bony shoulders. He met blue eyes awash in diffident pride as Legolas held up the tunic.

"Nay, nothing, just my uniform." Legolas showed him. "It never had these before." He laid it upon Berenaur's lap with almost reverent care. "My Nana was Greenwood's Queen. Did I tell you that?"

"No," Erestor smiled and tightened his hold a little, "but neither had you need to. I met her often in Lorien." He touched on the simple design deeply etched into the metal: a swallow in flight. "She was Nandorin; is this the mark of her people?"

"Aye, she is Danwaith," Legolas corrected softly and sighed, resting his head against Berenaur's as he thought on her, her laughing smile and vibrant eyes watching over him on a summer's morn when he was but a child. "Those were the best days," he murmured and smiled as he was hugged, a kiss pressed against his hair. He did not ask what the seneschal thought of her; he didn't want to know anything about her years in the Golden Wood. He did not want his fond memories of her tainted, having ample recollections of her self-indulgent and contentious personality. 

Erestor hugged him again and fingered the heavy leather tunic with its high furred collar. This was a dress uniform meant for state occasions and court functions, newly stitched and tailored to fit Legolas' reduced physique, but the change in the buttons was a surprise. "It could not be Thranduil who ordered this," he said, deciding Feafaron had conspired with the tailor. He could see what the garment meant to his mate and the recognition of his sylvan heritage clearly pleased him.

"No, but Thranduil will not correct my adoptive father's consideration. He'll be too busy amending my disinheritance and will do it with the most pretentious and majestic pomp he can order up. They argued about it incessantly," Legolas stated, "at the utmost height of their vocal capacity. Nana demanding the elevation on the day of my majority as was the custom, Thranduil denying it in vicious and contemptuous insults, everyone listening. Elrond's foul deceit destroyed even the pretence of civility between them and ruined me. Today I will have my vindication and I want him there; I want him to see the crown placed upon my brow." He paused and bent to retrieve a sleeveless silk undershirt from the stack of clothes and pulled it over his head, needing a moment before he could confront Berenaur's troubled visage. "Is that petty and spiteful?"

"Nay," Erestor shook his head, but quickly averted his eyes. What he thought of Legolas confronting Elrond was not positive, but he preferred not to argue. He was determined to support whatever Legolas wanted and keep his fears to himself. A soft laugh drew his gaze back to the Wood Elf and Legolas reached out to him; the seneschal took the hand so offered and returned a bemused smile.

"Is this how it's to be, then?" Legolas queried. "Whatsoever I wish, just so shall it be done?"

Now Erestor's smile grew warm and he rubbed his thumb over the calluses on the deadly digits. "Aye, for a time at least; if it's in my power. I feel there's room for compromise on my part since you've conceded to my will concerning duty in the patrols."

"Aye." Legolas moved back into Berenaur's arms. "I will abide by that for love of you." He was content to remain thus for a time and absorbed the seneschal's tender devotion in silence. Then he sat up, turning for a small kiss, and clasped his hand over Berenaur's so their rings touched with a gentle percussion; the vibration echoed through their souls.

The seneschal raised the rings and kissed them. He began straightening the undershirt, tightening the lacing at either side, watching Legolas closely for any sign of distress. The simple task gave him a deep sense of contentment and purpose that he couldn't entirely quantify. He felt this humble task marked the dawn of their life beginning, their life as mated spouses, the future a shared experience, everything they might undertake henceforth irrevocably entwined. It hardly seemed plausible and Erestor marvelled at it; could they truly have a normal life together? Hope and love silently shouted not just assent but an adamant demand for nothing less. As his heart revealed glimpses of the days ahead, Erestor prayed they would be as filled with peace and joy and glorious love-making and squabbles over chores and duties and what to have for dinner and all the everyday things that spent time and defined life. 

"Elo, Legolas! Gwethim!" (Behold, Legolas! We are bound!) he whispered and Legolas smiled. 

"Aye. Gwethim, Berenaur." 

Erestor discovered he was quite excited to play out the end of this relentless tragedy and said so, holding out the tunic. "I confess my anticipation to seeing you crowned, Arâtâ Kundû. It is high time your inherent dignity and majesty were acknowledged. Besides, Elrond has great need to be reminded of just how far he has fallen. If he is ever to be redeemed, he must first acknowledge his need for it."

"I want him to see that his plot has failed," rejoined Legolas, inserting his arms through the sleeves. "I don't care about his redemption." He turned away slightly as though to conceal his wrath, but it was smothered at once in a tight crush as Berenaur grabbed him close and held him, murmured cautions in his ear and kissed its delicate point tenderly.

"You say so now, but I know you," warned Erestor. "There is something about him you don't understand yet, but you will see it when you look upon his face today. Then you will be moved to pity, but you must not offer clemency. Elrond is at the heart of the greatest crime against you." Erestor smoothed his hand up and down the Tawarwaith's back, counting the ridges of his spine silently so to dull the anger in his tone. He did not want to upset Legolas, but he would not hide his outrage over this. "What Malthen did to you should never have happened and would not have happened except for the choice so many made to shun you." It was more than that; he was sure of it, certain that someone in the stronghold must have known what was happening and kept quiet out of malicious spite.

"Aye," Legolas said quietly and heaved a disconsolate sigh. "I loved him so, Berenaur."

"I know it," Erestor whispered, heart contracting over the forlorn anguish in that simple admission. "There is no wrong in love given and received and it was not your morality that failed, but his. Even though you love him still, I would have him suffer what you suffered, alone in the wilds of this blighted land, left to his wits and whatever mercy Vairë might chance to extend his way." He pulled back and searched the watery blue eyes. "Is that petty or spiteful?"

"No," Legolas stated firmly, grateful for this forthright testament to the seneschal's devotion. "He is in Mandos, Beloved, there to remain many Ages yet to pass. His last words uttered were to warn me of danger, his last act one of sacrifice that I might escape capture. I am torn over it, for had he not revealed that threat I would surely have been caught then and Lindalcon would not. The Wraiths cared nothing about him: how could they having no knowledge of his existence? There was no reason to take him prisoner but for me. They knew, somehow, that I loved him as my brother, though I still don't understand that part. I only know for certainty that Lindalcon would be alive now had Malthen failed. I don't understand why fate continually intervenes and spares me in favour of others just as worthy, if not more so."

"Ai, Legolas!" Erestor was disturbed to hear these words and comprehend their horrendous irony. They did not speak of Lindalcon or of anything to do with Legolas' captivity and the seneschal was uneasy to realise his mate obviously thought about it often. Did he choose not to speak because he knew Erestor hadn't the stomach to hear? "These are things you should not be worrying over in your inner heart. These are things you should be free to express to me."

"I am expressing them," said Legolas, "and meant no complaint against your care for me. I cannot talk about it much or often, but this is a day for remembering and my heart will have its wounds cleansed and salved even as the lacerations and lashes covering my body. Ah, that reminds me," he added and stood, moving to the chest against the trunk of the great tree. Inside was his old pack and he lifted it out, bringing it back to the bench which he straddled, facing Berenaur. They shared a look of suspenseful hope and then he smiled, opening the weather-worn leather, and removed from its depths the blood-stained scourge. "I am done with this souvenir," he announced sombrely and held it out.

Erestor's heart gave a heavy thud and his stomach rolled. It was such a hideous thing and that Legolas had used it to punish himself was one of the most disturbing consequences of the Judgement. He took it with a solemn nod and rose, leaning out to open the door of the grate and shove the vile thing inside. The flames rose up and enfolded it within a burst of yellow and orange heat and the tangy stench of burning hide filled his nostrils. He sat and gathered Legolas to him and together they watched the fire consume the scourge. It did not take long and they inhaled and released identical breaths of relief when only the wooden core of the handle remained, flickering with rosy light.

The seneschal met the stalwart gaze of the Tawarwaith and felt his spirit swell with admiration verging on awe. He bracketed the fair face between his hands and pressed his forehead against the smooth brow, then bent his head and kissed pliant lips that were smiling as they opened to him. He took his time to savour the moment, letting his heart relish the blessing it had received and quail at how nearly it had been stolen away. Slowly he relinquished his beloved Pen-rhovan and sat back, caressed rose-streaked cheeks, met the indigo eyes that had seen right to core of his being that very first day in the forest. "I don't know if you understand how proud I am, Pen-rhovan, how humbled and simultaneously how exalted your love has made me. I am not even the same person anymore; I am so much the better, so improved, so"

"So pretentious!" laughed Legolas, desiring to lighten the mood and ease his mate's struggle between guilt and gratitude. "You were brought here because we were meant to be together, nothing else. Now help me finish dressing, Hervenn nín."

"Gladly," Erestor said and stood. "It pleases me to see you wear such fine clothes." 

"Ai! They already itch and I've next to nothing on," Legolas complained.

"Then, once this is over, I will just as happily divest you of them."

"That is a promise to carry me through this day."

"We do not have to go."

"We must, though I am concerned about seeming to be frail and weak. Well, I am, but would not put this wreckage on open display. As to facing him, I have no qualms and will show Elrond no mercy. In any case, it is not for me to decide. The Council of Elders have no jurisdiction, either, nor will the wizards intervene. Not even Lord Celeborn will beseech the King's lenity for his law-son. It is Thranduil who will determine Elrond's fate today. In a way, I already pity him, and I am saddened that his sons have to endure this trial. They have been only kind to me."

"Aye, I wish they could be spared," Erestor agreed. He took up the nut-brown leggings, eased them onto the Tawarwaith's legs, gentle with the wasted calves and the healing bones. "No one is going to think you weak or fragile. Wounded, ill from poisonous infections, yes, but none will think less of you for that." He stood and brought Legolas upright, too, raised the garment over small clothes snuggly fitted over a leaner, less-rounded rump, gently eased the covered, half-hard erection to the left , closed the laces, and patted the small lump lovingly. Legolas did the same to his mate's rather more prominent bump and they snickered with devilish delight. 

"Later," Legolas promised and Erestor grinned. 

The Noldorin Lord stepped back for room and with steady fingers did up the buttons of the uniform from bottom to top, calling forth as he did a princely image of Legolas he had never imagined, so proud and austere and nobel. The clothing fit his reduced frame well and minimised the severity of his long illness, even with his hair so shortened and sparse. He bent to collect an emerald sash faced in deep maroon satin, the inner colour a faint nod to the Tawarwaith's link to Eärendil's House, and wound it round Legolas' narrow hips, knotting it to the left; the fringed end swayed against the sylvan's thigh just above the knee. Next, he retrieved a belted long knife, another gift; this one sent by the Spirits of the Gates and chosen specifically by Legolas' uncles from among the hoard in Thranduil's vaults, though none but the King knew that. Like everything Legolas wore today, Thranduil had sent it over. The blade had belonged to their Naneth and was nearly sacred to the three brothers. No better veneration could this weapon know than to aid the defence of their Tawarwaith. 

Erestor seated the scabbard amid the folds of the emerald sash and secured it there with a leather tie. Last of all, he knelt again to the floor as Legolas sat and together they completed the toilet with fine silk hose and elegant new boots. Then Erestor stood and helped Legolas stand, held onto his hand and backed away a pace to observe the effect, eyes travelling up and down in wonder over the transformation revealed, and he smiled, pleased beyond the need of words to convey it. Legolas stood before him no longer an outcast but an equal, his match in stature and station, his better in dignity, courage, and grace. Seeing this, Legolas held himself taller and lifted his chin, eyes alight with love and wonder.

"Ready?" Erestor asked and at Legolas' nod led him down to the main level of the flet. There he draped the panther-skin cape about Legolas' shoulders and pinned it with Oropher's ruby broach, Hûn-en-Ûr, opening the trap as Legolas spoke.

"Nay, I cannot go forth without my bow."

"No more would we permit it."

The voice came from below and Legolas looked down to find Fearfaron waiting there, Gladhadithen beside him, struck speechless in teary joy to behold him, and Aragorn grinning as only a human can do when fate shows itself right and true. The Man was holding as fine a harness as any the archer had ever seen and with it a weapon he knew well: Oropher's war bow, the same he had stolen so many years ago in his youth. He made haste to get down to the ground and was not surprised to find the glade filled with warriors arranged quietly in ranks across the snow-bound path, all presenting stern and serious countenances as befitted the Royal Guard, yet their rigid posture radiated nervous anticipation, respect, and guilty shame. He knew them; every one of them fine warriors with whom he had served over years uncounted, but not before this day could he name even one true friend among them. As his eyes grazed among them and caught on individual faces, their eyes pleaded absolution before dropping away, heads dipping in deference. Legolas gave them nothing; if they would serve him such was a boon they had yet to earn.

Fearfaron came forward, taking the quiver from Aragorn, and faced his adopted child. "You will allow this, Ion-edwen. It should be done by blood kin, perhaps, but we have shared a kinship of spirit superior to that in many ways. Even if it is not so, permit a sentimental old soul to render you this honour in remittance for the shame I once cast upon you."

"I do permit it and the kinship is true. You will always be my Ada," Legolas answered, finding the words stung his eyes and seared his heart. He stood still and let the carpenter strap the harness on and when it was done their eyes met, each one smiling with unhidden love. Legolas set his hand over his heart, careful to make sure the new ring was on display, and bowed. "I can never repay you."

"Nay, you have done so," Fearfaron insisted, his smile broadening at the fair and ancient band, and did the same. "It is I who stand in your debt." He reached for Legolas' hand and held it within his, sighing faintly as he traced the blue strands.

"I am sorry about Analdir's ring," Legolas said. "I…I lost track of it in that terrible place."

"Nay, be at peace over it; I am beyond content for I have both my sons back."

"Legolas, mellon!" Aragorn could restrain himself no longer and hurried forward to grasp the archer's arm in warrior salute, laughing and nodding his approval to see him advancing toward a recovery none had thought possible a short time ago.

"Aragorn," Legolas began, but could not manage more.

"Oh, come here!" cried Gladhadithen, truly weeping, and wrapped him in a tearful, careful embrace, mindful of all that the formal uniform obscured. "I know you will not heed my warnings about over-extending yourself, so just promise not try my skill so severely ever again, Ernilen." she exhorted as she stepped back.

"You have my word; he will confine himself to regular patrols henceforth; no more Tasks." It was Erestor who answered, Legolas unable to master the emotion evoked by the love in her voice and the dignity in the title she so readily uttered. Behind her the soldiers murmured agreement, professing the same promise. Then the glade filled with tense, expectant silence that held for a handful of heartbeats, giving way to the brusque vocalisation of military severity.

"Nîbe ornâ!" The command rang through the clearing and the collected warriors snapped to strict attention, all eyes on Legolas. "Maktâ; Anta Kwinga!" As one the soldiers affirmed their allegiance and raised their bows high, a single shout of approbation echoing against the surrounding trees. The captain calling the orders moved out from the group and took the bow from Aragorn's hands, approached the Tawarwaith, and bowed low as he presented the weapon. "An le, Ernilen."

Legolas accepted it with hesitant, cautious hands as the warrior stood tall, smiling, none other than Thôn-golf, he who had offered his service to the Tawarwaith first after the lifting of the Judgement in Thranduil's court. Legolas gave him a crooked smile and cocked a brow. "Now, how came you to bring me this?" he asked, holding up the ancient weapon. "Surely Aran Thranduil did not bid you remove it from its place of glory?"

"I took the liberty and took it," grinned Thôn-golf. "We will call it a test of our King to see whether he honours our commitment to Oropher's true heir or not. But whatever he may do, we are yours, Tawarwaith." His troop responded in kind.

"Aye, if you permit it."

"Whether you will or no, no other will we serve."

"No other will we follow!"

"An Erin Galen a Tawarwaith!" They cried as one and then fell silent again, aware of the critical examination with which their chosen Lord evaluated them.

"I am not Thranduil, seeking an army of my own, nor am I inclined to respond to flattery and false praise. If your words are inspired by genuine regard, then I am honoured. I serve Tawar and all that name encompasses; if you do the same we will suit each other well," he said calmly and was pleased as the import of these words was evident in the eyes trained upon him. Again he moved his sight from face to face and this time not a one fell away, each eager to have him read the truth in their souls and the sincerity of their hearts. Legolas gave Thôn-golf a faint smile and a brief nod, and the captain wheeled to command the prince's honour guard.

"Staknâ atata!" he shouted and the warriors divided, forming two equal columns and an aisle in the snow, revealing at its end a solitary ellon. Tall and silver haired and regal in bearing, he was engaged in the humble task of a groom, leading a mare to receive her mount, the same horse bedecked in satin and bells Legolas had ridden once before.

The Tawarwaith stared; he did not know this person, but suspected who it might be, and the horse was a welcomed friend. Tuilinn tossed her head and reached her muzzle forward as the pair halted, and he stroked her nose as he greeted the warrior. "Mae govannen, mellon. A sylvan not of my lands can only hail from Taur Vallen. You can only be Haldir."

"Well met, Hiren; I am indeed March Warden of Lorien." He pressed his hand over his heart and bowed low. "My Lord Celeborn bids me escort you to the stronghold in his stead, for he cannot leave his kinsman, your father, Aran Thranduil. Pray allow this substitution and grant me this honour, though by no right is it mine to ask." He straightened and met astonished blue eyes, then spared a quick glance to Aragorn for he must share his amazement over the progress of the healing. When he met Legolas' gaze again he found an expression of sorrow bent upon him that made his heart falter and he dropped his eyes.

"You are the one who tried to counsel my brother Lindalcon," Legolas said and reached out to settle his hand on the warrior's shoulder. "I would that he had listened to you, but it was not to be. I thank you for the effort you made to save him."

"Nay, no thanks are needed, Hiren," Haldir replied, gingerly returning the gesture, a peculiar aversion to touching the archer invading his nerves. The very hand upon his shoulder had loosed that lethal dagger and lay heavily on his heart. He was not yet prepared to love Legolas, but neither were his feelings a consequence of anger. He was surprised to find his reticence akin to that which prevented him from touching the Lady. "I did not know you were aware."

"Word reached me through a mutual friend," Legolas smiled and sent his own wry glance to the Man, removing his hand. "I am glad to look upon your countenance, Haldir, but I am not your Lord. Call me Legolas."

"I will do so on any other day but this," Haldir lied as he stepped back. "You are my Lord's kinsman and a Lord in your own right, and on this day all here will acknowledge your rank and status among our people, Ernilen."

"Nasan," Legolas replied and looked round him at all these folk gathered to do him honour, missing his Naneth's haughty smile of proud approval, wishing Lindalcon could be here to see this day. He inhaled a steadying breath and nodded solemnly, "So be it."

Then Erestor came and gave his mate a leg up onto the mare and the procession began, Haldir leading, Aragorn and Gladhadithen next, the seneschal guiding the mare at Legolas side, and the warriors closing ranks round them all. They made their way in silence through the lofty ring of wintering trees.

A handful of people stood in scattered clusters, talking in quiet voices of the recent war and the losses suffered, recalling in kind previous conflicts endured over the long Ages lived in Greenwood. They spoke of the final journey over the mountains and across the expanse of Eriador to Mithlond, and the fearsome fickleness of Ossë and the sea awaiting them. They shared hopeful reassurance of the beauty and peace in the land beyond the hardship, of kin and family waiting there, of the end of war and violence and Shadow. These were sombre thoughts spoken in melancholy tones for none liked the idea that the time foe leaving was ever closer, and they wondered what manner of trees resided in Aman and whether there was anything resembling the protecting Spirit of Tawar in them. Sooner or later the question was asked: would Legolas leave them or would he stay?

Their muted chatter ceased abruptly and every head turn toward the trees. Silently they shared proud smiles that acknowledged the courage on display, the raw invincibility of their wrecked and ravaged Tawarwaith, for Legolas sat straight upon the mare, victorious despite the atrocities endured. Hooded and cloaked, fitted for war yet garbed in fine regalia suitable only for a formal event, this vision of Legolas evoked a memory of a time that had never been, a glimpse of life stopped and stalled, frozen in all its intricate detail, an entire reality rolled up and stored away until circumstances permitted its viability. Like a dormant vine comes to flower, so their prince at last emerged from the beleaguered warrior who had served Tawar all the days of his life. In solemn accord, the sylvan folk formed an aisle between them and knelt as the entourage passed, heads lowered and eyes downcast, and no word did they speak.

Legolas gazed upon them, his features grim and stern for he had no energy to spare for pleasantries or pardons, and the pain was great. Berenaur was right; he should not have attempted this excursion; he was not well and his strength was ebbing away. Every step Tuilelindo took jarred his battered body and sent shooting tendrils of misery coursing through his chest and back. Every inch of him hurt. He was a fool, so easily manipulated by Thranduil, the most tentative offers of respect and kindness sufficient to gain his participation in this farce. The crowning would only serve the King and increase his support among his previously divided subjects. What could it mean to Legolas? He was not going to remain in the stronghold and learn statecraft from his father. Such would fall to Taurant in the days ahead. For the Tawarwaith, there could be only one destiny and it did not reside in these cavernous halls. 

The arched portal loomed and he inhaled deeply. Tuilelindo halted to let him dismount. Berenaur's hand squeezed his calf and he looked down to find much worry and a faint expression of annoyance on the seneschal's face. He had to smile. "You may now say 'I tried to warn you'."

"Nay, it's an excellent idea and I would see you honoured, but the timing is all wrong," Erestor returned the rueful smile. "Better to have waited a few more weeks."

"Aye." Legolas fought the desire to lie upon the mare's neck and rest, discovering his hands clenched tightly in the fibres of her mane.

"Let her carry you forth," Aragorn suddenly said, equally dismayed to see the exhaustion in the pale blue eyes, the tight lines of strain around that stubborn mouth and chin. "The caverns are more than ample to allow her passage."

"Yes, it must be so or I will order the event cancelled, which I should have done in the first place," complained Gladhadithen. Legolas had a way of overriding her best intentions for his care. It was just too hard to deny him anything when he had suffered so much.

"Excellent solution," agreed Feafaron and motioned to the guards to advance and clear the way, for the numbers crammed into the main corridor were immense, their murmuring and muttering a droning song of glorious outrage and gloating disgust. 

Thon-gôlf scowled at the agitated crowd. "Make way!" he called and the people turned to see him there, a lone silhouette framed in the portal, and some moved to comply while others were loath to give up their positions, still waiting to pay their rough disrespects to their enemy. "Stand back and give way before the Tawarwaith!" the captain shouted, angry to meet even the least resistance, and his displeasure inspired his warriors to express their agreement in more physical terms. They pushed the people back and pressed them against the walls of the corridor, herding the bulk ahead of them toward the open doors of the throne room. Loud was the outcry against this abuse but there was no recourse and soon enough all who had exited the hall were back in it, scattering now to take the best positions in the galleries so to behold their champion's elevation.

The sound of the mare's hooves on the polished tiles was strange, echoing in the space only faintly for their were so many bodies ready to absorb the noise. No voices spoke, not a foot moved, but every eye watched the approach of the King's son. None could miss the strain this short journey entailed and yet everyone felt relief and smiles reforming their worried faces, for during the years of banishment Legolas had more often returned to them unconscious, borne in by comrades, just bare half-steps beyond the pursuit of death. They bowed their heads as he met their eyes, bobbing bows and curtsies that were awkward in the confined and narrow area.

Legolas gazed upon them, glad he had come now, glad to see all the people welcoming him, awaiting him. He did not recall the cold shunning, the open disgust and abhorrence with which they had once regarded him. He was eager to forget that, to be accepted, appreciated and included, to be one of them at last. The folk followed the will of their Lord and it was upon Thranduil the blame for their hatred must rest. Most had not despised him, he knew, but could not master the fear that befriending him would earn them similar scorn and exclusion. It was easier to accept the common view and try to go on with life, that was all. Now they could see him clearly, outside the shadow cast by Elrond's cruel lies, and perceived that he had always been one of them, always their Tawarwaith. They loved him, and if he was aware of their easily shifted loyalties, he was more cognisant that such flaws could be removed by diligence and the proper example. He was a Wood Elf and these were his people; he loved them.

Long as this massive corridor was, Tuilelindo's steady step naturally crossed it without delay and soon enough they were before the open doors. There a shifting in the masses lined along the way revealed a figure cowering in the corner, naked, his pale skin dotted with spittle and linty dust. His hair hung down before his lowered face as he squatted on the floor, hands clasped together in supplication before him. Legolas stared, uncertain at first, then shared an aghast look with Berenaur. The seneschal gave back a stern admonishment and a shake of his head. He did not want his kinsman to have the satisfaction of trading words with Legolas and gaining his sympathy. All of this the archer understood and returned his sight to the diminished Lord, remembering the abuse of the healer's gift to hurt him.

What kind of person, when offered shelter, compassion, and the comfort of shared pleasure, accepts those gifts only to reject the person who presented them? He remembered thinking it was because of something terrible in himself that everyone else could see except him. He felt again first the hurt and surprise and then the shame and humiliation this rejection promoted. He had not condemned the healer even then, though angry and mortified, he had believed this treatment was his due. Such was the pattern of his life and while he had never understood it, neither had he found means to challenge it. It was Berenaur who taught him that there was nothing inherently bad in him, that the hatred and disgust heaped on him even before his birth was not for wrongs he had done or the presence of evil in his essence, despised for the fact of his existence. All of that was the design of Elrond and he had come to Greenwood at last to see his handiwork and gloat over it, to complete Legolas' destruction and send him to Mandos. 

No, Legolas would not permit this person to plead forgiveness from him. That was something Elrond would need to earn, and the archer could not imagine what deeds might garner such a boon. He urged his mount to move on and smiled down at Berenaur's soft sigh, registered the consoling pat upon his leg from Fearfaron and shared his resolution with the carpenter, too. Yet at the threshold of the throne room he halted the mare.

"I will walk," he said quietly, eyes on Berenaur, and received a confirming nod even as the seneschal's hands reached to help him down. It was painful, the injured leg protesting sharply, and he leaned heavily on the Noldorin Lord, but together they entered the throne room.

The silence was incomplete and the people watched him avidly, shifting against one another to have a better view, but none spoke and no outcry of approbation arose. Legolas felt their scrutiny and scanned the sea of faces, glad to find nothing of the animosity generally exhibited toward him. Thranduil stood in solemn severity beside the platform and Celeborn came down, too, giving Legolas an evaluation that was all of concern, his cool grey eyes showing nothing but respect. The Twins bowed low and Aragorn, Fearfaron, and Haldir joined them. Gladhadithen hovered close behind the halting step of the seneschal and the Tawarwaith, ready to assist should he need her aid, and for Legolas the scene was complete, save for one person's absence. He sighed; it could not be helped. He stopped before Thranduil and met the monarch's sombre gaze.

"So. You are ready to do this?" Legolas asked, and he did not mean the coronation so much as the change in their conduct toward one another henceforth.

"I am, as I have told you already," Thranduil dipped his head to obscure the need to break from that clear blue stare. He was so much like Ningloriel in face and form, but so like Oropher in the spirit. 

"For the children," Legolas nodded, unable to cover the film of disappointment that coated the phrase.

"Yes, but not only for them," Thranduil countered. "It is for me as much as them, and for you. It feels right and good to reverse the wrongs done to my family. Now, let us put aside unpleasant thoughts and celebrate this day instead." 

So saying, he took Legolas from Erestor, carefully and with a quick check to be sure the Noldorin Lord would behave, and led him toward the low step. Celeborn flanked the Tawarwaith's other side and also grasped him gently at the biceps; together they half lifted him onto the dais and then Celeborn moved to retrieve the crown, a circlet of woven mithril entwined with spruce and fir. He carried this to Thranduil and then, keeping one hand on Legolas' shoulder, the King addressed his people.

"I am glad of all the witnesses here to observe this ceremony. You have all seen the way that my son was scorned and reviled by me, by all of us, because we believed the lies of an unscrupulous Lord. So much strife and sorrow imposed upon us from outside when we have so much with which to contend under the eaves of Greenwood. Yet, we are fortunate, myself most of all, for generally what is lost cannot be regained. Such is the reality of our life here. Elo! I have my elder son returned to me and in shame must admit that I believed an outlander before I would credit my own wife. It is a sin I will be long in correcting, but I am pleased to have the burden for I might have lost Legolas forever to Shadow long years ago. Eru has preserved him for me and for Greenwood. Now we will acknowledge him and honour him as Greenwood's prince and the Heir of Oropher, my father."

Thranduil took the crown from Celeborn's hands and faced Legolas, and between them passed a long moment, a shared recollection of the King's pronouncement of Judgement in the humble house of healing in Lake Town. Seldom in Greenwood's history had those words been spoken and Thranduil had never uttered them until that day. He recalled the bitterness with which he had announced them and the horror that grew in Legolas' eyes as they filled the air and revoked what little distinction he had garnered for his skill and service to the Woodland Realm. It occurred to Thranduil that such a punishment was more horrible for Legolas than the tortures of the Wraiths, for those abuses did not seep into the spirit and negate his very nature. The penitent father did not look away though he was sorely tempted to do so, but he would not deny the cruelty in which he had engaged and hoped only for Legolas to know he regretted his actions. Even as he thought this, Legolas' eyes lost their wary distrust and smiled, and Thranduil was stunned to see it, felt his own lips turning upwards in kind. He reached fro the circlet to find his kinsman pleased and expectant, an encouraging nod accompanying the crown's change of hands, and Thranduil felt that finally he was about to do something his father would approve.

"In the ancient days in the land of Beleriand, Oropher dwelled with his kin in the forest of Neldoreth. He was good and wise and loyal to the King of Doriath, obeying the laws of the land and the policies of Thingol. A time came when Oropher deemed the King was corrupted and he made ready to leave, taking with him all who wished to return to the ways of the Telerin people since the awakening: a life of community, of mutual support and cooperation between all the living things beneath the trees. We returned to Greenwood where we had left our kin before the rising of Ithil and Anor. We were welcomed here and Oropher became King so to watch over Tawar and the sylvan folk of the woods.

"He found here a mighty realm long-lived and undefeated. He discovered a people with tenacious spirits and undying fortitude, and their acceptance was a great honour for him and for me. Willingly he gave his life for the greater good, as so many of our people have done, but before then he embraced traditions that honoured the best of Greenwood's defenders, adopting these customs as his own. Among them is the elevation of the first-born male of every clan on the day of his Col-o-Gwedh, for the demands of a warrior are many and the danger inherent in such efforts more often lethal, and it is right to honour those who would relinquish life that others should live. For my Adar's sake, the sylvan folk of this realm, desired a means to acknowledge the first-born as the princes of the realm, and he permitted this for love of you, though he did not enjoy the separation such an action caused between him and his people. So it came to pass that my elder brother was so honoured.

"We all know the result of our efforts to aid in the destruction of Shadow. We all know how many were lost to us then. We all now how difficult was the struggle to heal and rebuild. In the midst of this strife, a joyful event occurred and I announced the conception of a son and heir for Greenwood." Thranduil set one hand upon Legolas shoulder and drew him closer. "I denied him his identity and you ratified my decision, treating him with the same scorn and hatred. I denied him the right of elevation when he came of age. Now we amend that error." He turned to face Legolas and held the crown aloft. 

"Legolas of Greenwood, first-born of Ningloriel, I name you our rightful prince as my first-born son and Oropher's Heir. Should my life be spent in defence of this realm, you shall become the lawful and chosen Lord to take up the responsibility of ruling these people. Until that day, we will rule side by side, our work in concert with the efforts of all our folk. Thus, let your primary concerns be of service to the people and preservation of the forest and all the life therein. Let your actions be governed by respect for the citizens and for the leaders who have come before you, not the least my father, Oropher, who loved this place as though he had been born beneath Greenwood's boughs. Let this crown elevate your spirit sufficiently to gain the deeper perspective required to govern with justice, integrity, and courage." 

He set the circlet on Legolas' brow and stepped back, bowing low, hand atop his breast as the hall erupted in a deafening roar of affirmation, ratifying his decree with a wild outpouring of cheers and praises. These were all the words the ceremony demanded, but he was not finished and the peoples' applause was cut short as Celeborn strode forward and held up his hands, imploring restraint, for he knew what his kinsman desired. Thranduil stood straight and gazed upon his subjects, sweeping the throng and meeting the eyes of many, sharing with them the importance of his next pronouncement, and the sylvans hushed in solemn expectation for his words. Thranduil spoke: 

"Let it be known that even without the crown, though demeaned and reviled all of his life, given no cause to defend or serve either me or you or this realm, the virtues I have just recounted have always defined my son's actions. No recognition from me is required to acknowledge the Tawarwaith, the true guardian of the forest and the voice of Tawar. I am the one honoured to see my son accept and adhere to such a ponderous fate, and I am humbled before him." Thranduil again reached for Legolas, guiding him forward and presenting him to the people. "All hail Legolas of Greenwood, the Tawarwaith!" he cried and the cavern resounded with a thousand voices shouting Legolas' name in joyous gratitude and boundless pride.

Legolas smiled and let them continue for a time, though he was weary and wanted Berenaur at his side. The he raised his hand and instantly every raucous voice fell silent, every eye peered in reverent query.

"I accept this honour with a full heart," he began and touched the circlet. "I did not ask for this destiny or this crown, and while I am glad to be named your prince, I cannot take from my brother the right to rule. I cannot be Oropher's Heir, for my duty will always be attuned to removing the curse of Shadow from our home and returning Greenwood to its rightful glory." He unclasped the fabled gem upon the panther cloak and handed both to his father, who gazed in thanks that was tinged with surprise. "I am Tawarwaith first and your prince second," he said, "and was not made to govern from a royal throne but to uproot Darkness and the power that feeds it."

"Perhaps, yet today you are our prince."

This impertinent rejoinder drew every eye to its author and Legolas looked to find Fearfaron smiling, happier than he had beheld him since the death of Analdir. He motioned him forward and the carpenter came up, taking him by the arm and guiding him to the elaborately carved seat and its many furs and cushions. There he settled his adopted child and sighed with contentment; he could leave now with no fears for the Tawarwaith's future. Abruptly he leaned close and hugged the archer, whispering words of devotion, and behind them the people clamoured their approval. Then Legolas let him go and watched the lanky ellon resume his place beside Aragorn, and gazed upon his friends, warmed to see such open delight upon their faces. Finally his eyes fell on Berenaur and at once the seneschal joined him, but before he took Legolas in his arms he fell upon his knees and raised the archer's bow hand, kissing the ring that graced the marred finger. Then Erestor took his place behind the throne, his ring hand upon the Tawarwaith's shoulder. Thranduil sat upon the other throne and Celeborn stood beside him, and the people could not contain their joy.

__

### _ 20 Norui, TA 3018, Greenwood _

"I'm sorry, but truly what can it matter?"

"What can it matter? It is clear to anyone; the battle was a diversion and Shadow achieved its purpose."

"I could not refrain from joining the repulse of the Orcs; what you suggest is beyond cold-blooded. How could I stay behind when the alarm was raised?"

"How? By following the orders given you!"

"Oh yes, we all know what your fabled devotion to orders cost Greenwood!"

"Enough!" Thranduil shouted and got between his sons, taking Taurant by the arm and drawing him away from Legolas. He sent his elder son a dark scowl. "Stop berating him; he is young. The creature escaped and nothing can change this now. He made an error in judgement and foolishly left his post, but his intent was honourable."

"Aye, foolish and young," Legolas complained, shooting his brother an admonishing glance. "The error is mine; I should not have chosen you for this duty." 

"Indeed it is your fault; you are the one who decided to let the creature out of its cell for - what was it? - 'fresh air and wholesome sunlight and the Music of green life.' Pah! That was foolish!" the Prince retorted.

"I acted on the words of Mithrandir," Legolas raised his voice. "Do you pretend to understand more of curing and healing than a wizard?"

"Certainly not so much as you, dear brother," Taurant mocked and laughed when Legolas' face flushed scarlet. "At least I know when I am being used."

"Hiren Adar sanctioned the keeping of Golum; do you presume to say Aran Thranduil is a pawn of the Istari?"

"Stop this," Thranduil sought to intervene, setting a hand on Legolas' shoulder that was rudely shoved off.

"Don't put words in my mouth! Adar would have granted my commission in the patrols by now but for you!"

"You are not ready and this incident proves it!"

"It proves I am devoted to my homeland! How would it look if I didn't go to fight? People would think I am afraid of battle. Better to be named foolish than be thought cowardly,"

"None think this," assured Thranduil but his soothing words were rejected.

"Nay! He wants people to think it!" Taurant shouted, pointing at Legolas.

"I do not! People will judge you by your own actions and speech, not by mine."

"None would be judging me at all but for you!" He turned to his father. "He refuses to assign me to any position of authority. He holds me back because he fears I will surpass his exploits and gain the favour of the people."

"Nay, Taurant, it was I who demanded your appointment to this chore," Thranduil explained, but his appeasing words were ill-timed.

"So the truth comes out!" Taurant raged in wounded indignation. "He tells you I am unfit to fight and you believe him!"

"I never said this!" Legolas yelled. Taurant rounded on him.

"Tawarwaith! Who says you are this great leader born to save Greenwood? Only you!"

"Tawar says it," Legolas barked. It was often hard to love Taurant and he thought he understood Thranduil's brothers a little better now. "I neither chose it nor asked for it; such has fate demanded of me. I would have you survive to know yours, brother."

"I will not be confined to the halls and the limits of the city!"

"You will do as you are ordered!"

"I'll take no orders from you!"

"Enough!" the King boomed, his own temper flaring. "Did I not say enough? I will not have this contention." He sighed and met his young son's eyes. "It is time you put aside these childish tantrums. Legolas does not speak against you; indeed, he has complained to me often that I am coddling and cosseting you. He is right; if there is fault here it must lie with me. I have acted selfishly, wanting you beside me, fearing to lose you as the forest grows ever darker. I do not want Legolas bringing you home wounded, or worse."

"I am no child," Taurant tossed his head. "I would be bold yet cautious, Adar. I would not be the one coming home bearing the bloody bodies of my fallen comrades."

Legolas drew a harsh and audible breath as he reared back, rigid and defensive. "You go too far, Taurant. None of my warriors perished in this fight; the dead are among the troop assigned to guard the creature, of which you were made captain. These lives were yours to command and protect and were forfeited for your folly."

"See how he turns the blame upon me, even after freely admitting he should not have ordered the vile thing loose from the cells in the first place!" Taurant shrieked, trying to get past his father and accost his brother.

"You say you are not a child, then bear the responsibility of your command as an adult must do!" Legolas shouted.

"Enough!" Thranduil roared, face red and eyes harried. "Enough, both of you! The fault lies not here among us but with the Shadow. Legolas, you should need no reminding of this fact. The deed is done and now we must decide what to do about its consequences."

"Aye, you are right." Legolas admitted, ashamed to have lost his temper and denounced his brother. He met Taurant's defiant gaze contritely. "Forgive me, Muindor. You acted as you deemed right."

"Fine," the younger prince said, haughty voice glowing with victory, and drew himself tall so that he looked down upon his brother. "In future, mayhap you will consider my counsel more closely. Did I not say letting that thing out was a foolish mistake? Now three warriors are dead because of your stubborn insistence on following Mithrandir's orders."

Legolas' face turned crimson but he held his tongue as once more Thranduil's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"What you said was that the duty of guarding it was beneath you, ion," Thranduil rebuked his heir mildly. "Those were not the wizard's orders but mine. Legolas is no more at fault than you." He waited, watching Taurant keenly, willing him to make amends and repent of his part in the contention. 

"Fine," Taurant sniffed, folding his arms over his chest as he cooly evaluated his father's hand on Legolas' shoulder, shifting his sight to favour his brother with icy contempt before addressing Thranduil. "I know you love me, Ada, but I cannot go on being discounted when matters of importance arise. If I am Oropher's heir, then my counsel aught to be considered and I should be permitted a greater part in defending these lands."

"Ai, Valar," Legolas breathed in exasperation, shaking his head. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily, resting his elbows against the table and his chin upon his hands. They were in the King's war room, the destructive battle over just minutes ago, and he had come here straight from the infirmary, still covered in grime and the blood of the deceased. "You should not have let Talagan go. I will not be the one to oversee this folly. He is not ready."

"Peace," Thranduil demanded, the request made of Taurant who was eager to respond to this criticism. "I agree with him, ion. You are not ready for command, yet you refuse to be commanded. This is not the way of a mature adult. I cannot permit you to throw your life away to prove a point that is faulty. Until I deem you properly trained and sufficiently wise, you will not go forth beyond the borders."

"But Adar!"

"So this means you will be sending Legolas out to recapture the creature?" A new voice answered and all three turned abruptly, so absorbed in their arguing that none had noticed the entry of Gwilith into the room. She stood assessing them seriously, soft brown eyes revealing a quick and calculating intellect. Her gaze passed between them and came last of all to rest upon Legolas, where it remained. He stood with a loud scraping of the chair.

"I would not think of risking him that way," he said earnestly, for her unspoken accusation was ever ringing in his heart. It was for her sake that he tried always to spare Taurant any chance of injury. She must not lose another brother.

"You would not?" Taurant spat, mortified to be discussed in third person as though he were not present. "I am not yours to protect, Legolas; didn't we just establish that? I can take care of myself. I am responsible for my own actions and will do as I deem fit and right."

Legolas' brows rose to his hair and he could only stare, speechless, to hear this childish announcement. Thranduil intervened before the two fell to arguing again.

"Indeed, I am not sure there is reason to go after the creature. Surely it is now in Dol Guldur; there is no entering in that place and getting back out alive. Neither of you are to attempt it."

"So be it," Legolas sighed wearily. "Yet Mithrandir had reason to want it kept safe. We have failed him and maybe this creature will cause some crisis the likes of which we cannot guess. We must tell him it is abroad."

"Legolas should go," Gwilith announced and met his eyes calmly, smiling. "He knows the wizard so well."

"Excellent idea," Taurant jumped at the suggestion, eager to have Legolas gone from Greenwood that he might finally establish himself, free of the Tawarwaith's renown.

"Nonsense," Thranduil did not like the idea at all. Legolas was a vital component to the defence of Greenwood and he had become Talagan's replacement. Thranduil considered him his right hand and knew he was completely committed to the realm, wise in the ways of defeating their enemies, and as devoted to his siblings as was their father. "We need only send a message to Imladris; Elrond can send his sons to search for the wanderer. I need you both here."

"A messenger may be caught and the news never reach him," rejoined Gwilith, "yet Legolas has such good fortune that if he makes this journey he will not be harmed. It would be unjust to withhold word of the creature's escape. Such would cast shame upon our people. Of course, no mention of Taurant's part in its loss need be told; he is Oropher's heir and not to be held up to the scorn of outlanders."

"Scorn!" Taurant spat. "Who dares use that word?"

"Nay, she does not mean it that way," Thranduil soothed.

Gwillith ignored them and crossed the room, taking Legolas hand in hers. "You will go, won't you Muindor?"

Looking into her eyes, so like those of Lindalcon, Legolas was defeated. He could gainsay her nothing, the guilt for the loss of her brother too heavy to lift from his heart. He sighed and squeezed her hand, a sad smile returning hers.

"Aye. I will go."


End file.
